Chapter 1: The Beginning of a Nightmare

In 2014, my journey into the unsettling world of AI began after reading Nick Bostrom's Superintelligence. This thought-provoking book suggested that humanity might one day be outpaced by superintelligent machines, compelling us to confront the implications of our own creations. For years, every mention of AI ignited a wave of anxiety in me, particularly as I worked as a bartender in a bustling NYU scene, where conversations rarely ventured into such existential territories. While serving drinks and enduring the loud sing-alongs of "Sweet Caroline," I often pondered whether the struggles of an aspiring artist were truly worthwhile in light of humanity's trajectory.

With a mix of Tullamore Dew and Neil Diamond's cheerful tunes, I reassured myself that my fears about AI were unfounded. The future was uncertain, and it was unclear when AI would reach a level of sophistication that warranted concern.

Then came the year 2023.

Whispers from my screenwriter friends about ChatGPT’s capabilities piqued my interest. However, it wasn’t until the Writer's Guild of America strike—where members fought for protections against AI—that I decided to explore the phenomenon for myself. I asked ChatGPT to create a humorous scene featuring my favorite rapper, DMX, crashing a Latvian polka convention. The result was astonishingly quick and entertaining, making my stomach drop. Here’s a snippet from that scene:

DMX’s unmistakable growl echoed through the words:

"X in the spot, polka party 'bout to pop

When that beat drop, we goin' one, two, three, hop!

Latvians feeling it, I can see

There 'bout to be tsunamis in the Baltic Sea."

For fans of DMX, the lyrics come alive with his iconic voice. But what truly unsettled me wasn’t just the clever construction of the narrative—it was the realization that ChatGPT could be genuinely funny, a trait I once believed was inherently human. This left me feeling as though something precious was slipping away, although I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It evoked a familiar dread reminiscent of when I first learned of my father’s declining health.

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Chapter 2: Confronting My Past

My father's age at my birth—58—was a stark reminder of the generational gap between us. I often had nightmares of skeletal armies coming to whisk him away, knowing he was the only dad at the playground with age spots and thinning white hair. Although he maintained impressive health for his years, he often felt older than many of my classmates' grandparents. When teased about being a "mistake," I would counter that their fathers had likely not been prepared for fatherhood since the Truman administration.

However, like many elderly individuals, my father began to face cognitive decline. His memory faltered first, leading to countless chilly walks home after he forgot to pick me up from school. As his coordination waned, I had to adjust my pitching during our games to avoid injuring him. His driving style, which included colorful insults for other motorists, turned every ride into an adventure.

While I attempted to find humor in the situation, I was gripped by fear. I adored my father, a WWII veteran who broke stereotypes by choosing to stay home with us while my mother worked. Losing him seemed unimaginable, as he was intertwined with my very identity. I convinced myself that his signs of aging were benign, and I pushed thoughts of his mortality to the back of my mind.

Yet, during high school, his health took a turn for the worse. Doctors advised he would need a pacemaker to survive, but he shockingly refused, stating, "I don't want a goddamn machine keeping me alive." This felt like a betrayal, igniting a storm of sadness, fear, and anger within me.

What I was experiencing was anticipatory grief—the emotional turmoil faced before an impending loss. This psychological response is common among those with terminally ill family members, as we grapple with the reality of their mortality.

With my father's refusal to seek help, the reality of his health became undeniable. My family avoided discussing his condition, and I was left with a barrage of anxious thoughts: What would happen to me without him? Who would drive the minivan? How would we cope?

My family and I continued our lives, emotionally detached, until the day my father had a heart attack and passed away in my mother's arms.

Chapter 3: The Writer's Struggle

Being my father's son is central to my identity, but so too is being a writer. As I navigated my father’s decline, I began writing to process my experiences, despite struggling with the craft itself. Inspired by Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, I believed that with enough practice, I could master writing. I created a tally system to track my hours spent honing my skills, convinced that hard work could lead to success.

Over the next decade, I immersed myself in storytelling, reading extensively and dedicating myself to the craft. After numerous setbacks and challenges, I finally sold a screenplay to a major studio, a feat that felt monumental for someone with my background.

But the shadow of Bostrom's warnings loomed large. As AI technologies began to encroach on creative fields, I found myself increasingly uneasy. Companies like Cinelytic and Scriptbook were developing AI tools to analyze screenplays and predict box office performance, threatening the very essence of what it meant to be a writer.

As the reality of AI's impact on my profession set in, I experienced a panic attack. The creative identity I had cultivated was at risk of being dismantled. I felt powerless and angry at the industry for prioritizing profit over artistry. Writing had become a fundamental part of my being, and the thought of losing that connection was unbearable.

However, instead of succumbing to despair, I decided to pivot. I returned to school, earned a Master's degree in clinical psychology, and now work as a psychotherapist in Los Angeles, specializing in grief.

Chapter 4: Grief in the Age of AI

Today, I witness anticipatory grief manifesting among my creative peers and clients. Understanding this phenomenon has lessened its terror, akin to the relief of revealing a hidden monster in a horror film. While each grief journey is unique, I’ve gleaned valuable insights as both a griever and a therapist.

Grief can be viewed as a learning process, compelling us to adapt to life without what we have lost. One framework that can guide this journey is the dual process model, which emphasizes two core coping mechanisms: loss-oriented and restoration-oriented coping. The former involves enduring the emotional storm of loss, while the latter focuses on daily tasks and self-care.

Time alone does not heal wounds. It is essential to mourn while also engaging in new experiences to aid emotional adaptation.

So, allow yourself to feel—cry, yell, grieve. But don’t forget to embrace life outside those emotions.

Ultimately, DMX captured the essence of this journey in his song Slippin’: “To live is to suffer, but to survive is to find meaning in that suffering.” Navigating grief allows us to derive meaning from our losses, transforming our relationships with ourselves and the world around us.

Before gaining this understanding, I wandered through life, avoiding my emotions. However, through targeted grief work, I've learned to adapt to my father's absence in unexpected ways. I realized that had things gone differently, I might never have discovered my passion for writing.

Like my connection to my father, my relationship with writing has evolved. Since the moment I confronted my fears about AI, I’ve experienced a sense of relief. No longer confined by the pressures of screenwriting, I now explore various forms of writing for the pure love of it.

For many creatives, significant aspects of our identities will inevitably shift. It is no longer mere speculation. But reflecting on my father’s rejection of technology, I feel compelled to embrace change rather than resist it. Perhaps AI can be a catalyst for deeper creativity, urging us to redefine our artistic expressions.

As we face loss and change, let’s support one another through open dialogue and empathy. Together, we can explore new ways to exist in a world where machines do the work, allowing us to simply be.