Please write

Dear Designer,

There has been a lot of writing about writing lately.

Substack, a social paradise for so many remarkable writers, is making it easier for authors to demonstrate that their work is theirs by introducing a new AI detection tool. LinkedIn, your friendly corporate social platform, introduced a new system to mark potential AI slop as “seems like AI slop”.

The Atlantic’s cover story (gift link) this month is about one end result of writing — reading — which the author says is "ending". And New York Times opinion writer Bret Stephens is pleading for us (gift link) not to write with AI.

By many indications, AI writing makes up 50% of the internet already. It was recently revealed that more visitors to websites are bots than humans. So it’s understandable that these institutions — American media and publishing platforms — are addressing the issue now, before “artificially intelligent” slop becomes, well, 99% of the internet.

Let’s set aside the question as to whether newly deputized AI tools can actually police AI. Let’s set aside whether Substack, LinkedIn and Snapchat (also newly trying to curtail AI slop) will survive over the next few years.

Why is all of this commentary happening?

Because writing still, in fact and in deed, matters. And if we humans are to matter, it matters more than ever.

But perhaps a more relevant question is this: in a moment when written content is ubiquitous and reading is on the downswing, why write at all? And, more specifically, why should you write, dear designer?

George Orwell offered up his own four reasons for writing, one year after World War II. Here are four that I hope might resonate with you. In each case, I am referring to writing as a sustained effort — a regular activity that, while it may be occasional, is not recreational. In other words: writing as a practice, a means of endeavour, a form of production and divination.

First, the act of writing is for you. It is a means of giving yourself the precious time to reflect. Yes, you could also smoke a cig, have a drink, go for walk, or do some downward dog. You could draw, dig, game, gawk or golf. There are plenty of opportunities for down time. But writing is one of the very few modes of personal experience in which the creative and emotional output exponentially outweighs our physical effort. Whether it is short journaling or long form blogging, writing offers us weirdos a way to say what we want to say in a way that we want to say it. And it is a form of communications that lasts.

No one but you sets the terms for your own writing. And when you offer yourself those terms — the structure, format, voice, audience, etc. — writing is an exercise in decisions, concision, concreteness and culling. Like the practice of design, you are training your mind to work within constraints in order for your work to be freed. Further, and perhaps more importantly, writing, particularly in public, trains you to take emotional risks — allowing you to open your heart in a way that visual communications cannot.

Second, writing during a time when our design industry is in flux is an act of personal and political defiance. It is a form of alliance and allowance, a way to argue for what is good or right about the world, or alternatively, a way to rage against the new machine. It affords us a personal spear to throw at those powers that seek to deny our autonomy and our desire to be free of corporate and government interests. Independent writing, whether it’s on a blog, a book or a platform, gives us a little bit of voice, and therefore power, in a sea of growing contagion and crack.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of working with many younger designers. Whether they were in college, at university or just graduating, most have asked that singular question: what can I do to stand out in a field of thousands? There is nothing like a crazy-beautiful portfolio of excellent work, well presented; in my opinion, an incredibly strong portfolio can get you 50% of the way. But along with curiosity and simple kindness, one way to clearly stand out as a designer is to be a writer. Designers who write think. Designers who write relate. Designers who write resound.

Rose Horowitch, in the above Atlantic piece:

If AI writing is pleasing and convincing, however, it is also unoriginal, often inaccurate, or both. People will therefore need their powers of discernment and comprehension more than ever. They will need to know what they think and how to make their own judgments. These are the exact skills that the use of AI threatens to erode.

I know writing does not come naturally to many designers. In Canada and the U.S., designers’ formal and informal education often denies them the chance to develop a writing practice that is entirely their own. (Art history courses are some of the first to be cut – and writing about art lends itself well to writing about anything.) Yet graphic designers are gifted observers of the natural, social and political world. They know how to describe or transcribe through visual or oral means. Writing is another form of description and transcription and I think visual communicators can also be naturally gifted writers.

Third, writing, especially in public, is an act of “sheer egoism” according to Orwell (and me, lol). Designers, despite their shy demeanour, want to be seen and heard. Your portfolio, your social accounts, whatever — these are not just a presentation of work you did for others (instructors and bosses). They signify you. They represent you. Writing gives you a chance to show off your cleverness, your credibility and your charm. Writing in public creates dimensionality in a way that pretty pictures (and vivid videos) cannot. It rounds out your reality for others.

Fourth, writing as a practice is an act of describing our internal world and external place in it. Like all art-making, including graphic design, writing is a way to formalize experience. Orwell called it “aesthetic enthusiasm,” a term Larry David would perhaps appreciate. In writing, words become connected and whole, strung together with new intention and purpose. They describe what is or what could be, or they open gaps in the universe to briefly peer inside. Words traffic in trauma but they also help us see the beatific and the blissful. Words are silent sounds. As designers who type, we visualize the power of letters becoming words becoming sentences becoming paragraphs becoming pages. The fonts we love become even more revelatory. Writing is a formal act of witnessing what is wonderful and a way to wonder about what we are witnessing.

In the coming weeks, I will write more about writing. I’ll discuss how I write and some of the tools and techniques I use. I’ll also call out a few designers who write. If you’re one of them, let me know.

Wishing you a good week ahead.

Yours,

P.S. My introductory coaching package is available until September 1, after which pricing will go up. If you have any questions about how coaching might support you, please reach out.