Why I Write

Notes on starting a blog in the age of AI.

In the summer of 1946, shortly after the close of World War II, George Orwell published a short essay entitled “Why I Write.” He had already released Coming Up for Air, Keep the Aspidistra Flying (my favorite Orwell novel), and Animal Farm — the last of which, published in 1945, launched Orwell to immense fame for the first time in his life. His essay on writing didn’t reach nearly as large an audience as his books, but it landed at a decisive moment, when people were deeply skeptical of propaganda and the lines between facts and political agendas had blurred in the aftermath of global conflict.

I’m certainly no Orwell, but I do often feel as if I’m living through a momentous era of human history. This year alone, dozens of major news outlets have cut staff — usually by 10 percent or more — partly because of “fears” surrounding AI. CNN, the Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, Bustle, BuzzFeed, TechCrunch, Insider, and even NowThis (that company that makes TikTok videos etc.) have all downsized. Science sections have been hit especially hard.

Writing as a career is on a downhill trajectory, and yet many writers are acting as if there’s nothing to worry about. A recent Science article, for example, reports that AI writers are improving but remain “stochastic parrots” lacking true originality, merely mixing and matching ideas to produce derivative works. But then again, that’s what many human writers do, too. Most science coverage merely mixes and matches quotes from press releases and papers, condensing them into readable and bite-sized forms. Every artist, in some sense, builds on what came before; they copy, adapt, remix, and do their best to add something new.

So yes, I often question my selected career. Even if my writing is “better” than future AIs, or retains a “human touch” that can’t be replaced, I’ll still be competing with exponentially more creators. It will get harder and harder to attract human eyeballs, because the overall market share will dwindle. Why, then, am I resurrecting this blog and spending so much of my free time — and so many late nights — writing?

I found answers in Orwell’s essay. Even though Why I Write is a post-World War II product, the reasons Orwell gives are eternal. He gives four reasons in all:

1. Sheer egoism. The urge “to be talked about, to be remembered after death,” or a desire to appear clever. Orwell argues that writers share this trait with politicians, scientists, and CEOs.

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. An appreciation for the world’s beauty, or a pleasure “in words and their right arrangement.” In other words, writing purely for the joy of it; a “desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed.”

3. Historical impulse. A drive to capture “true facts” and preserve them for the future.

4. Political purpose. Interpreted as broadly as possible, this is just a writer’s ambition to guide society in a particular direction.

I think all of these reasons for writing still apply. Let me explain.

First, there is sheer egoism. This is my main reason for writing. I hit “publish” on articles — rather than keeping them confined to my hard drive — because I want people to read them. Anyone who publishes stuff online probably feels like they have important things to say, at least to some extent. Ego-driven writing will not become obsolete — but it will become more difficult to nurture.

The things that feed a writer’s ego today — social media “likes” and comments, number of subscribers, and so on — will become harder and harder to collect over time. Even if a human writer’s output is better than an AI’s, that human is still competing with an exponential increase in creators. In a world where one writer can do the work of 100 writers (even mediocre ones), the writers who deeply care about their craft will still be widely read, but will have a far lower market share than they might otherwise. People will spend less time, overall, reading that human’s work.

Second, aesthetic enthusiasm. This is the reason I care about least. I don’t often think about the beauty of my prose (though I do think a lot about the structure of an argument.) Sure, I still get some satisfaction when I write a clever sentence — or hear a particularly beautiful Bob Dylan or Don McLean lyric — but I rarely sit down to savor my sentences.

This reason for writing also seems relatively AI proof. Many people will continue writing simply because they enjoy it, or because it helps them to deeply understand an idea. Turning a “nebulous thought” into a beautiful, logical essay is the most fundamental — yet difficult — part of writing — and this, too, is a form of aesthetics. If an essay seems vague or repetitive, it usually means the writer hasn’t fully grasped their own argument. If each sentence builds on the last and a piece feels logical, then the writer likely understands exactly what they want to say. This mental clarity can’t be supplanted by machines (barring some kind of neural interface.)

Paul Graham predicts that in a future world, a few people will know how to write — and therefore think! — but most people will not:

The result will be a world divided into writes and write-nots. There will still be some people who can write. Some of us like it. But the middle ground between those who are good at writing and those who can't write at all will disappear. Instead of good writers, ok writers, and people who can't write, there will just be good writers and people who can't write.

Graham continues:

Is that so bad? Isn't it common for skills to disappear when technology makes them obsolete? There aren't many blacksmiths left, and it doesn't seem to be a problem.

Yes, it's bad. The reason is something I mentioned earlier: writing is thinking. In fact there's a kind of thinking that can only be done by writing. You can't make this point better than Leslie Lamport did:

If you're thinking without writing, you only think you're thinking.

So a world divided into writes and write-nots is more dangerous than it sounds. It will be a world of thinks and think-nots. I know which half I want to be in, and I bet you do too.

Writing to think, then, is an eternal reason to write. As is writing for the joy of writing.

Third, historical impulse. Orwell referred to people who “desire to see things as they are… and store them up for use of posterity.” This phrase makes me think of investigative journalists and historians who seek out new information — by asking questions or digging through archives — that have never been put on the internet. The long-term career prospects for investigative reporters seems quite good, at least until robots become more proficient at navigating the real world. 

If you’re a writer who feels “threatened” by AI, then I think there’s a real argument to be made that you should stop remixing existing material (like writing about science papers and so on), and instead do original reporting and research. Go to your local library, talk to researchers, and publish information that has never been published before.

And lastly, political purpose. Orwell used “political” in the widest possible sense: a desire to influence how people think about society, justice, or fairness. But I interpret this, even more broadly, as a desire to influence the world. In the decade or so that I’ve been writing, I’ve seen how a single blog post can alter the trajectory of a person’s life, or the movement of an entire field. 

In 2023, for example, I helped launch a writing fellowship called Ideas Matter. The first paragraph of our announcement gave several examples of how writing can shape people, startups, and scientific fields: 

Words are the best way to turn ideas to realities. Writing on the internet helped Dan Goodwin raise millions to launch a climate biotechnology nonprofit. One-off blogs have formed the ideological basis of startup companies. The Not Boring blog grew to 60,000 subscribers and then raised $8 million to launch a venture fund. An article in STAT (which Sharon Begley spent more than a year reporting) about an “Alzheimer’s cabal” questioned, and then shifted, the priorities of a research field.

So why should you write, and why am I pressing on with this blog, despite my worries about AI? 

For the same reasons that Orwell wrote. I’m writing to uncover new details about the world — ideas that have never been published on the Internet. I’m also writing to remain human, to seek legacy after death and, ultimately, to change your mind.

Until next time,

Niko McCarty

George Orwell, my literary hero.