artificial-intelligence

What makes art… art? Is it the hand that shapes the clay, the mind that imagines the story, or the soul that bleeds into the brushstroke? As a species, we have told our stories with stone, chisel, and paint. We gave them voices around the campfire, in oration, with melodies, and etched them into the fabric of our collective memory. We’ve poured ourselves into our creations—our thoughts, fears, and passions rendered in words, paint, statues, and songs.

Did those works cease being art because we picked up the quill, invented the printing press, or created them on a digital platform? Everybody can draw, but only gifted masters create works that move us.

Skilled craftsmen created mighty structures from the Giza Plateau to Île de la Cité to Agra, Uttar Pradesh, and beyond. We have touched the moon and reached for the stars.

Was the Mona Lisa diminished when Van Gogh brushed Starry Night? Did Mozart eclipse Ode to Joy when he conceived Requiem? Does Michelangelo’s David overshadow all other creations?

And yet, the hammer destroyed Alexandria’s lighthouse, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the Temple of Artemis. That which is created can be ruined by darker intentions.

The advent of the typewriter, a new, smaller, and improved version of the printing press, ushered in an age where larger stories moved faster and with less effort from artist to publisher to consumer. Mankind’s creativity soared. Easier still, electronic mail created conduits, improving the lives of editors across the globe. Quicker communication improved the story creation process. The quality, depth, and inventiveness stepped beyond previous plateaus through this medium.

Art—that which is created by man’s ingenuity, imagination, sweat, blood, and tears—is carved out of the earth by human will. The tools we use to bring to life the expressions of our souls do not threaten our creativity. We, the masters of our trade, exert dominion over the tools, conjure emotions from raw materials, and evoke memories with the structure of words.

Why, then, are we afraid of the next tool to come from our imaginations?

Without a doubt, machines cannot feel emotions. They will never know the human experience. Nor will they ever express the human condition with the same perspectives, authenticity, and vulnerability that have filled our lives with living color, vivid imagination, and dark, gruesome horror.

The very nature of how the Large Language Models (LLMs) were trained comes under great scrutiny. Were copyrighted materials used in their development? That is a question already before the legal community. Without a doubt, violations have and will be addressed, appropriate punishments proclaimed, and mitigating measures meted. Responsible parties will adjust. Updated models will be trained in legally administered manners.

As time marches onward, there will be other cases, new judgments, and appropriate measures taken. The tool will mature. Whether you believe in its place in creative work or not, AI is here to stay. Will AI diminish the value of the art we create? THAT is the ultimate question.

LLMs generate text based on statistical analyses of existing works, but they are limited by the patterns and materials they are trained on. To use the words “melancholy,” “abyss,” or “madness” might mimic Poe’s choices. Describing scenes with personification, foreshadowing, or trochaic octameter as he did, unless the exact combination of words and phrases is used, does not plagiarize the master.

Because LLMs are trained on a vast array of sources, their output is homogenized. But it is up to the artist to ensure their voice is heard. Every effort must be made to build upon the mechanical processes and enrich the human collective with unique spiritual and philosophical dimensions. Failure to invest the time and effort to master and correctly use the tool devalues one’s labor.

Can words manipulate emotions? Can they spread propaganda? Can they mislead, misinform, and blind the innocent? Has there ever been a time when these were not so? Words, like music, can lift the soul or send it crashing into the pits of despair if you, the consumer, permit them.

“The use of AI” conjures an implicit bias that users prioritize efficiency over authenticity, reinforcing skepticism about the depth of human involvement in AI-assisted work. Not without merit, the bias proves true because most people fail to engage with the output critically. Question, output, and acceptance, treating chatbot responses as the final draft, is the true demon, the ultimate laziness.

As an artist, I conversed with Artificial Intelligence through various chatbots and programmatic instructions—not just one. After receiving an output, I carefully examined the text, replying with clarifying questions, pouring my ideas into every prompt, until the story took shape and was exactly as I imagined.

Then, I wrote.

The story that filled my mind, waking thoughts, and dreams was crafted by me and written within these pages. Not a single word was left unattended.

Did AI make my creation process easier or faster? Hardly. I invested considerable time and effort contemplating every aspect of the story, from the major and minor themes to characterization to plot developments. Every twist and turn, every sight, sound, flavor, and scent placed by my imagination told the story. I studied dynamic story creation and applied every literary technique to bring this tale to life. AI did not invent my innovative approach to near-future society.

Doing so required careful review, contextual adaptation, and refinement to ensure AI output alignment with my personal voice, professional standards, and intended purpose.

Do not be misled. The originality of this, or any other tale penned by me, ventured out of obscurity solely through the conduit of my imagination. AI did not write this story in any sense of the word. If you believe any tool nullifies craft, this argument won’t change your mind. If you believe craft still matters, then master the tools of our trade. Let the fear drive practice, not contempt.

Those who howl first and refuse due diligence do not defend art; they advertise incompetence and weaken the art. I cannot, I could not, and I will not allow my words to be devalued. If they failed to connect with readers emotionally, viscerally, or spiritually, that is on me and my frailty as a wordsmith.

This is my promise to you: I will not publish anything less than my full active participation in the story-creation process. I will not accept anything less than my best to come forth. In the end, I do not exert this level of effort for the money. I write for the love of the story, to give voice to the imaginations of my soul. I do it all for art’s sake.