I Hate Chat GPT

My friend keeps trying to come up with ideas to make money, purchasing a course on using Chat GPT to write children’s books and wants me to do it. I’d rather die.

“I’m not an author and neither are you,” she said. ” This will be great.”

I haven’t done it. To do it would be to take the only thing I like about myself and rip it from me. I may not be an author, but I can write a little bit. She’s read certain things I’ve written that weren’t terrible. I did have things published online mainly before my mother passed. Most of the sites are gone now ( probably jinxed them with my spectacular writing capabilities, but we won’t talk about that now). But hath not a blogger a mind? From what I understand, Chat GPT swipes stuff from many writers and spits it out in a new form. I have so many memories, happy ones of being complimented for my writing. If I did Chat GPT, it would be like burning off my memories with acid.

Second grade, making everyone laugh with a short story about a baby being born and talking right after.

Ninth grade, the teacher passing around a short essay about a cat I once had.

College: My art history teacher, long dead now, loving an assignment I wrote, in which I labeled Van Gogh ” the eternal wretch of the art world.”

Also college: Writing a journal that my creative writing teacher could read and grade, giving my observations on everything. I was deeply infatuated with my teacher and it felt as though I had her as my friend. She would write such wonderful things about my writing.

Of making everyone laugh and cheer for me at a bar when it was my turn to read for an assignment by that teacher. It was the true story of how I got my first kiss at 21 with a mildly challenged 46 year-old man, and how he later married a mildly challenged Vietnamese woman in an arranged marriage. That night when I made everyone laugh was the happiest day of my entire life. My entire life. Not joking.

People complimenting my writing on this blog over it’s lifetime. How much it meant that some people actually read my writing because they enjoyed it. And one woman who said she wanted to read every single post I wrote, which took my breath away completely. Of Loon saying she could read my stories all day when I published a short story. Of Aussie and Celtic being here reading me for a decade. Lehmar, and Animal Couriers often still read me too.

And Scott, who had a 165 IQ but still liked what he read, who complimented me so often, who said we had the same sense of humor. I hope you’re at peace now and know how much it all meant.

And my first grade teacher who taught me gently how to read and never forgot me, who up until she was killed by a drunk driver maintained that I was her favorite student ever. Did she teach me to read and write to spew AI at the world.

The people who liked my writing from Twitch and Discord, and before that, AOL. I can’t. I just can’t. Bastiat reading my fan fiction:

Don’t forget my mother, who was my biggest fan. Who listened to all of my writing and once said of one of my stories that she had never read anything quite like it in her entire life ( she meant it in the good way).

I can’t do it. K is giving me a silent treatment, but how can I erase the only thing that I hold onto?

I leave with an excerpt from when I wrote about my mother’s death.

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