I am not a morning person by nature, but I have come to realize that the most productive time to get things done is between 6:00 and 8:00 a.m. It was not always like this. At Boğaziçi University, I dreaded my mandatory 8 a.m. political science class – and, as much as I hate to admit it publicly, often missed it. In graduate school, I spent long nights at Columbia University’s gorgeous Butler Library, usually catching the subway home just as the sun was rising. Over time, though, I made peace with the fact that I work best in those first couple of hours of the day.
Nowadays, I try to make the most of that window by reading and writing in my small garden with a cup of coffee. I do not have a fancy machine, but mine grinds the beans fresh, which makes the ritual all the more pleasant. (Since I travel quite frequently, I’ve stopped buying magnets and started bringing home select coffee beans from wherever. So, on any given day, consuming a hot beverage simultaneously brings back memories.) This is the part of the day I try to keep analog. Inevitably, I still have my phone and computer nearby, but I half-successfully resist falling into dead scrolling on Instagram or, these days, even on my new favorite social platform, Nsosyal.
This morning, I was reading Hannah Lucinda Smith’s fine piece on José Mourinho and Nottingham Forest. In truth, it was less about football and more of an ode to the place where Hannah, who writes some excellent work for Monocle, came of age. And as I read, it dawned on me: I have missed this. I have missed original, human writing from a real wordsmith. (Let me also take a moment to recommend Hannah’s newsletter, Istanbul 34.4.) So much of what passes across our desks and screens today feels like ChatGPT: the neat trifecta of adjectives, the inevitable em dash, and then the contrast: Smooth, grammatically correct, even competent, but bloodless. A faint echo of real writing, stripped of personality and free of risk. (See what I did there? You know exactly where the last two sentences came from because you, too, dear reader, have used ChatGPT in your writing!)
At this point, I can usually detect when ChatGPT has made a near-total contribution to a report, a social media post or even an email. A machine can certainly arrange words into serviceable order. What it cannot do is capture the human impulse behind a metaphor or the mischievous turn of phrase that comes only from lived experience.
To be clear, I am not railing against technology. I use it as a tool, as an assistant, as a way to test phrasing or sharpen ideas. Sometimes it helps me find an idiom or proverb that has been stuck at the tip of my tongue. Other times, I ask it to read what I have written and give me feedback. But a tool should never be confused with an author. Writing is not simply transmitting information. It is shaping thought, revealing character, and inviting the reader into a shared space of imagination.
That is why Hannah’s article struck me so deeply this morning. It reminded me of the sheer pleasure of being in the hands of a skilled writer. Of hearing a distinct voice rather than a flattened one. Of being surprised, amused and provoked. We need that more than ever. In an age where sameness is the default, originality becomes a form of resistance. And for readers, it is also joy. So here is to the human wordsmiths: to those who sand the underside of the chair, who polish the sentence until it shines, who still believe in the quiet magic of good writing. May we read them, support them, and remember that while machines can mimic, they cannot truly write.
One more thing. I love the em dash. I have used it all my life with immense pleasure and joie de vivre. It is one of those small stylistic quirks – perhaps along with the Oxford comma, which ChatGPT has also ruined – that gives me joy when I write.
