The Words She Can't Write
ignoring the robot
Three separate emails landed in my inbox this week, all containing the same basic theme: the humanity of writing.
The AI robot seems to be taking over, and we writers are in the crosshairs. It works faster than us. In some cases, it’s smarter than us. (At least it generates more random facts than we ever could). It can create a week’s worth of content in a matter of seconds. So if you’re a working writer, the general sentiment is, “Molly, you in danger girl.”
To her credit, the robot, more commonly known as ChatGPT, is truly a technological wonder. And I actually converse with her quite often. Generally speaking, the information she spits out is very helpful. Although it gives me the creeps when she references something I asked about months ago. (I don’t even remember asking that, how do you?)
As a writer, it’s kind of discouraging to think that a robot could very easily write a whole article on midlife or faith or motherhood or empty nesting. But since she’s, you know, a robot…she’s never actually lived the experiences that so many of us are walking through right now.
I have a folder in my email labeled “Good Writing.” (Creativity is elusive at times.) It’s filled with articles and blog posts that either made me laugh out loud, burst into tears, or left me thinking about the words for hours. The reason writing can be so impactful is because we resonate with it on such a personal level. There are shared connections based on human emotions.
I flat out asked the robot if she thinks she can write better than any human. Her response was much more humble than I anticipated.
I can help process information, spark ideas, or offer guidance, but I’ll never replace the depth of human connection. Your stories, your past, and the way you experience the world are entirely your own.
So as a writer, I took great comfort in her answer. I write based on experience. I share what I’ve been through or what I’m going through. I don’t know how to write any other way. So while she can share factual information about the various stages of motherhood and midlife, she’ll never know what it’s like to live it.
She’ll never relate to catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror, noticing for the first time how distinctly the decades frame her eyes. (This is primarily because she doesn’t have a face.)
She’s never suffered from the deep ache that keeps you up at night when your child is facing an overwhelming challenge and you aren’t able to fix it.
Or the sensation of scalding water on your back as you linger in the shower a few extra minutes, finishing a good long cry because your kid is hurting. After all, moms feel their child’s pain as intensely as if it’s happening to us.
She’s a great resource when searching for the best concealer for middle-aged women. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to realize, more and more often, that you’re the oldest woman in the room.
She can’t articulate the internal wrestling between knowing your adult kids need space and independence, while desperately wanting to know what they’re doing every hour of the day.
Or silently concealing the fact that you miss your young adult kids with every ounce of your being, but feeling like you can’t say that out loud or someone will tell you to “cut the apron strings.” (As I said, I write from personal experience.)
She won’t understand the weird guilt from knowing “this is supposed to be the most fun part of your life!” but also knowing that if you could have your kids back around the dinner table tonight and tuck them into their childhood beds, you’d do it in a heartbeat.
Or wondering if the most impactful years of your life are now behind you as you wonder if anything will ever feel as worthwhile and rewarding as raising your children.
She doesn’t relate to getting that lump in your throat when you look at your adult kids and feel so proud of who they’ve become. Especially when there were so many days when you wondered if you were doing any of it right.
A robot has never had a friendship, so she can’t empathize when those relationships shift or dissolve. She’ll never relate to the lonliness that lingers when women long for connection, but it seems like everyone’s circle is already closed.
She can’t possibly express the level of joy that comes with watching your children grow in their faith.
There’s no way she can experience that gut-punch moment when you realize that, despite all your efforts to protect them, life is going to slap your kid across the face.
Or the moment when it all sinks in, realizing that hard times are necessary so they can become who God created them to be, and that growth doesn’t flourish in the comfort zone.
Nope. The robot can’t write about any of that. So for now, let’s ignore the robot. Let’s keep writing and talking and connecting. Because there’s nothing better than knowing that we humans are in this together.
