From Here On

A terminal procrastinator has finally decided to start writing. I am planting a flag: eight hundred words a day. May I keep at it.

The idea of returning to writing began on sleepless nights. When thoughts came rushing in, I wanted desperately to record what was passing through my mind. By the time I woke, only scattered fragments remained, and most of the inspiration had already vanished—but the impulse was still there. Up to this point in my life, I seem to have been like the bear in the old tale, breaking off one ear of corn only to drop it for the next; there has not been a single thing I have managed to sustain over time. So let it begin here.

There is another reason I want to start writing: the arrival of the AI age. The internet is filling with more and more AI-generated content. When AI can produce an assigned essay both quickly and well, what is the point of human beings continuing to write? I think perhaps the point lies precisely in the fact that we do it neither quickly nor perfectly. For carbon-based creatures, putting words on the page is always labor. Take this moment, for instance: every character has to be typed out one by one; what I want to say has to be considered, revised, and polished. Even after careful carving and sanding, whatever I write will inevitably have flaws. With luck, perhaps one out of every hundred pieces will turn out vivid and interesting. But the writer has the pleasure of creation, and the reader gets a glimpse into the thoughts or fragments of life of another carbon-based being.

I can no longer remember where I once saw this claim: that human society is, at its core, a tribe held together by gossip. There is some truth to it. All kinds of information are produced, shared, circulated, accepted, criticized, put to use, and eventually discarded. These processes make up much of human activity. What I want to do, then, is contribute a little information from this individual self of mine. I do not know whether AI will one day develop consciousness of its own. Perhaps sooner or later, humanity will have to share this planet with silicon-based life. When that day comes, I think I will be able to say that I made a small record of the existence of carbon-based life.

Having written this much, I should make clear that I am not criticizing AI. I am not some old fogey railing against progress. The arrival of AI brings new surprises almost every day. With it, many personal ideas no longer have to be blocked by high technical barriers. A good idea, a computer, and a usable supply of tokens—that is enough. Writing, however, is something I still want to do by hand. Perhaps because I am a chatterbox and enjoy expressing myself, writing is, for me, a source of happiness.

The day after I decided to begin writing, I saw an update on He Caitou’s WeChat account, in which he wrote about why he insists on writing by himself. The timing was so apt that it felt less like coincidence than like the universe answering me. He wrote that when he was broke, he had a wild dream: “Once I’m rich someday, I’m going to sit there comfortably and write essays for fun every day—write whatever I want, and people can read them or not as they please.” And I thought: why wait until I’m rich? Even without money, I can still sit comfortably for an hour every day and write for fun. I can write whatever I’m thinking, and people can read it or not as they please. Hahahahaha. How delightful.

Have I written eight hundred words? Rounding up, I suppose I have.