I keep finding myself thinking of this observation from Paul Graham:

“In preindustrial times most people’s jobs made them strong. Now if you want to be strong, you work out. So there are still strong people, but only those who choose to be. It will be the same with writing. There will still be smart people, but only those who choose to be.“

To reiterate from a previous post, quoting Keep the Robots Out of the Gym:

Think very carefully about where you get help from AI.

I think of it as Job vs. Gym.

• If we’re working a manual labor job, it’s fine to have AI lift heavy things for us because the actual goal is to move the thing, not to lift it.
• This is the exact opposite of going to the gym, where the goal is to lift the weight, not to move it.

He argues for identifying gym tasks (e.g. critical thinking, problem solving), and for those use just your brain (with minimal AI assistance, if any).

My primary metric for this is whether or not I am getting sharper at the skills that are closest to my identity.

“People will forget you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” — Maya Angelou

I’ve reflected on this maxim countless times over the last couple of years, as I’ve considered the relationships I want with AI—particularly with notional creative partners. I want a partner who cares—who (which?) actually takes the time to get to know me, asking thoughtful questions, noodling on answers, and genuinely taking my feedback to heart.

I thought of this while listening to Stewart Brand talking to Ezra Klein the other day. Check out this poetic & provocative passage:

Well, it wound up that, basically, most of the book is Chapter 2, “Vehicles.” And the land vehicle that humans have used for 6,000 years is a horse, and the horse takes a lot of maintenance.

I’ll read something here from the book, if I may. There’s this philosopher named Albert Borgmann who wrote:

You cannot remain unmoved by the gentleness and conformation of a well-bred and well-trained horse — more than a thousand pounds of big-boned, well-muscled animal, slick of coat and sweet of smell, obedient and mannerly, and yet forever a menace with its innocent power and ineradicable inclination to seek refuge in flight, and always a burden with its need to be fed, wormed and shod, with its liability to cuts and infections, to laming and heaves. But when it greets you with a nicker, nuzzles your chest and regards you with a large and liquid eye, the question of where you want to be and what you want to do has been answered.

And I end with: “I wonder if that might come again someday — a vehicle that cares back.”