Why AI won’t make you a better writer

The literary world is rife with constant controversy, from the Bad Art Friend to the BookForum comeuppance of long-lauded critic Lauren Oyler. A recent point of contention, however, is no interpersonal drama or nitpicky review. Rather, it’s a Zendesk article from the minds behind NaNoWrimo — National Novel Writing Month — stating that the organization will permit AI usage as part of the event this year (and presumably for all future years).

Needless to say, this ruffled a few feathers. And to be fair, it would be one thing to simply look the other way while people “write” novels using AI and use them to “win” NaNoWriMo to outright sanction the practice is another matter entirely.

What do we lose (or gain?) by ceding to the onslaught of AI in these creative contexts? Can AI truly be a valuable tool for authors — and exert a net positive influence on the literary world as a whole? A number of writers and artists (in real life, on social media, and in major media outlets) have attempted to answer these questions recently. As a writer, creator, and avid fiction enthusiast, I have a few thoughts of my own.

AI’s poor track record in writing circles

The NaNoWrimo controversy is not the first time that AI usage in creative writing has come under fire from writers, educators, and other invested parties.

One incident that comes to mind was when Clarkesworld, a long-running science fiction/fantasy magazine, had to close down submissions because they were receiving too many AI-generated stories. I also recall a micro-debate in writing circles earlier in the year about whether AI should be used to write “filler” descriptions in a novel; on one hand, it saves time for the writer, but on the other, does that mean they wouldn’t even necessarily know what’s in their own book?

And if you’re someone (like me) who gets a lot of suggested posts from teachers on X, you’ll know that AI policies in course syllabi have become an extremely hot topic. Most teachers do seem to prefer a blanket ban on AI for coursework, not least because if students are given an inch, they’ll take a mile — but also because, more crucially, “the purpose of education isn’t to pass exams, [but] to become someone who can read deeply, communicate, and think.” (Another now-deleted X post raised concerns that so many people “[seem to] believe that the purpose of assigning [student essays] is to increase the number of essays in the world.”)

But what, indeed, of an event like NaNoWriMo — where participation is purely voluntary and purportedly to hone one’s individual process, rather than to provide a framework for group learning to a classroom of children (or very young adults)? For those of us with fully developed prefrontal cortexes, shouldn’t we be fine to discern our own limits regarding AI?

AI is a limited-use tool, not a creative partner

In theory, the answer is yes. Yet in practice, we all fall victim to temptations of convenience — even when that convenience is detrimental to our practical skills.

Obviously, this is not always a bad thing. Many people have drawn comparisons between AI and other historical developments in technology — the flour mill, the printing press, the washing machine, etc. — which automated human grunt work and revolutionized productivity. The fact that most of us can’t grind our own grain for bread (COVID sourdough hobbyists notwithstanding) is no great loss for society.

But there’s one key difference between these extraordinary machines and AI: each of them was built with a specific purpose in mind. And while their technologies may have improved over time, they were never applied to situations beyond their intended purpose.

What is AI’s intended purpose? Arguably, it has too many. When it comes to using AI for creative writing, it definitely has too many; the NaNoWriMo debacle is proof of that. You can’t just put out a statement about AI usage in writing (or in any context!) without specifying optimal use cases versus poor ones — no matter how much hemming and hawing about ableism you do to justify it.

And this is where I’ll note that, in my view, AI can be helpful in the creative process… just not with the core writing itself. You might use AI as you would a thesaurus, a mind map, or a spell-check tool. It might assist you with very early brainstorming, or with the particulars of a phrase that you’re struggling to get right. But in order to hone your creative skills rather than harm them, you need to enter this process with substantive ideas and a vision of your own.

NaNoWriMo’s mistake — and the mistake of so many others regarding AI — is to imply that it can and should be used for whatever the user desires. But while this might feel gratifying — even creatively progressive! — in the short term, the long-term results will inevitably disappoint.

AI should facilitate our creativity — and therefore our joy in it

There’s also the question of not just whether AI depletes important skills, but whether it actually compromises the emotional satisfaction of creating something ourselves.

AI technology has sparked an ongoing debate about its role in creativity, with recent controversies like NaNoWriMo’s decision to allow AI use highlighting the tension. While AI can be a helpful tool for brainstorming or editing, it also raises critical questions: does it erode essential skills and diminish the emotional fulfillment of creating something uniquely human

To return to the phenomenon of technology automating grunt work, you could make the argument that AI — at least, the way most people use it — often does the exact opposite. AI now frequently “accomplishes” the creative work that humans have long found fulfilling, while we humans are relegated to the administrative hassles of perfecting our AI prompts and aligning our AI-generated images just so.

One recent X post was the perfect microcosm of this for me. Someone was proudly showing off his AI-generated images of Kermit the Frog, having replaced all his default iPhone icons with Kermit ones — only for another user to counter that he’d given AI the “fun, creative job” of drawing Kermit, while giving himself the “boring, labor-intensive job” of arranging the apps.

The second user proceeded to hit the nail on the head with a follow-up comment: “Seems we’ve approached this technology backwards. It should be handling the dry data entry and organizational tasks so we can spend our time on Kermit doodles, not the other way around.”

Indeed, while the original Kermit guy might get a few days’ amusement from his motley crew of cartoon frogs, this kind of “art” is ultimately hollow. It could be recreated by anyone with the right set of prompts, and once the human in front of the screen gets sick of Kermit, he’ll quickly move onto icons featuring Miss Piggy, or Animal, or any one of myriad Muppets.

Needless to say, the same logic applies to AI-generated “writing.” If something can be replicated so easily, so thoughtlessly, ad infinitum, how can it hold any real creative value… and how can it give us authentic, long-lasting joy?

The antithesis of AI: unique, human intention

So what is the solution here? Again, it’s essential to remember that — while AI might have some interesting use cases to help you brainstorm or sharpen your work — you simply cannot rely on it as a writer. Otherwise you’ll end up with an atrophied brain (metaphorically speaking), work you can barely lay claim to, and — ironically enough — prose that isn’t even especially unique.

That’s right: if you use AI to write a novel, short story, or anything creative, not only will you not become a better writer, but the “writing” that’s generated won’t even be that good. When you think about it, this makes perfect sense; AI, sophisticated as it is, basically operates on pattern recognition. It’s not going to turn out anything critics would describe as “a stunning new voice” or “brilliantly original.” It’s going to produce writing that, by definition, sounds like someone else’s.

On that note… it might seem incredibly cliché to say you should write the story (or novel, or essay, or poetry collection) that only you can write. But in truth, it’s the most reliable way to create meaningful literature. If you’re not drawing on your own experiences, influences, quirks, and even weaknesses — to produce the effect that you desire, to send the message you want to send — I’d say there’s little point to writing anything at all.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that writing is something you must do alone, or with zero external inspiration. Brand-new writers might particularly benefit from joining a writing community or using (human-written) writing prompts to kick-start their stories; more seasoned authors might consider working with beta readers or experienced editors to tease out their voices and plot potential, rather than having AI trample all over it.

The point is that there are countless ways to take inspiration and turn it into something with intention — and that, of all forms of art, writing has very few barriers to entry. So don’t let anything, least of all AI, cheat you out of what is creatively possible. Go forth and write your own story… for the good of your present and future self, and all possible readers to come.

Savannah Cordova is a writer at the global writing community, Reedsy