What is my AI policy?

(This article is handwritten, with spelling and grammar checks by Grammarly)

It's getting harder and harder to differentiate human-generated content vs. AI-generated. And it's only going to get harder as AI gets better and more creators use it. Just last night I was watching a video of a guy who had some very interesting things to say. His conversation seemed candid, and I really thought he was speaking off the top of his head.

But then he said:

"Now here's the part that most people don't talk about, the quiet part that matters."

(A clearly AI-generated line for those unfamiliar)

And whoosh, all those feelings I'd had about his authenticity flew right out the window. Because at best I now knew he'd memorized an AI-generated script, or at worst, was reading a teleprompter just off-screen (Is that why he was wearing dark sunglasses?).

And then my brain took it one step farther: is it even a real video? I've seen video cloning ads that claim to be able to take a picture, and a script, and turn them into a full-blown video. So who knows? I clicked off of the video, wondering, not for the first time, what is real anymore...

And what does real even mean today?

It's a question I never imagined I'd have to ask.

But this is where we are, and asking is important. Just as important as reading the ingredient list on the side of a package at the grocery store. We check the labels at the store because we want to know what we are putting into our bodies, and it's equally fair to ask what we are putting into our minds.

So here, my friends, is my personal AI policy. For anyone concerned about the information flowing from me to you.

First, a little backstory. I'm a born creator; from my earliest memories, my parents ran a mom-and-pop sign shop out of our garage. I'd come home from school and find my dad standing at his giant homebrew easel. Three sheets of drywall attached to a frame that ran the length of one of the garage walls. And on it would be one or two 4x8 sheets of MDO plywood, already primed and painted and ready for layout. He'd grab an old yardstick, a thin one that was flexy and nimble, nothing like the stiff clunky ones they sell today, and he'd expertly glide his Blue Stabilo grease pencil along the surface, tracing out shapes that he'd later hand-letter into a finished sellable product. Spying me watching, he'd quickly put me to work, sweeping, emptying trash, changing blades in all the X-acto knives, ponce wheeling patterns, or painting... Oh lordy, the number of 4x8 sheets of MDO I've primed and painted in my life, you wouldn't believe it... But blessedly, it wasn't all chores and drudgery; sometimes my dad would let me use the tools and materials to bring my own ideas to life. Like the time I told him I wanted to make the world's biggest paper airplane.

He nodded thoughtfully at my declaration, then walked me over to the four-foot-wide, industrial-sized roll of butcher paper we had and asked. "How much do you need?"

I held my arms out as wide as they could reach, and he tore off a piece that was roughly the width of a 3rd grader.

Taking the sheet out to the driveway, I folded a typical paper airplane, the one we all know how to fold. Then I tried to pick it up, but my plane collapsed in on itself. The paper wasn't strong enough to support a structure of this magnitude. I went back in the garage and explained the problem, then asked for support materials: "Maybe some sticks, and some tape?"

Again he nodded, and gave me the items I'd asked for.

I went back out, attached the round wooden dowels to the fuselage, and added popsicle sticks to the wings, trying to give the paper more rigidity. But now when I picked it up, it was too heavy. And the tape kept popping off, refusing to hold all of the sticks in place like I thought it would.

At that point, I knew it would never fly. The materials just weren't strong enough to scale up in the way I'd imagined. All that work, it seemed, was for nothing. It was disappointing.

But then I realized something.

It wasn't for nothing; I'd actually learned a ton along the way.

First, and maybe the most important, I'd had an idea and taken action on it. So many people have ideas, but then never put them into action, never see if the idea has any chance of becoming more than conceptual.

Second, I gained a real-world, hands-on understanding of materials, basic engineering, structural supports, the limitations of tape, strength-to-weight ratios, and more. Things I might have eventually read about in a book, but a book never would have allowed me to grasp the concepts with the same clarity I had from experiencing them firsthand.

It also occurred to me that my dad, with his keen understanding of engineering (his dad had been a draftsman and architect), probably knew all of this before I ever made my first fold. He knew the project was doomed to failure. And regardless of the outcome, he certainly knew that in a few hours, or at most a few months, my creation would end up in the trash. He knew this, and he let me build it anyway. How tempting it must have been for him to say, "That'll never work, go do your chores." But he didn't say that; he let me try, fail, and learn. And for that, I'm grateful...

So, I tell you all this to say, put your ideas into action. Feel things in the real world with your own hands. And when someone comes to you with an idea, an idea like, "I want to build a giant paper airplane," even if you are confident it won't work, stop for a moment and remember this story. Because while it is wonderful to succeed, we often learn far more when we fail. And when we stop someone from failing, we might also be stopping them from growing...

Now, “what", you might be asking, "does this have to do with AI?"

I'm glad you asked; let me tell you.

I've had this story in my head for over forty years. The lessons I learned that day have stuck with me, become a part of my bones, part of my being. And while I wouldn't say this is my best story, it's in there. And it's not alone... There are thousands more just like it. Sitting in queue, waiting for the right moment, the right question, the right student who says, "Hey, I've got this idea for a _____, any thoughts?"

I started writing this article over two hours ago. It’s entirely in my own words, each letter typed by hand. A faithful retelling of the experience I had that day, and the things I learned from it. I made the connections, I found the meaning, I retold it in a way that I believe can benefit the right person who reads it at the right time. And if I'd used AI to help me write this story, the same core message would have been retained. The importance of the failure, the thought process my dad must have gone through, and the takeaway at the end. All of these would have been represented: these core concepts that I drew from my own experiences. But the one big difference is this: Had I used AI, I would have been able to do it in 30 minutes, rather than 2+ hours. True, it would not be my own, word-for-word, hand-typed, retelling of the story. But the message itself, the reason for telling the story in the first place, would have been there. And with the time I saved, I could have told one or two, or maybe even three more of these kinds of stories. Making three or four more of the ideas and experiences I've had available to help others on their own creative or art'trepreneurial journeys.

So yes, on my blog, Patreon, YouTube descriptions, social media postings, and some marketing/other online outlets, I don't hesitate to lean on AI to help me be more productive. I know how to drive a nail by hand; I can do it in ten seconds flat. But I can drive four in the same ten seconds with a nail gun. To me, AI is a nail gun, helpful for speeding up the process, but far from being able to replace the builder themself.

That said! Online content is a sprint, and the gold medal often goes to the fastest sprinter.

But when it comes to my books, I hold them to a much higher standard. I use the paid version of Grammarly as a baseline, and then lean on my two human editors and a host of beta readers to help catch as many mistakes as possible. Then I turn the cover design over to Robin Gunney; he works his magic, proof copies are ordered, one last read-through, and finally the book is ready for distribution. A process that, in my case at least, takes years.

I'm a creator, and I've been creating since before even AOL existed, all my life. It costs me nothing, other than the time it took to write this article, to be transparent about my process.

And I can understand why people are on guard, or downright suspicious of everything being put out today. I went to pick up some Thai takeout a few months ago, and a woman who was waiting as well struck up a conversation. I don't really remember what we talked about except that at one point, she said she was an author. 

Being an author myself, I asked her if I might know any of her work.

She said, "Maybe, I've written over 600 books."

And I kinda let things trail off after that. Maybe that’s unfair, but something about that didn’t feel right. Six hundred books? In a world where AI can produce content at an astonishing rate, I immediately wondered how much of that work was actually hers. So I get it; I’m just as suspicious as everyone else is.

That said, I’ve already gotten a ton of positive feedback on my most recent book, “Off Course On Purpose.” Including one reader who asked, “Please tell me a part two is coming?!”

In answer, yes, there is a part two coming; the outline is already over 50,000 words, and I’m working on it as fast as I can. :)

This feedback tells me that the journals I maintained from the late 90s until today- the journals that ultimately became the manuscript, and the manuscript that eventually became the book- are doing the work I’d hoped. Inspiring the next generation to have their own incredible adventures and believe in their dreams.

So, I hope that cleared things up.

If you have any additional comments or questions, leave them below.

Note: This article is not intended to represent a stance, political inclination, or otherwise. It's a look behind the curtain of my current creative process, and a declaration of where I do, and do not, use AI in my process.