“There’s an article on ChatGPT in The Washington Post,” my wife said from the couch yesterday morning.
“Yes, I’m sure there is,” I snapped, having just read three other stories online and heard a story on CBS’s Sunday Morning. Some glib David Pogue bullshit about how writers and creative people won’t be replaced by ChatGPT, but rather by writers who know how to work with ChatGPT.
I was seriously considering writing my own goddamn Washington Post article about the essential human element in any writing worth reading. But I’d already had a Bloody Mary and a beer back, and was feeling a little fuzzy. Maybe ChatGPT could write it for me.
I slammed my laptop shut, and poured myself another beer.