Month: January 2026

On a catchup call, I told my friend Nick Wignall how someone had trained an AI model to write blog posts in my style. It was a pure research exercise on their part. The idea was to train the tool on my past work, then give it the headlines and opening paragraphs of my 2025 posts. Could it generate the rest of each piece in a similar fashion?

I only compared a handful of posts from their AI versions to their originals, but I quickly concluded the writing suffered from the same uncanny valley effect as many AI-generated images: It all looks fine enough at first glance, but pay attention just a little longer, and something feels off. The AI would veer off in a different direction or end up making the opposite argument. It sounded confident where I would have been doubtful and vice versa. And so on.

The creator wanted to know if such a model—once it worked properly, of course—could be useful to me. I told him even if it worked perfectly it wouldn’t. Why? Because I don’t write a daily blog to crank out a post every day. If that was the point, I’d have switched to AI long ago already. I write a daily blog to make sure I remember how to think. It’s a daily practice for my brain. A creative ritual to strengthen my writing muscles. And a commitment to my readers. A promise that I’ll show up for them once a day. AI can generate output, but it can’t give me any of these benefits. The output is secondary. If it happens to attract new readers, all the better. And if not? That’s fine too.

Nick said my story reminded him of an interview with writer and Vox-founder Ezra Klein. Klein explained that, so far, AI hasn’t been all that useful to him. He uses it for light research or to structure some data, but that’s about it. Why? Because the writer doing the research is what makes the writing unique.

When you’re using AI as a writer, you’re “outsourcing the part of the work [you] need to do the most,” Klein believes. “Having AI summarize a book or a paper for me is a disaster. It has no idea what I really wanted to know. It would not have made the connections I would have made.” This is why reading actual books in full might now be more valuable than it ever has been: Only if you’ve seen every word will you discover insights and links an AI would never include in its average-driven summary.

Nick pointed out the same applies to a writer struggling when creating a piece. “When you’re stuck and sit there, thinking, trying to come up with what’s next, that’s the valuable part of writing. It’s tempting to use AI to remove that stuck-ness, but it’s basically cheating—and leads to a very different result.” AI is great at giving you a list of ideas. You’ll almost always find one you can plug in and keep writing. But is it the idea that needs to slot into this gap? Or just a bad piece of filler that’ll make for a fragile mental bridge most readers won’t dare to cross?

The more I think about it, the happier I am that AI is transforming the world of writing. In a way, I think it’ll make it even easier to stand out—because the more people take shortcuts, the less quality will remain for readers to flock to, even if the overall quantity of options is much larger.

Whenever technology makes it feel like you can avoid the suck, it’s most likely a mirage. The path behind easy only leads to the lowest common denominator. The real artists, fighters, makers—they stick with a truth as old as time itself: The suck is why we’re here, and only those who overcome it themselves will reap all the rewards of their hard labor.

For 2026, my one-word theme of the year will be “Make.”

Winemakers in Bordeaux. Artisanal baristas in Japan. Even Michelin-starred chefs on television—the list of instances when makers impressed me in 2025 feels endless. Of course, as a writer, most of the works that receive my deepest respect are books.

A few days ago, I tried putting together a special newsletter: 12 book recommendations including only titles written by people I personally know. To my surprise, I could actually name that many. I remembered I even made the acknowledgements for a handful of them. Wow! Simply knowing such a number of craftsmen and -women firsthand made me feel proud, let alone counting myself among them.

Still, for all the artful energy I managed to channel last year, I also didn’t publish another book, and, as a maker who works with words, creating books is my number one aspiration. In my annual review, I noticed this was a repeat mistake: I had the same complaint about 2024. These deserve special attention.

Granted, it was an eventful period. Transitioning from self-employed to the working world takes time, both physically and emotionally. And it wasn’t entirely for a lack of trying. I did work on books, but they’re more ambitious than the ones I worked on before. So those, too, take time. All I can do? Make, make, make—and then it takes as long as it takes.

“Make” means to create, to build, to form. To shape something out of something or, in some cases, nothing. But it also means to induce or compel. A maker provides both direction and momentum. She sets the guardrails, then lights the turbine that makes the engine go.

Making also means appointing. “I’ll make you the boss.” When you make things, you lift them up. You afford them a position of priority and willingly dedicate your attention to them.

“One plus one makes two.” When you make, you hope your efforts will add up. And pay off, too. “How much am I making?” we ask ourselves when looking at the fruits of our labor.

Yet, making also acknowledges we’ll never be perfect. “What make is it?” Each build comes with a model number and release date. It’s a snapshot of our best abilities at a given time. The next one will be better. That, too, is part of being a maker.

This year, I’ll make many things. Courses at work. Books in my writing. A marriage. Trips to various countries. New friends. An effort to stay in touch with the old. I don’t know how many of my projects will make it—but I do know that deep feeling of pride, respect, joy, and contentment whenever I ship or see other makers succeed. That feeling is worth protecting. It’s worth working for.

A few years ago, I chose a life of stories. “Move slow and make things.” “Make things that matter,” I reminded myself. In 2026, I want to heed those lessons and then some—because whether it’s marveling at skillfully prepared food, congratulating your friends on their published works, or toiling away at your own manuscript late at night, choosing a life of stories also means choosing a life of making.