I had one of those glorious “fuck you” moments when I was submitting a short blurb of text I’d written through a form one otherwise unexceptional day last winter.

“The text you provided seems like it may have been written by AI.” the AI told me.

No, really: fuck you.

I wrote it. Me. A human.

If you happened to have went back and read the introduction posts I shared on this site at its inception you will have learned a few nuggets of information about yours truly, not the least of which is that I take some pride in my writing.

I have spent decades refining my voice.

And I may—just only may—have spent the rest of my days quietly accepting the rise of generative chat bots as just another voice in the crowded room—had it not, of course, questioned my humanity.

After all, such is the tactic of the adversarial politician: No, you’re weak on crime. No, you blew up the budget. No, you’re corrupt. 

So goes the machines: No, you write like an algorithm.

Again: fuck you.

Voice is a precious thing, but it is also ephemeral. Ineffable. Or so I had thought.

If an AI can distill it into a formula against which it can weigh our humanity, maybe it’s worth taking a shot at trying to get our own minds around, huh?