Maia Nebula!

Ever since I sent out a work-related reply that sounded weird (to me, at least—who knows if anyone else in this fast-paced world noticed), years ago, I’ve been convinced that my ability to communicate in corporate speak is impaired due to my having joined the English-speaking workforce too late in life. That’s why, as I slowly warmed to the idea of letting AI help me with certain tasks, I welcomed its ability to write those emails for me.

For a brief while, it was fantastic. I felt competent and compelling in my tone. I handled a crucial negotiation successfully without feeling like my awkward wording would betray my condition as an unseasoned hobbyist posing as an expert.

However, a couple of days ago, I used AI to write an apology email regarding a tech issue that prevented me from doing my job at a crucial moment. Today, one of the recipients sent me a kind standard reply, which prompted me to look at my message once again. I was appalled: it was glaringly obvious that it hadn’t been written by a human.

What use was my brain, I wondered in horror, if I couldn’t write a simple heartfelt message without borrowing crutches from robots? Such a human act, apologizing—and yet here I was, lacking the words for it, delegating it to a cold machine. What a loss for the animal kingdom. What a humiliating defeat for a self-purported blog writer.

I can’t begin to describe how disgusted I am. My mind—my precious mind!—now reduced to a glob of soft cheese left out on a plate. All in the name of convenience and entertainment. It’s embarrassing. This cannot stand.

I’ve been fooling myself thinking that I just didn’t have the skills to write professional messages, when the truth is that I’ve been feeding my brain junk food instead of actually nourishing it. That’s what’s led me so readily into the arms of AI.

I hereby vow to drastically cut back on social media. Reading books means nothing if the rest of my brainpower is wasted invoking nibbles of outrage.

A new year is upon us, and it’s time to decide who I want to be for the next 365 days. It’s not like I’m trying on different masks, different personae to adopt. I feel that last year I slowly came into focus, and now it’s time to sharpen my lens and get rid of my blurry edges. I know what I want out of myself, so why wait to bring it forward?

As a mortal human being, I am aware that I have a limited number of days left on this earth. I have now grasped how finite this window of action is, and how quickly it’s shrinking. My immediate actions will set the tone for my later years, and it is my intention to increase joy and diminish pain and regret.

In a world that’s numb with consumption, I intend to push back with creation. I want to remind myself every day that everything that I do is part of a process, and the goal is to look back and find evidence of consistency. It is of very little importance whether I am good or not at the things I try. Showing up every single day is the only thing that matters. Success will inevitably follow.

Sometimes, when I look at my old blog posts, I contemplate my long-held dream of becoming a writer. By “writer” I used to mean someone who wrote fiction or poetry. A published author. From an early age I knew there was stuff in my head—I would spend most of my waking childhood hours sketching sequential drawings in an attempt to purge it all out. I wonder—and I’m sure this is not the first time I arrive at this question—whether my adult anxiety stems from the absence of a purging valve to let out the contents of my mind.

Convinced that writing was my calling, I made many embarrassing attempts at both fiction and poetry, all the while maintaining a couple of blogs (yes, like this one). Some of the stuff I made got published in school journals, and I was even invited to read at a poetry festival, so I’m guessing I wasn’t terrible, but it still feels like the attempts were embarrassing. As tends to be the case with anything you stop practicing, I stopped writing poetry and the well of ideas dried up. As for fiction, I don’t think I ever had a well of ideas to draw from. Or maybe there were seeds of ideas, but they just never sprouted.

An ex-boyfriend once told me I was nothing but a blog writer. His intention was clearly to hurt me, but I’ve increasingly warmed to the idea. I see myself as a diarist. My work may not bear witness to our tumultuous times, but it bears witness to the evolution of a single human being. That should be enough.