Independence Day

 

July 4th: the day Americans collectively decide that freedom is best celebrated through grilled meat, minor explosions, and aggressively themed paper plates.

This time of year, every commercial starts the same way: soaring eagle, acoustic guitar, waving flag. Then a pickup truck drives through a wheat field in slow motion while a gravelly voice whispers: “This Independence Day, celebrate the American spirit.” Apparently, patriotism now comes with zero-percent financing and a free cooler.

Then there're the furniture and mattress sales. “LIBERTY SAVINGS EVENT!” You've gotta admit that nothing honors the founding fathers quite like financing a recliner until 2032.

And the food ads. Every burger on a backyard grill gets filmed like a cinematic masterpiece. Dramatic close-ups of ketchup dripping in slow motion like it’s a historical reenactment turn burger commercials into a patriotic documentary. And hot dogs. Why are hot dogs the official food of freedom? Why? Can we please find something that says “land of opportunity” better than mystery meat tubes consumed outdoors while balancing a paper plate on your knee.

And why are fireworks always sold in roadside tents that look one gust of wind away from becoming national news? Nothing inspires confidence quite like buying explosives from a folding table next to a handwritten sign that says: “MEGA COBRA DEATH ROCKETS.”

Also, can we discuss patriotic clothing? Every store expects me to buy star-spangled pants and shirts that say things like “RED WHITE & BREWS” or “PARTY LIKE IT’S 1776,” which is historically concerning because if we actually partied like it was 1776 we’d all die of dysentery before dessert.

Still, there’s something wonderfully fun about it all. Maybe it’s the collective agreement that for one evening we’ll all stand outside together, swatting bugs and looking upward while the sky explodes in patriotic glitter. Or maybe it’s just the cold beer. Hard to say.

Happy 4th of July, my fellow overheated freedom celebrants.

Now excuse me while I go spend 150 dollars on sparklers and bottle rockets … and assure my wife that no parts of the house will catch on fire this year.

Is AI learning from my writing or am I learning from AI writing?

 

Our writing is heavily influenced by what we're reading. We’ve always absorbed language from whatever we consume: 

• Read enough good writers and your sentences sharpen up. 
• Hang around surfers and suddenly everything is “gnarly.” 
• Spend six months on LinkedIn and your brain starts formatting thoughts into bullet points.

So, of course, reading enough AI-generated text has its impact, too.

Many people now spend their workday marinating in AI-assisted writing without really noticing it. Emails. Reports. Slack messages. Blog posts. Meeting summaries. Half the internet suddenly sounds like it graduated from the same customer service academy.

Consider the word delve which use to live primarily in fantasy novels and TED Talks. Now it’s everywhere, along with meticulous, comprehend, robust, and all the other strangely polished vocabulary that AI models love to spray around like scented disinfectant.

And it's not just impacting our writing. Researchers at the Max Planck Institute studied hundreds of thousands of hours of podcasts and YouTube videos and found that words generative AI chatbots like ChatGPT and Claude tend to favor are showing up more in human speech too. 

This feels both fascinating and dystopian.

Obviously, nobody wants to sound like AI ... but I’m not sure people realize how hard that’s becoming when AI writing is increasingly the majority of what we read.

It's a predictable loop: AI learned from us. Now we’re learning from AI. It’s like photocopying a photocopy until the edges blur.

The words don't really bother me. I understand that language changes. It always does. But the flattening is concerning.

Everything starts sounding optimized. Smoothed out. Sanded down until there’s no splinters left. Human writing has personality. Odd rhythms. Unnecessary detours. Now everybody communicates like they’re trying to pass a brand safety review.

Maybe this is just what happens when language gets filtered through machines built to avoid risk and maximize clarity. But clarity alone is overrated. So is polish. A lot of memorable writing is memorable because it limps a little.

Anyway. I’m trying to resist becoming a statistically probable sentence generator myself.

Though apparently I should stop saying “apparently.” AI loves that one too.

The Creative Brief

When an assignment is ready, the copywriter needs a proper creative brief. The creative brief is a template document that provides the critical information the writer must have to complete the job. It should include:

• The working title
• A 2-3 sentence overview of the purpose of the content
• A description of the target audience
• An explanation of what action the reader should take after reading it (specific call/s to action)
• The high-level talking points
• Additional secondary talking points (if applicable)
• Links to supporting research (if applicable)
• Keywords (if applicable)
• Approximate word count

A solid creative brief gives the writer context as well as specific instructions for creating the piece. The test of a good creative brief: if the editor, client, or company leader looks at the finished piece and says, “This is exactly what we wanted!” the creative brief is a smashing success.

Creative brief tip: Listen to the writers

Companies seldom if ever roll out perfect creative brief templates the first time around. However, by listening carefully to questions from the writers after they receive the brief, you will spot weaknesses; that is, things that are not clear.

 

I Miss The Mess

 

I miss when disagreeing didn’t feel like a freaking divorce.

You know, back when people could argue about anything -- God, ghosts, or whether Green Day sold out after Dookie -- and nobody needed a therapist afterward. When “you’re wrong” didn’t sound like “you’re dead to me.” You just disagreed, rolled your eyes, and moved on to splitting a pizza afterward. 

Back then, disagreement had texture. It was messy, human, and slightly exhilarating … sort of like a mosh pit for ideas. You’d go in swinging, come out sweaty, maybe missing a metaphorical shoe, but alive ... and maybe, just maybe, it would change something small in the way you saw the world.

Now every conversation feels like a hostage negotiation with emojis. Everyone’s treading on eggshells, smiling through their teeth, terrified that a single misplaced opinion might get them blocked, canceled, or excommunicated from the Church of Mutual Validation. The whole thing’s gotten sterile. Safe. Beige. Like everyone’s scared to leave fingerprints on anything.

I miss the mess.

We used to play with ideas. Now we handle them with tongs and rubber gloves.

I miss when words had weight but not explosives strapped to them.

I want the texture back. The push, the pull, the beautiful awkwardness of not seeing eye-to-eye. Conversations where everyone’s a little uncomfortable but walk away going, “Hmmm…”

I want the “hmmm.” Because that “hmmm” is the good stuff. That’s the sound of a brain stretching. That’s the soul of conversation.

I don’t want to live in a world where we all nod politely through life like bobbleheads at a stoplight. I want to argue with my friends about aliens, AI, and whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it does, fight me), and still share the pizza, pineapple or not..

Not everything needs to be resolved. Sometimes it’s enough to just wrestle with a thought together, scuff it up a little, and walk away still liking each other.

So yeah, I miss when disagreeing didn’t feel like a divorce. When conversation was a playground, not a courtroom. When being challenged didn’t feel like being erased.

We don’t need to win all the time. We just need to stay curious, stay kind, and feel safe to stay at the table when it gets uncomfortable.

So, let’s bring back the mess. Let’s argue, question, laugh, push, listen, and still split the pizza. Because maybe the best conversations aren’t the ones that make us right. They’re the ones that make us think.

Let's bring back the mess.