Somebody at church Wednesday night told me something I wrote on Facebook was labeled AI-created. Or AI-influenced. Or AI-something or another.
I laughed.
“Well, I use SpeakApp.”
And yes, apparently there’s some AI under the hood. I didn’t even realize that when I started using it.
I just knew the thing was useful.
I talk.
It listens.
Then it hands my words back to me.
That’s it.
I originally started using it because I’m a preacher and a hospice chaplain. Sometimes I need to remember exactly what was said. Sometimes the conversation is serious. Very serious. Sometimes I’m trying to determine whether somebody might hurt themselves:
“Do you intend self-harm? Do you have a plan, a tool, a device that could remove you from us or your pain?”
Words matter in those rooms.
So I started recording my thoughts and conversations when appropriate, then going back through them.
But somewhere along the road, I discovered something else.
I could write while driving.
Not typing.
Not staring at a screen.
Talking.
Like I’m doing right now.
SpeakApp is recording every word.
Later, I’ll go through it. Clean it up. Cut the fat. Straighten the crooked sentences. Make it sound like me.
I know exactly how I like to write. I love the voice of Pulp fiction. Noir.
Short sentences. Hard stops. A little thunder dripping off the edges.
Remember Mickey Spillane? That old noir style?
Somebody once asked me what pulp fiction writing sounded like. Years ago, before I started going to church, I used to give them this ridiculous example:
“She walked into my office. She was hot. Hotter than hot. She went through men like most men go through cigarettes.”
People laughed. They were supposed to. It was over the top. That was the point.
I wouldn’t write something like that today–too worldly. But I use it as a fairly good example of the writing style that I am most familiar with, the one that captures my “writing voice” and forges it into a hammer of vengeance when the need to make a point is paramount.
Pulp fiction writing isn’t trying to win a literary prize. It moves. Fast.
“He came through the door asking questions. I answered with my right hand. He wouldn’t be asking another one for a while.”
Swing the sledgehammer. Bang. Move on.
Bruce Willis could do that kind of thing on Moonlighting. Quick. Sharp. No wasted motion.
And frankly, I think that kind of writing works today because people’s attention spans aren’t exactly getting longer–thank you, X (the social media platform formerly known as Twitter).
So here I am. Driving down the road. I just dropped Vinnie off after chemo. I’ve already been doing chaplain work.
Now I’ve got to get home, grab my stuff, put on my little suit—the one that works for preaching and chaplain work—and head back out for a big meeting.
And through all of it, I’m talking. Capturing thoughts while they’re still warm. Before they disappear. Hands on the wheel. Voice in the App.
Because that’s the strange thing about writing. Every writer eventually develops what they call their “writer’s voice.”
You can study writing. Get an MFA. Get a PhD. Sit in classrooms and discuss “writer’s voice” until the coffee gets cold.
But this? This is literally my voice. My actual voice. Coming out of my mouth while I’m driving down the highway at 65 mph.
Then I take that spoken voice and hammer it into my writing voice. Cut a word here. Move a sentence there. Drop another one. Let a little pulp-fiction thunder drip down the page.
And then I post it.
So now I’m curious. What will Facebook call this?
AI-created? AI-assisted? AI-influenced? AI-derived?
Who knows? Who cares?
The thoughts are mine. The stories are mine. The experiences are mine. The voice coming through the microphone is mine. The machine just helps me catch it before it gets away.
And because of the voice recording, I’m writing more than I have in years. That matters to me.
Because I’m not sitting behind a keyboard trying to remember what I was thinking three hours ago. I’m catching the thought while it still has blood pumping through it.
I talk. I hit the red button. SpeakApp cleans up the dead air, the “uhs,” the pauses, the hiccups and coughs, and some of the verbal wreckage.
Then I go to work.
Sometimes I’ll even hear a preacher on YouTube say something worth remembering. I can capture the material, work with the transcript, and move what I need into Google Docs for my own notes and my own personal Bible study.
For a preacher, this thing is a toolbox. And don’t us guys just love tools.
A hammer doesn’t build the house by itself. A microphone doesn’t preach the sermon. A pen never wrote a book without a hand wrapped around it.
And software doesn’t have my memories.
It didn’t live my life. It didn’t drop Vinnie off at chemo today. It didn’t walk into hospice rooms yesterdays. It didn’t hold the hand of the dying patient, or lead that wayward soul into the Sinner’s Prayer. It didn’t stand behind my pulpit. It wasn’t there.
I was.
So call it whatever you want. AI-assisted. AI-influenced. Machine-polished.
I don’t particularly care. I’m still the guy behind the wheel. Literally.
And figuratively.
SpeakApp just helps me catch the words before they blow out the window.
Then I take them home… and make them thunder.
(Thank you, Jenny, for telling me that. I dedicate this blog post to you and our interactive Bible study questions at Wednesday Night Bible Study.)