Why AI Must Not Do Our Writing for Us
Personal Perspective: We cannot live through machines; they are not alive.
Posted February 8, 2026 | Reviewed by Lybi Ma
Since the advent of computer software capable of writing essays, I have noticed a sharp uptick in the technical quality of my students’ written work. For a long time, responding to such work involved a good deal of correction – grammar, punctuation, spelling, word choices, and the like. Today, this is rarely necessary. Did a machine create the work? It has certainly been proofread by one.
Am I thankful for this seemingly labor-saving turn of affairs? Not really, and the reason is this: Students seem increasingly inclined to regard writing assignments as requirements to be fulfilled, not as invitations to read, reflect, explore, and above all, to essay. The word comes from the French and means to try out, as exemplified by the greatest essayist of all time, Michel de Montaigne.
Montaigne, who had prematurely lost his life’s great conversation partner, La Boetie, understood that writing can be another form of conversation, of considering first one matter and then another from different points of view, attempting not to extract some all-purpose explanation, but to see the world and the human creatures who inhabit it in something approaching our full complexity and beauty.
When Montaigne set words to paper, he was inviting his reader to join him on an adventure, not unlike the one philosopher Michael Oakeshott had in mind when he wrote of conversation as an unrehearsed intellectual adventure. Writing is not merely a productive art whose value lies entirely in what has been written. It is also an activity. Its worth derives in large part from engagement in the exploration.
Why are we here? To produce widgets? To amass wealth? To assert our will over nature and other human beings? Or are we here, at least in large part, to act as witnesses, creatures who not only perform biological functions but also think about life? We are, in ways that other creatures seem unable to be, matter aware of itself, capable not only of intervening but also beholding and marveling.
Perhaps this is why Homer opens each of his two great epics with an invocation of the muses. He knows that the words come not from but through him, and that he requires inspiration if they are to come at all. The creative process is not so much a planned making as one of discovery and unfolding. We are like pilgrims on a path through something of which we are a small part but never the whole.
We are taught that the world is made up of matter and energy, that the most real thing in the world is an unyielding brick wall or a computer that purports to do our thinking, feeling, and living for us. But a moment’s reflection suggests otherwise. We are made up of, being made by, and continually remaking ourselves through words. The stories tell us what is, how it is, why it is, and where it is going, or at least the direction in which it should be moving.
In supposing that we can let the machines do the work for us, including writing our essays, we commit a terrible sin. We cannot outsource our thinking, feeling, and discovering, any more than we can outsource our lives. No one and nothing else can witness, participate, behold, or wonder for us, for if they do, or if it does, we abrogate our most essential responsibility, the one we bear by virtue of being witnessing creatures.
To be sure, a machine could probably write a better-than-passable love letter. Fed the appropriate information, it might craft one so effectively that it would win the heart of our beloved. As robotic technology improves, a machine might also prove more adept at kisses, backrubs, and caresses. Perhaps it could one day outperform us as a life partner. But to turn our lives over in such a way would mean turning over, and therefore giving up, life itself.
The students must write the essays, even if the technology can produce objectively superior work or garner a better grade. It does not matter that the machines might relieve them of distress or free up their time and attention for more worthy pursuits. Nor is it relevant that they can avoid work they find difficult or even pointless. No, they must write their own essays for the same reason they must live their own lives.
The ancient Greek philosopher Socrates expressed grave doubts about writing itself. If we read merely to parrot the ideas of others, without having done the work necessary to make them our own, then reading and writing short-circuit the process, like the travelogue of an explorer who never leaves home. The words must be grounded not in memory but in experience. Instead of getting them from a machine, we must earn them ourselves.
Words are wonders verging on sacred. We become the words, and we must take responsibility for finding them for ourselves, whether through reading, reflection, conversation, or writing. By discovering words and stories, we find new perspectives, occasions for compassion, and purposes in life. They enliven us, inspire us, and open up to us the true and beautiful, enabling us to be and contribute far more than we ever could without them.
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Richard Gunderman, MD, Ph.D. , is Chancellor's Professor of Radiology, Pediatrics, Medical Education, Philosophy, Liberal Arts, Philanthropy, and Medical Humanities and Health Studies at Indiana University.
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This article is part of the Bringwise Psychology Journal — daily insights on human behavior, mental health, and personal growth.