You took my joy, I want it back
I love that song by Lucinda Williams. The lament. The yearning. The idea of something lost—another person, or people—responsible. And the agency it takes to find joy again.
Fleeting tendrils of joy abound, however. In a baby’s early laughter. In an unexpected springlike day after a cold snap in February. A song you loved but had forgotten, spontaneously playing on the radio. A good hair day. A perfectly seared chunk of ahi.
But this is a newsletter about writing, and I’m here to make that connection. Hang on, it’s coming. Circuitously, perhaps, but, like joy itself, arriving via the secret entrance.
I’m lucky enough to have a dream job, working as an editor for a press that publishes women of a certain age. The books delivered via fairy dust1, settling on my screen and working their way through my nervous system, often contain the very ingredients for that elusive condition. Joy.
When a writer inhabits her truth—raw, courage-filled—the receiver is gifted a particular slice of that writer’s heart. It is a transference—a sharing—of joy. Joy in bearing witness. Joy in claiming space. Joy in the very human act of saying, “this is real, and so are you.” And I’m not talking strictly memoir. Or even roman à clef. Fiction has the potential to elicit joy on par with nonfiction.
The future though? As AI seeps into our stories, one wonders what will happen to that intimate relationship between writer and reader? When the pure translation of intent from one soul to another is adjudicated by a robot, what happens to joy?
Maybe this is the bastard-child argument to the one about loving the art even if the artist is an asshole. Does it matter who created the thing that gives you all the feels? In her brilliant book, Monsters, Claire Dederer ponders the question: “How do we balance our undeniable moral outrage with our equally undeniable love of the work?”
When it comes to artificial intelligence, a similar conundrum persists: Can we honor our impulse for joy if the joy-giver is devoid of a soul?
Maybe we can. And by “we” I mean those of born in the previous century. People of a certain age, if you will. Because of our complex relationship and response to art—art largely made by humans—our joy in beholding that art is tied to humanity. Indelibly. Hopefully our young children and grandchildren will be able to discern the difference between an algorithm-driven formula and a human-generated story.
There’s no denying that our world is experiencing upheaval. Power-seeking and greed are rampant. Propaganda is replacing art at unprecedented levels. Our social order undermined, mandated via the lie of “efficiency.” Joy squashed in favor of vitriol—in favor of allegiance to doctrine that aborts critical thinking.
I want my joy back.
Alas, a joyful life is a messy life. Circuitous, like this post. It’s not efficient and it certainly isn’t predictable. Joy often hits you sideways. It’s very unpredictability contributes to our delight.
As AI gets increasingly sophisticated, there will come a day when artificially-generated content is indistinguishable from human-generated art. Gone will be the monotone robot voice in our audiobooks and films. Machines will be able to mimic lyrical prose, complicated syntax, Shakespearian eloquence. Tomorrow’s artists will be mere programmers, while today’s artists will live in history books prepared by automatons.
That doesn't sound very joyful.
So, what do we do?
Like Lucinda, we hunt that fucker down. Attend book events, buy human-generated art, celebrate the sweat and blood it takes to create by honoring the creators. Allow yourself a daily dose of joy without regret.
Don’t let them keep the joy they’re trying to steal.
picture an older, wiser fairy. A crone, perhaps
Also seeking joy here. No one can steal my sunshine.
The world is changing, and many things feel beyond our control. It will be a sad day when (not if) art and AI become inextricably bound to each other. But yes! Joy is still there--to feel, see, and touch. Thank you, Suzy!