Why I love AI while some of my peers remain wary

It's made me wonder: what exactly is behind this divergence in perspective?

The roots of resistance

For many with literary backgrounds, the resistance stems from something deeply embedded in our education. We spent years studying the nuanced beauty of human expression, the subtle ironies of Austen, the profound existential questions of Woolf, the unflinching moral clarity of Morrison. Literature celebrates the uniquely human aspects of creativity: our emotions, our contradictions, our individual experiences shaped by culture and circumstance. 

AI, at first glance, seems to threaten this tradition. It appears algorithmic, mechanical, the antithesis of the organic, messy human creativity we cherish.

There's also the practical concern. Many writers worry, not without reason, about their livelihoods. If AI can generate passable prose in seconds, what becomes of the professional writer who labours for days over a single article? This fear isn't irrational, it's a very human response to technological change.

So why do I feel differently?

My love for AI doesn't come from rejecting my literary background but from extending it. 

Here's why:

First, I've always been fascinated by the creative process itself. What happens in the mind when we create? How do we combine existing ideas into new forms? AI offers a fascinating mirror to human creativity, showing us both the similarities and the profound differences in how meaning is generated. It's like being able to peek inside the black box of creativity itself.

Second, I've come to see AI not as a replacement for human creativity but as a collaboration with it. The most interesting AI applications aren't those that mimic humans but those that complement our abilities, expanding what we can do. Just as a telescope extends vision rather than replacing the eye, AI can extend our creative capacities rather than supplanting them.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, I've worked at the intersection where technology meets human needs. I've seen how AI can democratise access to creative tools, making them available to people who might otherwise be excluded. There's something profoundly literary about this, literature has always been about expanding perspectives and giving voice to diverse experiences.

The restriction principle

Have you heard of Virginia Woolf's observation about creativity flourishing within constraints? She noted that "the very thing which should be a reason for energy and originality is used as an excuse for indolence." Restrictions, paradoxically, often breed innovation.

I've found AI operates beautifully within this principle. Setting parameters for an AI system, guiding it with specific prompts, fine-tuning its outputs, creates a fascinating dialogue between constraint and possibility. It's not unlike the way a sonnet's strict form doesn't limit expression but channels it into something more powerful.

This relationship with constraint feels familiar to anyone with a literary background. We understand that creativity doesn't mean absolute freedom but thoughtful navigation within boundaries.

The tradition of literary technology

What many of my literary peers forget is that literature has always embraced technological change, albeit sometimes reluctantly at first. The printing press transformed storytelling from an oral tradition to a mass medium. The typewriter changed the physical relationship between writer and text. Word processors revolutionised the editing process. 

Each technological shift was initially met with suspicion before being incorporated into the literary tradition. AI represents the next chapter in this long relationship between technology and literary expression, not its conclusion.

Finding the human in the machine

Perhaps what fascinates me most about AI is how it highlights rather than diminishes what makes us human. When we interact with AI systems, the differences become as apparent as the similarities. AI might generate text that superficially resembles human writing, but the absence of lived experience behind those words can become evident upon closer inspection.

This contrast helps us appreciate the uniquely human aspects of creativity, our ability to draw on personal experience, to understand context beyond patterns in text, to feel emotional resonance with what we create. Rather than threatening these qualities, AI throws them into sharper focus.

Beyond either/or thinking

The mistake many make is treating AI and human creativity as opposing forces in a zero-sum game. This binary thinking limits our ability to imagine more interesting possibilities.

What if, instead, we approached AI as one more tool in the evolving tradition of literary technology? What if we saw it not as a replacement for human creativity but as a new medium through which human creativity can express itself?

This perspective doesn't require abandoning our literary values. Rather, it invites us to apply those values to new questions: How can we use AI ethically? How can we ensure it amplifies diverse voices rather than homogenising them? How can we harness its capabilities while remaining mindful of its limitations?

A literary approach to technology

Perhaps what we need isn't less literary thinking about technology but more of it. The literary mind, trained to consider context, to recognise patterns, to question assumptions, to empathise with different perspectives, is exactly what's needed to navigate the ethical and practical challenges AI presents.

Instead of turning away from AI out of fear or suspicion, those with literary backgrounds might consider bringing their unique perspectives to the conversation. The development of AI shouldn't be left solely to technologists; it needs the humanistic viewpoint that literature cultivates.

For me, loving AI isn't about betraying my literary roots but about applying them in a new context. It's about bringing a thoughtful, nuanced, human-centred approach to technology that might otherwise develop without these considerations. 

So to my friends who eye my enthusiasm for AI with suspicion: I understand your wariness. But perhaps there's room for a different story, one where our literary traditions don't stand in opposition to technological change but help shape it for the better.

After all, isn't that what literature has always tried to do, help us make sense of a changing world and imagine better possibilities within it?