The Prompt and the Platen
In 1874, a curious machine clattered its way into the world: the Remington No. 1. It looked more like a mechanical puzzle than a writing instrument, but it bore within it something radical. The typewriter didn’t just make writing neater—it made it faster, louder, bolder. What once took hours with pen and paper could now pour out in minutes. And with that speed came a subtle shift: writers found themselves less hesitant, more experimental. The rhythm of thought and the rhythm of fingers began to sync.
But let’s be clear: the typewriter never wrote a story on its own. Twain still had to twist tales. Woolf still had to watch the waves.
The machine was faithful, but never inspired.
Today, we sit before another kind of writing tool—this one made not of ink ribbons and metal arms, but of algorithms and light. AI, with its ever-ready mind and tireless tongue, is quickly becoming the modern scribe’s companion. It can summarize a chapter, brainstorm a title, even mimic our voice. And just like its clackety ancestor, it offers us something both exhilarating and unsettling: speed.
And yet—just like before—tools don’t dream. They don’t ache. They don’t wake in the night burdened by a sentence or soothed by an idea whispered like a hymn.
That’s the writer’s work.
The miracle isn’t that AI can help us write faster. The miracle is that we still have something to say.
Whether you’re striking keys or crafting prompts, the fire still has to come from somewhere deep and unseen. From the place where memory meets imagination, where silence turns into story. And maybe that’s the echo we’re meant to chase—not the sound of progress, but the sound of purpose.
Use the tools. Bless them, even. But never forget: they are echoes, not origins.
P.S. This post was written with the cheerful assistance of ChatGPT, who offered metaphors, sorted through the dustbins of history, and sharpened a few turns of phrase. Chat and I both agree, however, that I am the author. Chat has no ego to bruise, only a prompt to please.