It’s Not My Writing That Reads Like AI — It’s AI That Reads Like Me
by Lloyd Lewis I’ve been writing longer than the internet has existed. Before we had “feeds” and “content,” there were typewriter ribbons, blotting paper, and envelopes sealed with spit and prayer. I posted my words, bound for editors who lived like mythical gatekeepers somewhere beyond the postmark. Then I waited — weeks, months — for the soft thud of a reply on the doormat. That sound was our algorithm: hope, silence, or the faint possibility of being seen. My first poem was about Christmas.
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