The easiness of using AI to write on your behalf isn’t worth the trade off. You may be trading away your ability to think, to process, to wrestle: to turn mush into coherence.
Sure, you can get a machine to print a sculpture with a few limp keystrokes—but you’ll gain so much if you chisel away at the stone yourself. Dusty fingers, bloodied knuckles, deeply satisfied.
The cheap promise of AI is that the finished product is more valuable than the process. That’s baloney. The process is what shapes and forms you. It grows you, forces you into dark nights, up against demons, and out across impossible chasms.
Far better than creating a false masterpiece is to do the work and become a masterpiece yourself.