ChatGPT-4: The Devil in the Details, The Snake in the Garden of Creativity
This morning, I marked a significant moment in my writing journey. I published a poem living in my head for two years. This piece, originally shared on Medium when I first dabbled in writing, was quickly taken down due to self-criticism. It felt juvenile, unpolished. My best friend, a companion of 20 years, insisted it should have stayed. My intention wasn’t to delete it; I merely wanted to revert it to draft. As a newcomer to Medium, I was still navigating its complexities.
For the next two years, this poem accompanied me in solitude. Whether walking my dog down back roads, folding clothes, showering, or driving, I found myself reciting it. This creation, trapped in the confines of my mind, felt like a good poem imprisoned. Finally, at 1:00 a.m. today, I sat down and poured out as much as I could remember. “Trees” is a poem conceived while I stood in my yard, talking to myself like a self-proclaimed psychopath, surrounded by the trees that lined the property.
I’ve always had this fascination with directions — facing one way to think of Canada, another for Sweden, Vatican City, South Africa, and Peru. It’s about understanding my place in the universe, where Earth lies concerning the Sun.
I’ve been engaging with ChatGPT-4, mainly for research or to clean up commas here and there, which I did for this poem. But I didn’t let it write a single word. Why? Because in a poem, of all places, I knew that would be a betrayal of my integrity. AI-generated art has its place, but it can’t replace the authenticity of a flawed human.
After publishing my poem, I woke up to modest applause on Medium — a single clap from one person and nineteen from another. I’m grateful for every interaction. However, I made a curious mistake afterward. I asked ChatGPT-4 to grade each stanza of my poem. The grades varied from A to C-most leaning towards A’s and B’s. The AI pointed out where it lacked emotional depth, where the motif was lost to indifference.
I then asked the AI to revise each stanza to an A+ grade. Reading the revised version, I knew it would be better than mine. Of course, it was. But instead of changing my poem and feeling like a fraud, I wrote about the temptation.
Art loses its essence if it’s not genuinely yours, akin to a lifelong smoker who’s been clean for a year resisting cigarettes at a gas station or an alcoholic contemplating a shot glass in front of them. The temptation of using AI in creative work is akin to these struggles — it’s not about addiction but the ever-present allure of an easier path. This challenge is like resisting cheats in video games; it’s particularly tough when you see others taking shortcuts in competitive games. This struggle led to my publication’s title, “Slay the Meta,” advocating for not just doing what everyone else is doing because it’s easier but following our paths.
Reading ChatGPT’s version, I admit it was more lyrical and emotionally consistent. Yet, it had a robotic consistency. I’m glad I resisted. I believe it’s okay to use AI as a tool to bring order to the chaos in our minds. But when it comes to art and literature, say no.
This is a new dilemma of temptation for humanity. What is the cost of perfection? In art history class, I learned that Muslim tapestry makers would intentionally leave a stitch out of place in their rugs, believing that only Allah can be perfect.
There’s beauty in our imperfections. It’s like the actress from Dirty Dancing who became unrecognizable after cosmetic surgery. Her uniqueness was lost. Similarly, ChatGPT can make writing too perfect and too generic.
So, embrace your imperfections and use ChatGPT as a tool, but never let it take over your artistic integrity or true self.
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