Jasper's shoulders ached from leaning against the counter all day. The gas station fluorescents had bleached the color out of everything — the snack wrappers, the lottery tickets, the faces of people buying things they didn't need. In the back office, he'd spent an hour helping Frank sort through projections. Well, helping the computer sort through projections while Frank watched over his shoulder.
It happened fast. The numbers populated, the patterns emerged, the projections arranged themselves in seconds. Frank just stared at the screen. Then his fist came down on the table so hard Jasper jumped.
"That thing is going to take my job."
Jasper turned. Frank's face was red, his jaw tight. But then something went out of him, like air leaving a tire, and his voice dropped to almost nothing.
"I've been doing this for twenty years."
Jasper hadn't known what to say. So he'd said nothing.
Now he was home. Notebook open. The pen felt good in his hand — the weight of it, the scratch of it against paper. He'd been writing for maybe ten minutes when he looked up.
His reflection caught him in the window. Half-lit by the desk lamp, half-dark. He stopped mid-sentence.
And there was Frank again. Not in the room, but in the glass somehow.
Twenty years.
The phone was there. Right there. He could feel it in his pocket like a small weight. He knew what it could do when connected to AI. He'd watched it work all afternoon — sorting data, making predictions, finding patterns humans missed. Helpful. Efficient. Clean.
He could use it for this. For writing. He could feed it a few sentences, a mood, a direction. It would give him options. It would save time.
The thought sat there.
His hand slipped into his pocket without thinking, then the phone was on the table, turning it over in his hand. Over and over. Mindless. At the same time, his other hand rested on the notebook, fingers on the page he'd just written. A different tool in each hand.
And then he said it, quiet enough that only the reflection could hear: "I'm not afraid AI will take my job. I’m afraid it will take my integrity."
The words hung. Then something shifted.
If I use AI to write, am I still a writer?
He put the phone down. Pushed back from the desk. The chair scraped against the floor. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
A walk. That’s exactly what he needed. He left the phone and the notebook on the desk and stepped outside.
🧠 Mental Gym #16
There's a tool that could make this easier. But easier isn't always the point.
Think about something you do that matters deeply to you. Now finish this sentence:
"I don't mind using AI for _______, but if I used it for _______, I wouldn't feel like myself."
What does your answer tell you about yourself? It's not an easy question, but the important ones rarely are.
A short story about being comfortable with AI—prompted by Colson Whitehead’s recent essay in the NY Times.
Until next Sunday, stay useful
— Mike