I think my eyes have gone square from staring at the screen all day. After a lazy Christmas, I started back to work on an editing job I’m doing for one of my clients. Editing is a slow job, and frankly, nowhere as exciting as writing. It’s handy, though, insofar as I can fit it around other things, like pretending to write a novel and housework. I like to take my time, reading sentences aloud to make sure that they sound right, double checking grammar and punctuation, and sometimes I even learn something new if I need to verify something in a dictionary or thesaurus.

Working freelance means that I can work when I please. It suits me, especially now that chronic pain has made its way into my life. However, the reality may be that my editing days are numbered, thanks to AI. Who’s going to pay me to do something that an algorithm could do for half the price, if not for free?

It will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that I consider the written word to be important. I studied English literature for four years, reading masterpieces that came from the quills of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, progressing to Austen, Bronte and Dickens, then edging ever closer to the modern day with Elizabeth Bowen, George Orwell, Helen Fielding. I learned that the longer nineteenth century novels were serialised, due to the cost of printing. As we moved into the mid-twentieth century, novels became shorter (three to four hundred pages). Becoming a published author was a feat that was increasingly slipping out of reach.

However, thanks to the invention and widespread provision of the internet, it seems that any auld gobshite can write and publish whatever, whenever they like. It doesn’t even have to be “good” or to a publishable standard whatsoever (and many instalments of this blog should be treated as cases-in-point). All considered, it’s probably the worst time to consider a career in writing. The market is saturated. We’re told that publishers have gigantic piles of unread masterpieces in their offices, loitering around the shredder. Writers really have to love what we do, otherwise many of us wouldn’t even get up out of bed in the morning.

And if that wasn’t enough, we’re now competing with AI as well. The irony shouldn’t escape us that we humans were the ones to invent and hone AI, and now we may well be surrendering our jobs to them. AI has been around for some time; it’s not a new phenomenon. When I was studying in Maynooth in 2019, some of my classmates joked that they were going to put their essay ideas into some sort of essay generator and see what came out. (They didn’t, thankfully!). Now, AI seems to be able to do it all – content writing, editing, even fiction writing. Which sort of makes sense, right? After all, there are basic formulae for certain types and genres of writing. In this respect, writing is like maths.

But writing is not like maths. The truth is, that even when a writer follows a pattern, for example, start, middle and end, he/she squeezes a little bit (or a lot) of his/her soul into the work. A little personality, a deeply hidden fear, a scar that never quite healed properly. For many, myself included, writing can feel like flashing at the world behind the safety of a screen. Often, it’s a cry for help, understanding and solidarity. Say what you like, but how can a preprogrammed algorithm have the same effect?

Think back to when you first started reading. I know I loved Enid Blyton’s “jolly goods” and her descriptions of the Famous Five’s midnight feast; I related to Roald Dahl’s Matilda at a time when I, too, felt misunderstood by the world around me. Dahl himself had experienced a troubled, violent childhood at the hands of his teachers, and no doubt he found writing to be therapeutic. Don’t dare tell me that a reader could connect with an algorithm in the same way.

And yet, many writers like me are fearful of the future. As it stands, many writers are seen as charlatans, daydreamers who sit around all day, hoping for good fortune to fall into our laps (or keyboards!) The only thing we can do is keep writing.

We all deserve the privilege of telling our own stories. And let me tell you, however crappy or unpolished my words may be, I’m certainly not in a hurry to give away that privilege.