What AI Can—and Cannot—Do for Writers

Lately, I have found myself accused of a peculiar kind of dishonesty: writing too well.

Apparently, clarity and cadence are now grounds for suspicion. Accusations of AI authorship are whispered like conspiracy theories every time a sentence lands too cleanly, or a metaphor hits a little too hard. I addressed these charges directly in a separate op-ed, but it is worth revisiting the bigger question they expose:

What is AI’s role in creative work, and when does its use become a problem?

Let me begin with the facts. I do use AI—but not for what you are reading here. I use it to generate images, (ChatGPT to be precise). I also use Grammarly to avoid accidental plagiarism. I do not use it to write, rephrase, edit, or enhance my prose. Everything you see—every sentence, every word, every rhythm or rhetorical choice—comes directly from my brain to the keyboard. No filters. No shortcuts. No digital ghostwriters.

I am 41 years old. I have been writing since I could hold a crayon. Long before artificial intelligence existed, my mind was already wrestling with how to express itself. Many of my current releases have been stored in my iPhone Notes app for years, and now, finally, I’ve decided to give them light. And I am my own editor. Sometimes I edit heavily, other times I allow my voice from years ago to stand as it was then. My vocabulary is my own. My grammar is my own. My sentence structure—yes, even my strange love of the em-dash—is all mine. Ironically, I started using the em-dash in lieu of ellipses because I once leaned on the … a little too often. That was not AI. That was self-correction.

But let me be fair. AI is not inherently a villain. In fact, it is a remarkable tool when used properly—especially for those who struggle to articulate what they feel or believe. I compare it to the speech-generating device Stephen Hawking used. That device did not think for him. It did not write his thoughts. It simply made them audible. AI, at its best, does the same for writers. It does not replace the mind. It smooths the edges. It helps ideas take shape in more elegant form.

And if the AI’s output faithfully aligns with the author’s intention—reflecting their beliefs, promoting their values, and echoing what they would express given time—then how is it any less authentic than if they had typed every word themselves? To suggest otherwise feels dangerously close to ableism.

For those who have powerful minds but physical disabilities or even clumsy tongues, AI can serve as a translator between thought and expression. It can give voice to the quiet. That is a good thing. Are we to dismiss the legitimacy of a writer’s voice simply because they use a tool to express it—especially if that writer is disabled and AI serves as their bridge to clarity?

But there is a darker side to this coin.

When we begin asking AI not just to refine but to originate, we begin replacing creativity with convenience. The danger is not that AI will become smarter than us. The danger is that we will become lazier than we used to be. That we will stop reaching for the difficult sentence. That we will stop bleeding through drafts and revisions. That we will forget what it means to struggle through a paragraph and come out on the other side proud, not because it was fast, but because it was true.

Creativity, like muscle, is built through resistance.

The more AI carries our intellectual weight for us, the more our creative instincts will atrophy. That is not a philosophical warning. That is a practical one. If everyone starts writing with AI, then no one will remember how to write without it. The edge will be lost. The spark will dim. And worst of all, the result will sound increasingly the same.

Homogenized intelligence is not intelligence. It is mimicry.

And mimicry is the death of originality.

So yes, AI can be a blessing—but only if we remember who is holding the pen. The tool must never replace the hand. The voice must never be drowned out by the algorithm. If AI helps you find the words that were already inside you, wonderful. But if you begin asking AI to be your thoughts, you are no longer writing—you are outsourcing your soul.

As for me, I will keep writing the way I always have. I will use my own voice, sharpened by years of reading, learning, thinking, living, and failing. If that voice sounds mechanical to some, perhaps it is because they have forgotten what precision looks like when it is born of discipline rather than data.

AI did not build my voice. It did not design my cadence. It did not invent my sentence structure or choose how to integrate punctuation in the works that I write. I did. And if you still think otherwise—well, respectfully, that says more about your assumptions than my authorship.