A Response (March 2025)

Image provided by @etiennegirardet.

The essay below is a response to an article titled, Give Yourself Permission to Be Creative.

My Best Stuff by Nathan Box

I wrote today. Because I wrote today, I am a better writer than I was yesterday, last week, last month, last year, and the last decade. I am a good writer. Not everything I commit to the page is great. Sometimes, writing is merely the exercise of working through inner demons or doing battle with the monologue in my head. Not everything makes perfect sense. When it doesn’t, that’s a sign there is still more work to do. But I am a good writer.

Ultimately, all writers desire to be read. In us all, is an urge to create. With the molding of sentences and paragraphs, we craft worlds. We fill that world with opinion, characters, challenges, and observations. That need to create and the expectation of being read is a cauldron of ego, persuasion, narrative, and hunger to find shared community. When we hit publish, we give of ourselves and expect our creation to find the person or people who need to read it the most.

Yet, the world is changing underneath our feet. As I construct this essay, artificial intelligence systems crawl the world wide web, vacuuming up human creativity, and make predictions based on what it has learned about us. Your queries and commands are built on the back of someone else who chose to create something. As it delivers you results, it shocks and amazes you at the speed at which its supposed intelligence delivers results. But it is nothing more than a poor performance of the Wizard of Oz, hiding behind a curtain, pretending to perform miracles. Those true wizards are those who chose to create in the first place.

And the algorithm isn’t done making life hard for writers. It prioritizes video above all else. It does all it can to keep you locked in place. Don’t you dare visit another website. If you do, you may not return. We can’t have that. So, the written word, creativity that used to be king, is buried. You aren’t meant to see it or experience it anymore. They will say people are reading less, and we are just giving the people what they want. We know the truth. Technology companies may have started their journeys with altruistic intentions, but they never maintain that level of care for long.

What is a creator to do? What is a writer supposed to do? Should we quit? Should we allow A.I. to do the work we’ve done for centuries? Should expressions of the human condition be turned over to thinking machines? Should we weaponize the camera and fill the web with more needless “content?”

The analytics on my website don’t lie to me. With each new year, fewer people are turning to the written word. Their thoughts are being provoked elsewhere. No one mindlessly reads, but mindlessly consume videos? We can do that for hours on end. Should I admit defeat, falling victim to the power of artificial intelligence, losing a one-sided war waged with algorithms, having my ego tested by attention spans?

I am a good writer. I am a good writer who is writing the best stuff of his life. With each passing year, I have gained more wisdom and insight. Each new experience strengthens my ability to reflect more deeply, think more clearly, and write with more intention. For me, this is a shame and heartbreaking. I am writing my best stuff, and fewer people are reading it.

For a span of time longer than I cared to admit out loud, I seriously contemplated standing down and moving on to something else. My contribution to a global conversation almost searched for another avenue. Then this video of Ethan Hawke discussing human creativity graced my screen. I watched it in awe. Then, I watched it again. And then, one more time. It felt spiritual, as if he was speaking directly to me.

Long ago, I gave myself permission to create. That’s important, because not everyone does. The written word would be my preferred method of human expression. I could have chosen painting, drawing, a musical instrument, or a thousand other tools of expression. I chose to write. More than fifteen years ago, I granted myself permission to share my creations with the world. Anxious, I hit publish for the first time. Born into the golden age of the written word on the internet, the response was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. I was addicted. Then, I was born again. Birthed into a feedback loop, I began chasing a high. Hundreds of readers were not enough. Thousands of readers were not enough. I wanted to be read, and I wanted to be read often.

For a few happy years, that high sustained me and kept me pushing my craft forward. Then, the world changed. Thousands returned to hundreds, and hundreds soon morphed into a handful of people. The high was gone, and my dealer was no longer supplying. A choice had to be made. A video featuring Ethan Hawke helped me make that choice.

All writers, to a certain extent, write to be read. I am a good writer. I want to be read. I want to contribute my verse to humanity’s collective song. But I am no longer writing just to be read. I am writing because I need to create. I need to create like I need to breathe. This art form helps me make sense of the world. It forces upon me stillness of spirit, reflection, meditation, and calm. It has guided me through trying times. It has made me smile countless smiles. It has reached into the depths of my soul and pulled forth a more caring and loving person, partner, neighbor, friend, and family member. I can’t quit, because the world has changed. It is too important to turn away from in the face of changing weather.

I am a good writer. These essays will continue to be human powered. They will battle the algorithm. They will be a respite for anyone in desperate need of all the gifts writing has given me. The numbers may continue to dwindle. The world may change again, but for as long as I have breath and the necessary cognition to produce reflections on the world as I see it via the vehicle that is the written word, I will keep fighting.

I am a good writer, and I will be here when you need me.

Be good to each other,

Nathan