The Robots Have Stolen My Passion

I’m so glad you’re here. No, really. The fact that you’re here proves that we’re not out of hope just yet.

See, we’re under attack, you and I. I know, I know. You’ve heard enough about that on the news lately. As if the downfall of Western civilization wasn’t bad enough, as if it wasn’t difficult enough to simply survive a day of work or school in the 21st century, I must remind you that the very roots of our humanity are being drizzled with herbicide.

I suppose I’ll get right to it. It’s artificial intelligence. AI is everywhere now; in fact, I’m willing to bet you’ve got ChatGPT open in another tab as you’re reading this, perhaps helping you write a sales pitch or compose an essay for school. Listen, I’ll admit that I’m not above the excitement of all the possibilities generative AI has to offer, either. Have I used the Snapchat AI filters to see what I would look like as an anime character? Sure. Did I once stay up until 2:30 in the morning chatting with my favorite characters and celebrities on Character.ai? Yes (but haven’t we all?
Right? Please say yes). And that Gemini feature on Google? I mean, come on, it puts all the information you need right there at the top of the screen. You don’t even have to exert your little finger to scroll and find the answers to those burning questions you’ve always had, like what year toilet paper was invented and Britney Spears’ blood type (it’s 1857 and A positive, respectively. Thanks, Gemini.) I’m not here to give you a slap on the wrist for using AI. I won’t deny the convenience, efficiency, and occasional fun of having a robot servant at your side.

But there’s something else I think you should know, too.

When generative AI became huge in 2023, I didn’t view it as a huge threat to myself. Sure, I found it a bit disturbing, but the only dangers I believed it posed were a potential-robot-world takeover and addictive, unwaveringly amiable chatbots replacing human interactions. I figured computer scientists or the government would probably tone it down before it reached such Black Mirror levels of technological dystopia.

But AI only continued to sprawl outward like ivy, as corporations scrambled to slap it onto their platforms–and not much was done to stop this. Despite a recent increase in state legislation on the issue, and many lawmakers pushing for them, there are currently still no US federal laws in effect to regulate AI usage. AI art, which once looked like a distorted nightmare, grew remarkably similar to human-made art. Many literary magazines and journals began receiving floods of AI-composed submissions. Since I was in high school at the time, every other student started using ChatGPT to complete their homework or write their essays for them, and teachers quickly replaced their usual lectures on plain old plagiarism with scoldings about AI use.

Because of the lack of protection on copyrighted content, AI seizes bits and pieces from the works of writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, and more. It can spit out poems built off of the stolen plots, worlds, and characters of novelists like Douglas Preston, George R.R. Martin, and Jodi Picoult. That AI-generated art designed like a Studio Ghibli film we’ve been seeing all over social media? It shamelessly copies Hayao Miyazaki’s art style. They’re making AI music too, snatching singers’ voices straight from their throats and contorting them into melodies that don’t belong to them. These creators receive zero royalties from AI platforms–this also goes for all the fanfiction writers, commission artists, and freelancers out there who don’t (or struggle to) profit from their work at all. As I mentioned earlier, schools love to harp on and on about the dangers of plagiarism. And yet, we’ve got plagiarism machines at our fingertips, leeching off of the effort and brilliance of artists to fatten the wallets of AI companies.

Here’s where I get pissed.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve adored vanishing into fiction of any kind, whether it was picture books, fairy tales, or Disney movies. If I wasn’t reading or watching cartoons, I was conjuring up a tale for my mom or my papi or my nonna (or begging them to conjure one up for me), and if they weren’t around to listen I would take up my toys and let my story flow through them. That zeal for stories only grew as I did, as I dove into Raina Telgemeier’s graphic novels in elementary school, Harry Potter in middle school, and screenshots of Tumblr poetry in high
school. The older I got, the stronger my desire to infuse my imagination with the page became. I played around with some novel and short story ideas (and completed almost none of them). But what really enticed me was writing poetry. I love experimenting with the different connotations of words, that power of certain syllables to strike your soul like a gong. I love how these words construct a precise mirror of myself, and even more that some readers get caught in its reflection.
But most of all, I love the honesty of it, of wringing out my brain and letting its clawing thoughts bleed into paper. Its lack of rules allured me as well. Of course, there are structured forms of poetry, like sonnets and haikus. But with free verse poetry, you can write whatever it takes, in quite literally whatever form you prefer, to tap into the root of your emotions. My admiration for this art form blossomed even more when I discovered a local poetry circle. Once a week, I let other open-minded, supportive individuals stare into these mirrors I’d written and, in turn, I got a peek into theirs. I also read at a couple of open mic nights. Not only did this get my work out there and provide a source of helpful feedback, but it also connected me with a community who shared my passion for brain-wringing.

And now there’s AI, which many praise as the future for all creators.

As if creativity wasn’t threatened enough. Capitalism not only contributes to the notorious underpaying of writers, artists, and other creators, but it also fosters a system that doesn’t prioritize our lives outside of our work. The 9-5 job consumes much of our time that could be spent belly-laughing and making memories with loved ones, traveling to Italy or Japan or any other bucket list destination, or pursuing hobbies like reading, painting, or crocheting. Combined with this, our remaining time slot for creativity must profit us in some way, or else it is a
complete waste. If it’s not a “side hustle” or a mastered skill, if you aren’t financially benefiting from it or actively working to improve at it, then what’s the point of doing it?

Now, on top of all this, we’re competing with fucking robots. And sometimes, I fear we’re losing.

I suppose at my core I am furious that, with the click of a button, they are stealing my hobbies, my passions, the only things I am truly good at, the only things I have to prove to this world, just to save some time and money. I’m currently pursuing my degree in English and Literary Studies with a creative writing concentration, but now it almost seems useless. All my words are useless, aren’t they?

Do you want to just end this here? I mean, why should I keep writing this when you can ask ChatGPT to “write a first-person article on the threat AI poses to creative fields, including facts and personal details”? I’m sure that would be much more concise and pretty-sounding without all my human messiness seeping into its words, right?

You can go do that, if you want to. Really. I’m giving you full permission to stop reading this. But I don’t think I’m quite done yet. My anger hasn’t quite fizzled out into defeat yet. So, if you would like to stick around, I’ve got one more thing to offer you.

Just the other day, in fact, I somehow got on the topic of AI-generated art with my mom. While I denounced it, she simply replied, “Well, if it looks cool, what difference does it make?” What does it even mean to “look cool”? Right now, it seems to mean glancing at a classical-esque painting of a woman for three seconds, and turning away before you notice she’s got twelve fingers and half a leg. Something tells me, perhaps a pretentious wine-sipping little art critic on
my shoulder, that the beauty of art arises from something much deeper than “looking cool.” And if there’s one good thing about AI, it’s that it has revealed that this “something” is simply humanity. The beauty of all forms of creativity derives from the fact that they were crafted by a human, with human experiences, thoughts, and emotions that we can connect with. I say “we” because, even if you don’t particularly enjoy writing like me, or partaking in any sort of creative
activity, you are included in this. You may not write or make art or make music, but you sure do absorb it on a daily basis. I’m almost certain that there’s a catchy (human-written) song stuck in your head right now. Perhaps your finger or foot is tapping out its rhythm. Can you imagine life without that?

Whenever AI enters conversations about creativity, I must think of cavepeople. When they weren’t hunting mammoths or starting fires, they not only used their spare time to socially bond with others, but they also crafted jewelry, painted the walls of caves, and developed tools and musical instruments. Alongside our physical survival through hunting and gathering and finding shelter, humans thrived because we prioritized creativity. Believe it or not, those cave paintings
led to the development of civilization, of language, of philosophy and religion and science and technology. Creativity is the foundation of just about every societal advancement we have today. Even aside from these progressions, creativity is simply inseparable from our homo-sapien roots.

If anything, AI is a call to remember, no, embrace the importance of human creativity that they are prying from our hands. No piece of AI-generated art could hold my gaze as long as the lush, magnificent painting of the Sierra Nevada in Washington, D.C. that my aunt and I stared at for about 15 minutes. No piece of AI music could replicate the goosebumps that bloomed down my neck and arms when I heard Depeche Mode perform “Enjoy the Silence” live, when Dave Gahan pointed the microphone to the audience and thousands of voices chanted the chorus I’d so often sing by myself in the car. No AI-written children’s story could ever make me feel as warm as I felt when my mom read Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon before tucking me into bed as a child.

I’m glad you stayed here with me. I knew you would. But we’re not finished yet. There’s just one last thing I want you to do. I want you to make and make and make until your fingers ache and tears stream down your face and your soul pushes out from your pores. It doesn’t matter how ugly you think it is. There is nothing ugly about human creation. There is nothing ugly about your story, no matter how you choose to tell it. If we keep believing in this, then maybe we have
a chance of getting out of this mess. Because the more we make, the stronger we will become. As many writers have noted, creativity can atrophy just like a muscle without use. I suspect that our humanity has atrophied as well. We live in a world of destruction, manipulation, and hatred. We need humanity now more than ever.

Go ahead and grab a loose sheet of paper or a sticky note. Do what you please with it. Scrawl out a poem. Sketch a couple of doodles. Smear some paint on it. Sing to it. Yes, you can do any and all of these things in your own lovely way, don’t try to tell me otherwise. Think of cave paintings. Think of hands. We’re under attack, but this is our weapon, my dear.

Are you ready? Don’t be afraid, I’m right here with you. Now, make.

Val Rivera is a queer writer and English major with a creative writing concentration at Ramapo College. Her work has been published in four issues of Trillium, Ramapo’s literary magazine. Her poetry and fiction explore nostalgia, the beauty and pain of womanhood, friendship, self-love and self-loathing.