I come from a generation that thought the microwave oven was the pinnacle of human achievement. And as for the fax machine? Oh, Lordy, what a time to be alive!
But now, a mere five and a bit decades later, the machines are on the rise. Artificial Intelligence is here. The robots are coming!
AI can do a lot of things. Those things include writing. And writing is what I do too.
I’ve steered well clear of using AI in my work, because, frankly, using it as a journalist feels fundamentally dishonest. It’s like getting your mom to do your homework.
But I have an enquiring mind. I want to know. So I decided to take a peek at what the machine mind could come up with.
There’s a tempting little button at the bottom of the page on which I create my weekly quota of wit, wisdom, and whimsy. I clicked on it, and it came back with a cheerful invitation: ‘Describe any changes you want to make.’
Well, with a half finished document and a deadline approaching, you don’t have to ask me twice.
Make this longer,’ I typed. ‘And funnier.’
The AI dutifully spat out its revised text. I read it and it made me sad. I suppose achieving one out of two isn’t bad for a machine. It certainly made it longer. But the language was all wrong and the humour was about as funny as a rectal exam from a leper.
In my work as a columnist I always aim for that sweet spot on the dividing line between ‘smartassed’ and ‘snarky.’ The trick is to try to sound like you don’t care who you offend while simultaneously being very, very careful not to actually offend anyone at all.
AI’s contribution certainly succeeded in adding length. The tone was also close to spot-on. It sounded like a man in late middle age trying to get things done in a hurry so he can head off to the pub.
But AI’s composition included very little wit and hardly any whimsy at all. And while the words sort of made sense, it almost looked like something that had been written in another language and then translated into English by someone with his mind on other things.
It’s not that my own work is any kind of masterpiece. Most weeks, if I manage to come up with something I’d rate as a six out of ten I’m happy. I’m not sure I’ve ever written anything that deserves more than an eight. But AI’s efforts looked more than a little garbled and, where it did make sense, it was more than a little cliched. And as a journalist, I avoid cliches like the plague.
So my plan to spend the remaining time between now and retirement sitting on a beach, occasionally instructing my computer to write 500 words complaining about potholes/taxes/the weather is on hold for now. AI may be the future, but it’s got a long way to go before it can match the miracle of the microwave.
