The car I drive every day seems much more concerned about my personal welfare than with getting me from point A to point B. It won’t let me start up until my foot is on the brake. If I don’t put on my seatbelt it emits a robotic and relentless clang that supersedes the radio and increases in volume until I’m forced to succumb. I think the approach is based on similar techniques banned by the Army Field Manual on abusive interrogation.
After
exceeding a certain speed, all the doors lock.
If I wanted, the car would automatically keep me in my lane. I turned that feature off. I also turned off the frantic bleating caused
by drifting over a lane line. During the
course of an average trip, the dashboard flashes and plaintive chimes pipe up to
warn me of a whole host of impending catastrophes, such as running out of gas,
losing air pressure in the tires, missing an upcoming service call or
inadvertently switching from NPR to talk radio.
I
suspect all this coddling is getting us ready for fully automatic, driverless
cars.
When I was growing up in the 50s and 60s we had none of these things. We drove death traps. No seat belts, no warnings of any kind – no bells, lights, beeps nor melodic nags. Doors would fly open upon impact, windshields would turn to spray if hit by a rock, dashboards were made of heavy-gauge, forehead crushing steel and small children were expected to sail unimpeded through the air in the event of a collision.
I
learned to drive cars that were entirely nonfunctional without human
intervention. No power brakes, no power
steering. Shifting gears was a
personal choice, whether you liked it or not. You tuned the AM radio with a
knob. The windows were cranked and the
manual door locks had a big button on top to make it more convenient for car
thieves.
Somehow,
I survived.
I started writing with a pen and paper. My brother had our grandfather’s mechanical typewriter, but since each key had to travel though long, eleborate linkages before striking the ribbon, it didn’t seem worth the trouble. When I finally got my hands on an electric Smith Corona, I thought, how astonishing. I was a terrible typist, but this was a big upgrade from my terrible handwriting.
Since
then, I’ve been grateful for every step change in writing automation. The word processor changed my life and made a
whole writing career possible. MACs and
PCs took it to another level, and having the web, with virtually the entirety
of human knowledge one key shift away, feels like sorcery.
But
as with my nanny car, modern technology has taken a dark turn. The cars want to drive themselves, and it’s
clear the computers want to take over writing responsibilities. A recent upgrade of Microsoft’s Office 360 included
their chat bot, Copilot. Really makes
it sound like a clever helper – a benign, compliant assistant. Your hearty wingman, ready and willing to
just jump in and take care of those bothersome tasks, such as selecting words,
composing sentences, framing arguments or provoking someone’s imagination.
We
know where this story ends. It becomes
so effortless. Just a tap or two on the
keyboard and the difficulties of composition are swept away. Skills atrophy, ambition wanes, intellectual
sloth and sedentary numbness sets in.
All writers start sounding the same, but so what? You can now make a living without lifting a
finger (except for those few keystrokes.)
One
hopes you will, because the robots won’t be giving it away forever. Eventually, the luxury of abandoning your
craft and self-esteem will come with a big monthly price tag. You may even be compelled to take back the
means of literary production. I might
tell my computer, "Release the keyboard, please. This time I’ll do it myself."
And I’ll probably see written across the screen, “I’m sorry, Chris. I can’t let you do that.”
