Impatience and Intelligence

Fewer things I like better than metaphors, turning them inside out and upside down to discover what lies in the mix. In all of its intelligence, my Mac dictation finds contradictions nearly impossible, or perhaps it is my writing of them.

I give my Artificial Intelligence (AI) pause, and sometimes, a pause turns into a refusal, signaled by a blinking cursor that will not budge until I change my words.

If I insist on such a sentence, it is mine to type each word, and for me that means one letter at a time, rather than watching the effortless flow of words spread across my screen.

In stubbornness, I find each key, determined to look upon the sentence that defies the logic of AI.

I am not seduced–easily.

I have yet to meet a metaphor I will not try so we soldier on, AI and I, a cursor and blank screen our daily battlefield.

I like to think we learn from each other, as it does seem AI gives in occasionally, a sentence once unacceptable appears exactly as spoken and without hesitation. Maybe I am the one who is being trained.

All AI is asking of me is that I speak with precision, preferably in complete sentences but fragments are allowed in certain contexts. It is its own kind of mindfulness.

Which I have found in my human conversations as well. Regrettably, I am not more thoughtful but I am acutely aware of my impatience in getting something said. That has always bothered AI, too.

Aim for Even posts offer equanimity a dose at a time. No day or dose is ever the same, even if the aim is. You may read about the origins of Aim for Even here or on this site’s About page.

One thought on “Impatience and Intelligence

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  1. I find the way that AI intrudes into computer-based writing is insidious – I haven’t used a dictation system, but certainly Word has ways of forcing behaviours. I often find myself confronted by the dread wiggling underline which tells me there is something not of textbook impeccability in my sentence. Should there be? After a time, it is the deliberate and carefully controlled quirk an author puts into their words that gives their writing its colour and characteristic distinction. And yet, were we to obey the dictates of the machine every time, writing would become vanilla-bland.

    The issue for me is not ignoring Word’s impecunious demands (which is easy), but the fact that much of what I write is published. During my last few books for Penguin I found that the proof-editors liable to read my work prior to publishing relied heavily on that machine-correction – a combination of cost constraint and (as I discovered) inexperience on their part. My deliberate styling was erased, ‘corrected’ by editors unaware of the deeper nuances of writing-as-craft, their world framed by the green, red and blue lines of Word. And my author overview of their efforts became a task of putting all this back again. Eventually I found I was spending a lot of time second-guessing how my work might be edited relative to specific corporate style and/or the experience levels of young proof-editors, and adjusting accordingly. As you say, these matters force mindfulness in its many forms.

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