This is human. That is machine.

 

What irritates me isn’t that AI can write. It’s that people are suddenly acting like writing was sacred all along. Like we’ve been protecting some great artistic tradition that, in practice, we’ve spent the last decade flattening into listicles, summaries, and keyword-stuffed oatmeal.

Now the oatmeal writes itself.

And everyone’s shocked.

There’s also this quiet panic underneath the conversation: this need to draw a hard line and say, “This is human. That is machine.” As if the label alone guarantees meaning.

But readers don’t experience writing that way. They never have.

They read something and think:

• Did this hold my attention?
• Did it give me something?
• Was it worth the minutes it took from my life?

That’s it. No moral philosophy attached.

Which is why this whole debate feels slightly off. We’re arguing about authorship like it’s the main ingredient, when most readers are just deciding if the meal tasted good.

Still, I don’t think this means writing is dead or that human voice doesn’t matter. If anything, it matters more … but in a narrower, sharper way. Because now there’s no hiding in competence.

If all you’re doing is writing clearly structured, perfectly fine sentences, you’re competing with something that can do that instantly, endlessly, without getting bored or needing coffee.

So the question shifts. Not “Can you write?” But “Do you have anything to say that isn’t interchangeable?”

That’s a harder question. And a more interesting one.

I find myself less defensive about AI than I expected. Maybe because it’s exposing something we’ve been avoiding: a lot of writing wasn’t as uniquely human as we claimed. It was just… adequate. And adequacy has a new competitor.

So no, I don’t particularly care if something was written by a person or a machine ... at least not at first glance.

I care if it makes me pause. If it nudges my thinking a few degrees off center. If it feels like someone, somewhere, actually meant it.

And that’s the part I’m not convinced can be automated.

Verbs > Adjectives

When you’re writing marketing materials, you can almost hear the adjectives whispering: “Use me,” they say: “I’m bold. I’m innovative. I’m world-class.”

And sure, they sound nice. Cushy. Soft-focus lens nice.

But adjectives are freeloaders. They hang around the page, puffing up their chests, doing absolutely nothing. They don’t change the reader. They don’t change the story. They’re the linguistic equivalent of putting sequins on a potato.

Verbs, on the other hand, walk in like they own the place.

Verbs shove the story forward. Verbs make your reader picture something happening. Verbs leave fingerprints.

You can ignore an adjective. In fact, the human brain is so used to marketing adjectives that it skims right past them, the way you skim past those long store receipts that list coupons you’ll never use.

But a verb?

A verb grabs your attention by the shirt collar.

Think about the difference between:

“Our platform is innovative”

versus

“Our platform reshapes how work gets done.”

One is a pillow. The other is a punch.

Verbs force you to get specific. You can’t hide behind them. You can’t paint a foggy generality and call it strategy. You have to decide what’s actually happening. What the product does. What the customer feels. What the world looks like after the thing lands in it.

And that specificity makes your writing harder to ignore.

Readers don’t want adjectives. They want action. They want motion. They want to see something change. Verbs give them that. Verbs are tiny machines that pull the reader forward, sentence by sentence, until they’re somewhere new.

So the next time you’re staring down that blinking cursor and the adjectives start whispering sweet nothings, remember: they’re not here to help you.

Reach for the verbs. Reach for the words that crack, shift, lift, shake, pull, deliver.

Write like your copy means business. Write like you want the reader’s brain to sit up and pay attention.

Your audience will thank you by sticking around for the next sentence.

And the next one after that.

 

アメリカのファストフード店

 

The Wendy’s matcha latte is cold and refreshing.

You can’t get a matcha latte in a Wendy’s restaurant in the United States. But you can in Kyoto, Japan.

Which raises the question: Of all the places to stop for a drink in Kyoto, why pick a US-based fast food chain?

Fair question. When traveling outside the US, the majority of my meals are local specialties … here in Japan: sushi, yakitori, ramen, onigiri, tempura, gyoza, and, of course, egg salad sandwiches from 7-11 (that’s another story).

But I also like to stick my head into the franchises from home to see how the menus have been localized. Such as, here in Japan:

The shrimp nuggets or edamame & corn at McDonald’s … the Spam & Cheese Burger or Peanut Butter Royale Burger at Burger King … the Wa-fu Chicken Cutlet Sandwich or Pepper Mayo Twister at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Maybe it’s the marketer in me. Maybe it’s a way of saying, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

_________________________

According to Google Translate, アメリカのファストフード店  is Japanese for "American fast food restaurant"

Why did the robot cross the road?

I stumbled across a video of a delivery robot stuck at a crosswalk. It wasn’t broken or confused. It was waiting for a human to press the WALK button.

It had already navigated sidewalks, avoided people, delivered a package like a polite little mule with Wi-Fi. But when it got to the road, it stopped and asked a human to press the button.

And the human got annoyed. Understandable. But was this the robot's fault? It didn’t fail, it just hit the edge of a system that was never built with it in mind. The short story: We keep building these eerily capable systems and then act surprised when they trip over something dumb we forgot to redesign.

So we keep getting frustrated because AI, or platforms, or whatever tool didn’t magically fix our workflow this week. “It doesn’t work.” “It feels off.” “It’s too robotic.”

Maybe.

Or maybe it’s our assumption that if you just add enough tools -- AI for writing, automation for outreach, analytics for everything -- you’ll eventually hit some kind of frictionless flow. But what you usually get is a faster version of a clunky system. We’re forcing new capabilities into old systems and acting surprised when it feels like wearing dress shoes to run a marathon

Consider this: If AI were actually native to how most people work, a lot of those workflows wouldn’t exist in their current form. Steps would disappear. Roles would shift. Some things we treat as essential would look unnecessary.

The robot getting stuck at the crosswalk isn’t the problem. It’s just pointing at one: We keep waiting for smarter technology, when what we actually need are systems that make sense for it.

_________________________

NOTE: The person's actual reaction/response to the robot will be the subject of another post.