I’ll be the first to admit: I was wrong about AI as a writer. And here’s why.

(Way) back in 2024, I had my first real encounter with AI in a professional setting. I was working as a copywriter in the marketing department of a large nonprofit—doing what I do best: assessing briefs, outlining strategies, spinning the right words, delivering clean, effective copy. In this particular case, my final draft was done and dusted. 

Or so I thought.

Unbeknownst to me, after I passed my copy along for production and launch, someone from another department—a non-writer—took that draft, paired it with the original brief, and ran it through an AI tool to compare outcomes. They chose the AI version. And they sent it to our audience.

I found out after the fact. And I did not take it well.

My personal offense-o-meter hit red.

We had talented creatives on staff, professionals who’d spent entire careers honing their craft. Who was vetting the AI’s version for bias, nuance, or connotation? How could someone with zero writing training believe a robot could out-write a seasoned, creative human?

The gall.

Here’s something you should know about me: I have strong convictions. Especially when it comes to things that feel like an extension of who I am. Writing is at the top of that list.

And here’s another thing: If you tell me I’m wrong, I’ll double down to prove you otherwise. I’m a class-A double-downer who will make you earn it if you want me to change my mind.

That’s why I marched up the ladder to my boss’s boss and raised hell. Soon after, the organization put a policy in place around AI use—clarifying roles, setting expectations, and reaffirming that writing should remain in the hands of trained writers. I felt vindicated.

Fast forward a year.

I had a new boss. Also not a professional writer. And during a planning meeting, they suggested I start using AI “to be a better writer.”

This time, my offense-o-meter didn’t just hit red—it shattered the glass and sent the needle flying across the room. I was (and am) a writer’s writer. How dare someone who didn’t even know me reduce decades of experience, intuition, and love of craft to a button push?

What is this world?

And yet—here’s one last personal tidbit: if you put in the work and help me see the bigger picture, I’ll admit when I’ve gotten it wrong.

So here I am. Admitting it.

I was wrong.

Do I still think AI poses dangers? That it could forever reshape entire industries? That it threatens to water down our collective intellect to Idiocracy levels of absurdity? (Yep, the movie with the prophetic rise of Crocs.) Yes, to all of it.

Don’t even get me started on the environmental cost of powering all this AI tech.

But that new boss got me thinking.

Was I really mad that people thought AI could write better than I could? Or was I scared? Scared of losing my relevance. Scared of my purpose being ripped out from under me by something soulless. Scared of being replaced.

Turns out, I wasn’t angry—I was afraid. And when I finally admitted that to myself, I could start moving forward.

If you’re of a certain age, you might remember the rise of desktop publishing in the ’90s (QuarkXPress, anyone?). Graphic designers everywhere panicked. Suddenly, anyone with a mouse and a monitor could call themselves a visual designer. But over time, it became clear: software doesn’t make someone a creative. It just gives creatives better tools.

Real designers—the trained, the talented, the intuitive—endured. They adapted. And today, they use advanced tools to bring original visions to life more efficiently and powerfully than ever.

That’s when I had my second realization.

I am a writer. I love language. I love the way words bend and stretch to express something precise and beautiful. I even love the hard stuff: the outlining, the research, the revision. But real talk? I often face five or more deadlines in a day. I don’t always have time to develop deep outlines—or even write one at all. And sometimes, I just get stuck.

What if there were a tool that could plug into my brain and spit out a rough content calendar to get me started?

What if I could quickly flesh out character profiles and organize story arcs in a visual, editable format?

What if something could gut-check my grammar and trim my overwriting before I embarrassed myself in front of my proofreader?

Oh… wait.

There is.

It’s AI.

So, I tried it. Just once—outlining type buckets for a 6-month content strategy I already had wire-framed. It saved me hours. Days, even. And it let me focus on the part I love most: putting emotion to paper.

That’s when I understood what my boss was really trying to say. They weren’t telling me that AI could replace my talent. They were saying it could help me use it more efficiently. It could free up time so I could pour more of myself into the parts of the job that make me feel like a writer.

I still don’t believe AI should compose on my behalf. That’s my job—and my calling. To do give away the craft of writing would be banishing my soul. But I now see it as a tool, not a threat. A way to extend my time and amplify my strengths.

We’ve still got a long road ahead. We need guidelines and guardrails around creative ownership, plagiarism, attribution, ethics, and sustainability. (Please, OpenAI—figure out the energy piece.)

But I’m no longer the writer who wants AI robots to die. I’m the writer who sees them for what they are: not replacements, but reluctant allies—here to help me write more, not less.