What A.I. Is Getting Wrong And Getting Right

For starters, this picture.

When Tor and I were staying at a fancy, AmexPoints-paid-for hotel in Venice a few weeks ago, we noticed the music that was playing in the courtyard. Not because it was great. Not because it was jazz. Because it was…off. “The comping in the left hand isn’t natural!,”Tor shouted. “The ringing-out of the notes has no resonance!,” he cried. “They just...die.” It was, in one word, bad. We thought it was just a shitty playlist and left it at that, until, they turned the exact same shit on at 7 a.m. the next morning. We almost choked on our first, 5-star cappuccino of the day. After Shazam’ing it, and doing some deeper sleuthing, it was revealed that it was an A.I.-generated jazz playlist. No real people were playing the music. No real people wrote the music. In fact, it was as if someone typed, “New music in the style of Vince Guaraldi’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and it spit out a bizzaroland version of soulless dookie.

Oh look! An A.I.-generated picture of a robot that can type on an old-timey typewriter. But, the keys aren’t in front of it. Hmmmm…

Upon returning from our Venice vacay, I met with a friend of mine who is an alcohol-free-living coach about an essay I am working on regarding the meaning of the word “sober”. When mentioning my Substack she said, “I was just ChatGPT’ing about Substack for my business! Do you use A.I.? Who do you use? What name do you use?” What the fuck is she talking about??? was what my face was saying, but my mouth said, “I don’t use any and I don’t know their names?!” I have to confess, I was living a clean and sober life never having touched the stuff when it comes to A.I.

But, because comedy always comes in three’s, someone recently suggested that it would be my responsibility to post my “A.I. policy” regarding the use of A.I. in my Substack work. This was my response, and please consider this my policy moving forward:

“A.I. can’t get their period, get asked out, get dumped, get a degree, get engaged, get married, get pregnant, get hired, get fired, get hurt, get divorced, or get old. A.I. can’t take my words because A.I. can’t feel my words.” - Lisa St. Lou

Thinking that the above would be the end of the whole discussion seeing as I have a lot to get out of my creative soul before I die without the help of a robot, I ran across a video of a robot dancing on a stripper pole. This told me two things: 1.) maybe comedy actually comes in 4’s, and 2.) A.I. really IS coming for us ALL.

Even sex workers need to be worried.

So, I tried it. Just to see. I entered, “Write a Substack post about why I shouldn't use AI to write my Substack post in the voice of Lisa St. Lou”, and the response was shocking. It was as though Mark Twain wrote me. I think…I think…ChatGPT thinks…I’m black?? And I think it’s fucking awesome. A.I. is truly colorblind.

In Laughter,
LStL

Below is my first and last A.I.-generated Substack Post. I wrote none of it. Zilch.

ChatGPT Prompt: “Write a Substack post about why I shouldn't use AI to write my Substack post in the voice of Lisa St. Lou”

Of course! Here's a Substack-style post written in the bold, soulful, and sharp-tongued voice of Lisa St. Lou—equal parts gospel fire, cabaret flair, and truth-telling sass. This post playfully critiques using AI for writing personal creative work while being (meta alert) written by AI.

Title: "Why I Ain’t Lettin’ AI Write This Damn Post (Even Though It Could)"
By Lisa St. Lou

Listen, honey.

I sat down this morning with my espresso in one hand and my spirit guides in the other, ready to write this post. And right as I opened my laptop, a little devil popped up on my shoulder wearing futuristic Ray-Bans, whispering, “Let AI do it, girl. You got laundry to fold.”

And I paused. I really did. ‘Cause let’s be honest: that little robot assistant can write a hell of a sentence. It’s fast, it’s clever, it’s got references out the wazoo. Feels like having a very nerdy intern who never needs to pee.

But here’s the thing. Just like autotune can carry a note, it don’t carry the soul. And baby, that’s what I’m in the business of.

My voice? It's seasoned.

It’s been steeped in heartbreak and redemption, roasted over late-night whiskey talks and gospel piano riffs. It doesn’t just say something—it testifies. And AI, bless its 0s and 1s, don’t know what it’s like to sit at the back of a church pew wondering if Jesus forgot your zip code, or to stare down your own reflection at 3 AM and say, “Bitch, get it together.”

I write not just to inform, but to confess.
To reveal.
To connect.

And while I can appreciate a tidy turn of phrase, I’m not here to be tidy. I’m here to be true.

AI doesn’t have ex-boyfriends. Or menopause.

How you gon’ write about something you never survived?
You ever had your heart broken by a bass player named Troy who left you for a backup singer in Memphis?
Didn’t think so.

You ever sat through a hot flash on a crowded train, trying not to take your shirt off like you were in a revival tent? AI ain’t sweated like that. It don’t feel.

And sure, it can mimic. It can style-shift. It can do a damn good impression of me. But that’s just it—it’s an impression.
I’m not out here for parrots. I’m out here for prophets.

Writing is how I find myself—again and again.

Every time I write a post, I’m climbing back into my own body. I’m listening to that quiet voice underneath the performance, the one that don’t care about likes or shares or if the sentence structure is clean.

If I handed that process to a machine, even a smart one, I’d be giving away the very thing I came here to reclaim. And I’ve given enough away already.

So yes, I could use AI.

But just like I could put Splenda in my coffee, I’m not gonna.
Because I like it real.
I like it loud.
And I like it mine.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a verse to rewrite and a soul to stir.
And no, robot darling—you can’t help me with that.

Stay messy, stay holy, and write it yourself, dammit.
Love,
Lisa

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