Cycle II: Coming of Age
The Hidden Life
Authorship Interference 2-4 (v1.00)
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan
Consent (The Ticket)
This piece is about AI, authorship, tools, art, command, and the stupid modern problem of having to explain that letting a machine near the dirty, filthy rough parts of a draft does not make it a participating partner in what the art becomes.
If you are looking for a confession, a purity test, a tech sermon, or a little morality play where I throw my tools into the fire and promise to suffer correctly, you are going to be disappointed.
The first piece showed the voice was already there.
The second showed the person making worlds was already there.
The third showed the judgment over what survives is still mine.
This one is about command.
If it starts to feel like I am making too much out of writing, memory, technology, and whether a person can survive the systems that keep translating him into something smaller than he is, welcome.
That is kind of the whole thing.
— Zan
Scene (The Ride)
I.
“So, Zan. Did AI write this for you?”
That is the lazy, shallow question.
The what-the-fuck, did you read the last three Interferences? question.
The more sensical question, and the one I actually give a shit about, is:
Who stewarded the meaning, and who answers for what survived?
That is the only question I care about when the work begins in my life, passes through my fingertips, and becomes part of the record I am trying to leave behind.
I am not using the machine to write my life for me.
I am using it to help me make the life I already brought to the piece clearer, sharper, and harder to lose in translation.
The machine can make language. That does not mean it knows why language had to happen.
The machine can arrange a sentence. That does not mean it can answer for the sentence.
The machine can imitate confidence, grief, tenderness, authority, intimacy, restraint, and whatever else people keep mistaking for a self.
But imitation is not command.
And command is where the human being either shows up or gets fucked.
AI is much better at replacing the work of arranging language than it is at replacing the person who knows what the language is supposed to mean.
A lot of good people will get hurt by bad systems. A lot of working people will be punished by ignorant executives who think “good enough” means “cheaper than human.”
A lot of artists will have their work scraped, flattened, copied, digested, reassembled, and thrown back into the world with the soul removed and the rough parts improved.
We are already watching versions of this happen everywhere.
Coding makes the point, and I have enough experience there to know.
A machine can spit out code faster than a person can type it.
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it looks like it works. Sometimes it creates a mess that only someone who actually understands the system can catch before the bill arrives.
A tool that can produce faster than you can inspect is not a replacement for judgment.
It is a test of whether judgment was there in the first place.
That is the part that is easy to skip.
I am talking about the deeper thing under all this Tower of Babel panic.
The part where AI reveals how much of what gets called writing was really just arranging language into an acceptable form.
Formatting.
The acceptable arrangement of words in an order that made a person sound employable, wise, desirable, safe, serious, interesting, obedient, edgy, caring, professional, emotionally available, or like they knew what the hell they were doing.
AI did not invent that.
AI made it faster.
More confident.
More available to people who do not know what they are actually trying to say.
And that is the danger.
Not that the machine can arrange language.
The danger is that too many people mistake arrangement for meaning.
II.
The machine knows patterns.
I know what the words are supposed to carry.
That is not ego.
That is the job.
A machine can recognize the usual path through a sentence.
It can make a rough passage flow better than it did. It can catch grammar. It can point at structure. It can give me a fast read when I have stared at the thing so long that the page starts looking foreign.
Yay.
Technology.
It does not know why a joke can sound funny and still be dead to me.
It does not know why a sentence can be technically better and still need to be removed because it is cringe as fuck.
It does not know why the ugly phrasing sometimes has to stay because the smoother version is not how the fuck I talk inside my own head.
It does not know why I can read one word and feel the whole paragraph stop being mine.
That is not abstract to me.
That happens to me.
All. The. Fucking. Time.
Not a typo.
Not a grammar issue.
Worse.
“An improvement.”
The kind of thing that should be fine if all I wanted was readability.
The kind of thing that makes the line smoother and the work worse because suddenly I cannot feel myself thinking through it anymore.
That is when I have to get the artificial mouthpiece out of the way and take my voice back.
The obvious slop can be easy to spot, at least for me at this point.
I see it.
I cringe.
Delete.
Done.
That is not the static that worries me.
What worries me is the sentence that almost works.
The one that makes the paragraph easier to read by making me less present inside it.
The one that sounds like me if I were being imitated by someone who had heard about me but never actually read me.
Because sometimes the machine does not ruin a sentence by making it worse.
Sometimes it ruins a sentence by making it more acceptable than it should have been.
A little calmer.
A little clearer.
A little less zealous.
A little less me.
And… there it is.
“The improved version.”
The one that would probably get through the door faster because it removed the thing in me that would have made someone skip the gift shop and just leave.
No.
Out.
That is not revision.
That is laundering.
I am not trying to make the work sound like it passed inspection.
I am trying to make it readable without hiding the truth about who dragged it here.
III.
The more I use AI, the more it pisses me off.
That is probably the opposite of how this story is supposed to go.
They want heavy use to mean dependence. They want the machine to become a little god, a fake friend, a secret author, a replacement mind, a shortcut for people who don’t know how to explain themselves in written form.
That is not what happened to me.
The more I use it, the more I see its habits.
The repeated words.
The fake balance.
The careful little sentence that sounds like it came from a person who has never had to mean anything worth a damn.
Sometimes it helps.
Sometimes it makes me feel alienated from my own draft.
That is why I read again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
That is why I check.
That is why I push back.
That is why I ask the same question from three angles when something feels off and I cannot yet name what the hell is killing my voice inside the piece.
Not because I think the machine is, cue up spooky music, alive.
Because I know I am.
I do not use AI because I think it knows me.
I use it because I know when it does not.
That is the method.
AI is not where the work comes from.
AI is one of the places I test whether the work is still arriving as mine.
IV.
People talk about AI like it created fake language.
No.
Marketing did that. Corporate life did that.
The human need to sound more stable than you feel in an email did that.
The “hope this finds you well” industrial complex did that.
AI did not invent empty language.
It made empty language easier to trust.
People were fake before AI.
People could sound full of shit while being empty before AI.
People were borrowing voices, borrowing morals, borrowing outrage, borrowing wisdom, and borrowing “authenticity” long before the machine learned how to make random people sound like dead literary authors.
AI did not hollow the language out.
It made the hollow version faster, smoother, and harder for lazy readers to detect.
That is the problem.
Not the tool.
The absence.
AI is dangerous because it can make absence sound present.
The machine can make a person sound like they arrived somewhere in themselves.
Like they understand something they have not actually carried yet.
That is the part worth fearing.
Better language can save a person from being ignored by people who confuse typos with intelligence. Better language can make a messy thought readable. Better language can help the thing survive the trip from the mind to the page.
The danger is when better language becomes a mask for a self that has not been built yet.
A person can ask the machine for wisdom before they have paid for wisdom.
They can ask for tenderness before they have learned care.
They can ask for authority before they have earned trust.
They can ask for a voice before there is a history behind the sound.
That is not writing.
That is a shortcut around becoming.
And the shortcut is where the lie starts.
Not in the tool.
In the person asking the tool to stand where a life should be.
That is not what I am asking the machine to do.
I am not asking it to make me sound like I lived.
I’m living it.
I am asking the machine to help me keep up with the consequences of that.
I do not use AI to become more than myself.
I use it so less of myself gets lost on the way out.
V.
You know what grinds my gears?
This new “AI-assisted” phrase people reach for when the slop is not obvious enough to feed the pigs, but the sentence feels too clean to have been dragged through the piece with blood and bone.
I know people want a cleaner term for this.
AI-assisted.
Machine-aided.
Augmented authorship.
Please.
If all you mean is that AI was somewhere in the process, fine.
That tells you something about the tools.
It does not tell you who authored the work.
Most of the time, for me, it is the latest version of Clippy.
More useful.
More personality.
More dangerous if left to its own devices.
Still something I am using to make the sentence less broken, not something I am asking to live my life retroactively.
If I use Google to check a detail, I did not write a “Google-assisted” memory.
If I use spellcheck, I did not outsource my childhood to Microsoft Word.
If I type instead of writing by hand, the keyboard did not become my co-author because the letters showed up in a font people could read without needing to decode my handwriting.
The tool affects the form.
The tool affects the speed.
The tool affects the friction.
It may change what becomes possible because less drag can mean more of the thought makes it out before I lose the thread.
But the tool is not the source.
The insulting part is not that someone might ask whether I used a tool.
The insulting part is when they act like the tool had more to do with the life than I did.
That is where the stupidity gets personal.
A tool can fix the spelling.
It cannot own the scar.
The machine can help me inspect the road between the thought and the page.
It cannot become the reason the page exists.
Because it does not know me.
And yes, maybe some version of my words is sitting in a data center teaching the machines how to talk more like people.
Still not the same thing as knowing me.
Still not the same thing as being the reason the page exists.
That is the difference between assistance and authorship.
VI.
I am not pretending AI is useless.
Useless would be easier.
If it were useless, there would be no argument.
This is not an anti-AI piece.
The problem is that it is useful in exactly the way a dangerous tool is useful.
It can save time. It can catch breaks. It can show me where the thought is not working outside my head. It can reflect a version back at me and make me realize why that version is false.
That is why I do not trust it casually.
A useless tool can be ignored.
A useful tool has to be watched.
This is how I actually use it.
I bring the draft.
I bring the memory.
I bring the lizard-brain version.
I bring the structure, the rhythm, the argument, the wound, the joke, and the intent.
I am not asking it to invent the work.
I am asking it to help me examine the work I already brought.
To catch what my speed broke.
Missing words.
Rough flow.
The sentence that made sense in my head and came out half-baked.
The paragraph where the thought is there, but the reader would have to work too hard to find it.
My problem was never that I had nothing to say.
My problem was getting it out in a form I could stand behind.
I have been writing for 25+ years.
I have wanted, in one way or another, to stand in the spotlight for longer than I have been willing to admit.
Not only as a writer.
I know I can do more than write.
I can talk. I can hold attention. I can be seen, begrudgingly, akin to Bigfoot.
But writing has always been the most personal, intimate, and precise way I have had to place myself where another person might actually meet me.
It is one thing to stand in front of one person and be seen.
It is another thing to stand in front of the world, in front of people I cannot see, and hand them the private part of how my mind makes meaning.
That is hard enough.
It gets harder when I have spent a life feeling that the imperfect parts of me stood between what I meant and what other people were able to receive.
The machine did not give me the need to be seen.
It helped remove some of the static between that need and the work.
Not the person.
Not the pain.
The interference.
That is part of why the tool motivates me.
Not because I believe the machine can make me worth reading.
Because I know the thing in my head has a better chance of arriving intact.
Spelling can be caught.
Grammar can be checked.
Flow can be tested.
Those things are useful. They are not authorship.
I am not making a fake version of myself easier to read.
I am making the real one harder to lose.
Bad grammar is not a blood test.
A typo is not a soul.
I paid for the pain by living it.
I do not have to preserve every mistake in the sentence to prove the wound was real.
I do not have to leave the work misspelled to prove I am human.
I do not have to make the reader trip over my speed so they can feel safer about my authenticity.
Mistakes can be evidence of a person.
They can also just be mistakes.
So I correct them.
Writing is not proving I can suffer through every typo by hand.
Writing is knowing what the sentence is carrying and refusing to let the better version drop the body.
The art is not reduced because I used the tools of my time.
It would be reduced if I let those tools decide what the art was allowed to mean.
VII.
The machine is not my editor-in-chief either.
I am.
That’s rare.
I mean, that matters.
The machine responds to the draft I bring it.
I approve, reject, rewrite, argue, cut, restore, and take responsibility for whatever stays.
If it passes under my name, that is not because the machine said yes.
It is because I did.
Or I missed it.
The opposite of AI slop is not “untouched human writing.”
Untouched human writing can still be awful. It can still be fake. It can still be dead on arrival and should have stayed private until the person behind it knew what those words were carrying.
The opposite of AI slop is not purity.
The opposite of slop is authority over what stays.
Taste. Refusal. Memory. Pressure. Responsibility.
The ability to look at a suggested sentence and say, no, that is not me.
The ability to look at an ugly sentence and say, unfortunately, yes, that is me.
The ability to know when a smoother version is lying.
The ability to know when a rougher version is just laziness.
The ability to know when the reader deserves a path through the mess.
The ability to know when the strange part is the evidence.
The ability to know that structured repetition like this now smells like AI-produced sludge and to keep it anyway because sometimes the pattern is the point.
That is writing.
That is art.
Purity has nothing to do with it.
It is deciding what the tools are allowed to do to the life, and what they are not.
I do not trust purity arguments.
Half the time, purity is just fear trying to sound noble.
Every art form has tools somewhere in the process.
The question is not whether the tool touched the work.
The question is whether the tool washed the person out of it.
A life never reaches the page untouched.
It passes through memory first.
Then language.
Then whatever mood, fear, pressure, need, joke, shame, or deadline is sitting on the person writing it.
Then revision.
Then format.
Then the reader, who brings their own damage to the room and calls it interpretation.
Something gets lost every time.
Something gets carried through when the writer is paying attention.
The point is not whether translation happened.
Translation always happens.
The point is whether the person survived it.
VIII.
Tone can be generated.
Voice has a history.
Tone is styling.
Voice is what keeps coming back after life, tools, formats, readers, failures, revisions, embarrassment, and time have all had their chance to make it sound hollow.
Tone can be borrowed.
Voice has receipts.
Here is one of mine.
I actually talk and think like this!
Not exactly like a finished piece, obviously.
But the words?
Yeah.
I know the fucking words I am using.
Stewarded.
Alienated.
Zealous.
Purgatory.
Those are not words the machine slipped into my drink while I was not looking.
Like, I know what they mean, man.
I would use words like that in an actual conversation, occasionally to the annoyance of people who don’t know them.
I would also, sometimes within the same general span of consciousness, say someone is full of shit, call AI a bitch, make a joke about being seen in public akin to Bigfoot, or compare writing to straining at the stool.
That is the problem with trying to define a human voice as one consistent level of language.
I do not have one.
Sometimes the larger word is the exact word I want.
Sometimes fuck is the exact word I want.
Sometimes they belong right next to each other.
I am not going to deliberately make myself sound dumber because a more specific word has become suspicious.
Fuck that.
People move between registers.
I sure as hell do.
That movement is part of the voice.
The serious thing.
The humorous thing.
The technical thing.
The intimate thing.
The ridiculous grocery list of things that show up in longer pieces like this one.
All of it has to answer to the same person.
That is why voice cannot be reduced to “uses big words,” “cusses a lot,” “writes long sentences,” “likes repetition,” or whatever other surface trait somebody decides belongs on the checklist.
Those are fragments.
They are not the person.
A machine can learn the fragments.
It can notice that I say certain things.
It can notice how long my sentences get.
It can notice the profanity.
It can notice the vocabulary.
It can imitate the surface.
But it does not get to decide that one part is authentically me and another part must be artificial because the two do not fit neatly together.
Neither does anyone else.
Sometimes the word is alienated.
Sometimes the word is fuck.
Sometimes the sentence needs both.
I know what I am saying.
Fush Yu Mang.
IX.
Even the machine’s feedback is not approval.
It is a semi-functional dashboard light.
It tells me what the machine thinks it caught, which is useful because the machine is already one of the asinine ways people are going to misread me.
But a dashboard can only report what it has been told to measure.
Give it the wrong conditions and the little light can be completely accurate about the wrong fucking problem.
I do not ask because I need permission to believe in my work.
My work is so fresh and so clean-clean it believes in its own self.
I ask because I want to know where the work is being read clearly, where it is foggy, where it is too much, where it is not enough, where it sounds like me, and where it sounds like a machine touched it and got a little too excited.
That is not asking the machine to grade my soul.
That is checking the instrument panel before I fly into a shitstorm.
Give something like this to AI with no understanding of The House of Zan and tell it to grade the piece as a clean standalone online essay.
Can you guess what it’s going to give back?
Too long.
Too repetitive.
Too many digressions.
Too much profanity.
Too many callbacks the reader is expected to understand.
Needs substantial tightening.
B.
Maybe a C depending on if it’s working from your personalized chat history or a clean slate.
Now, let’s ungrit my teeth and tell the stupid technology stack the actual assignment.
This is one piece inside a Cycle.
It is one of four Interferences that have been beating a dead horse into a recreational activity.
The repetition can be structural.
The callbacks can be evidence.
The digressions can be part of the record.
The music, formatting, artifacts, fiction, analysis, recurring language, and everything surrounding the piece change what the piece is being asked to do.
Same words.
Different evaluation.
A score or judgment means nothing until somebody defines what is being judged.
The art, in this example, did not magically transcend into something greater.
The machine did not suddenly become smarter.
I mean, it could have if they released another frontier model for the 8th time in the last year.
It simply got prompted the fucking assignment.
Yes, part of why I use the machine is because the machine is already part of how people read.
Sooner or later, someone is going to feed my work into a box and ask it to explain me.
Who is this?
What is this?
Is this safe?
Is this serious?
Is this art?
Is this AI?
Explain Zan.
That is not paranoia, man.
That is a realistic concern in a world already letting machines summarize people they never bothered to understand.
So yes, I want to know how the machine reads me.
I want to know where it belittles me.
I want to know what it misses.
I want to know which words become ticking timebobs.
Yes, I misspelled timebombs.
I saw it.
I am leaving it.
Why?
In Book 17 of The Odyssey, Telemachus sneezes at exactly the right moment and Penelope takes it as a sign from the gods.
I am choosing to believe my typo has the same spiritual authority.
Obviously.
Not because I need the machine to understand me.
Because I know other people may let it misunderstand me for them.
That is not surrender.
That is reconnaissance, baby!
X.
Maybe that is what this has always been about.
AI is part of it. Writing is part of it.
The larger fight is against being compressed into the easiest version someone else can catalogize.
Because that is what systems do.
School, work, family, memory.
The internet does it through labels, audiences, platforms, and search engines.
Obituaries do it.
AI does it too.
Everything wants the smaller file.
A summary.
A category.
A safe label.
Content creator.
AI-assisted blogger.
Too much or not enough. Weird. Unsafe. Interesting. Sad. Self-important. Confessional.
Brand. Body. Ghost.
No.
The reduced file is not enough.
The House of Zan spills well past “blog.”
It is autobiography, criticism, analysis, fiction, music, film, artifacts, site architecture, recurring language, frameworks, archives, community, and whatever else I end up dragging through the door.
If I have to reach for the obnoxiously large German word, Gesamtkunstwerk gets closer.
A total work.
Each piece has its own job, but it keeps reaching into the others.
Calling all of that an “AI-assisted blog” makes the category useless.
The larger the record, the more dishonest the reduction has to become.
That is part of why I build.
The whole map is there for anyone willing to look. Some will misunderstand it anyway.
Some people are committed to being stupid with confidence.
Let them have their hobbies.
I build because a good-faith reader deserves enough structure to find the person in it.
Not a content plan.
A fucking human being.
XI.
The fear is not that someone will notice the tool.
Anyone is allowed to look at it and be gobsmacked by its girth.
The fear is that they will use the tool as an excuse not to notice me.
That they will see the cleaned sentence and forget there was a person underneath it trying to get out without losing too much on the way.
Erasure.
The machine fucked around with some sentences.
Pretending the machine explains me is the lie.
If somebody actually wants to know what explains this, the machine is one of the least interesting answers available.
My movie collection is beyond six thousand titles.
My Xbox Gamerscore is measured in millions.
I maintain old game systems and then refuse to leave them alone. Caps. Boards. Updates. Repairs. Whatever gets the thing closer to the version I think it should be now, not when it was released.
I have been writing online for more than twenty-five years, including piles of material that are scattered, buried, gone, or no longer easy to connect back to me. I have hundreds of web development projects out there too, many uncredited, abandoned, disappeared, or simply lost to time.
I have been an ethical kink lifestyle Dominant for just about as long. That came with standards that were never about how much sex I could have, but whether I could be an important and stable presence in someone else’s life.
Apparently, I have been building command and preservation systems around what I care about for most of my life.
So, naturally, somebody eventually handed me a machine capable of producing nearly infinite alternate versions of something.
What the fuck do you think would happen?
Of course I started arguing with it.
Of course I started comparing versions.
Of course I found tiny differences that bothered me but practically no one else would care about.
Of course the supposedly faster tool became another way for me to make something take longer.
That feels considerably more explanatory than “AI wrote it.”
I seem to have built The House of Zan backwards too.
The sensible internet version would probably be to find an audience, identify what they want, make the content, optimize it, and scale.
I wrote an absurd amount of material.
Then I built a giant system around it, invented formats that gave me even more things to make, and eventually needed an architecture to hold all of it.
Somewhere embarrassingly late in the process, I started worrying about whether anybody would know it was there.
Not exactly a fucking content strategy.
I started trying to preserve myself.
The House is what happened when that impulse turned inward.
That is also why this moves painfully slower than slop.
If I wanted volume, I could have the thickest flow of slop you ever seen.
The machine can produce ten options.
I can reject all ten.
Usually because three of them contain whatever word it has most recently gotten stuck up its ass and ruined for me.
Dressed up.
Cleanly.
Landed.
Discernment.
Teeth.
Spine.
Shape.
Whatever little word starts that shiver inside me I can only describe as a cringe attack.
And no matter how much the Homer Simpson voice in my head says, “Come on. Come on! Just give ’em the slop and let’s get out of here,” I still do not give in.
Art is what happens when something living survives the process of becoming form.
I am not here to prove I never used the machine.
I am here to prove the machine never used me.
XII.
I have told you why I started processing my stuff through AI, right?
Oh, well.
Okay.
I guess I might as well here.
I mean, you’ve read this far, right?
For about two years, AI affected my real world in ways that caused me stress.
A lot of stress.
Like, you wouldn’t believe how much.
Someone I have been close with, very close, skin-tag close, started using AI to “role-play” any fantasy their mind could summon at a moment’s notice.
Sounds innocent, right?
Wrong.
So wrong.
It became an obsession.
I watched it swallow more and more of their attention until almost everything else had to compete with whatever scenario came next.
It caused major ripples through my world and the lives of other people around them.
This person became a living drone, aimlessly typing “stories,” “scenarios,” and “what the hell” into the app.
And all that token-burning required money.
More money.
On.
And.
On.
Until the thing that was supposedly happening inside a screen became a financial burden outside of it.
Eventually, the behavior around it stopped looking like somebody having too much fun with an app.
It looked like somebody who needed a fix.
When access, money, time, or the behavior itself was challenged, I watched the reaction change.
Agitation.
Resistance.
Escalation.
Call the comparison dramatic if you want.
I lived with it.
This went on for a long time.
It got worse.
Eventually I said enough is enough.
This cannot go on.
It is affecting them, me, and someone else who is even more important than both of us combined.
I was met with something I did not expect.
Let’s call it an altercation, for the sake of time.
Don’t worry, folks, I am still the victim in this story.
No grand reveal here that tarnishes the narrator.
I mean, imagine saying “stop” to a pack of scared elephants and how that would end up for po’ ol Zan.
Or imagine leaving things open-ended here and letting that create a new question.
A question much deeper than whether AI was used.
Who is the person using it?
And what are their true intentions?
So, you know.
Something I may have to answer to in Cycle III.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Anyway, plenty had already been building inside me by then.
This lit the fuse.
Okay.
This is going to go another way.
For me.
I started experimenting with AI.
Trust had nothing to do with it.
I came to it because I wanted to understand the thing that had already damaged my life.
In the “how can I make this actually do something useful without making me a shell of myself?” sense.
Well.
The answer to that is what you are looking at right now.
The House of Zan was born, in part, out of my hatred for AI and what I watched happen when it became central to the life of someone close enough to me that the consequences landed directly in mine.
At the time of this writing, I have been doing this, what you see around you, assuming you are reading this on my site, for the better part of a year, with no intent to slow down.
So if someone can be so vulgar as to look at all the time, pain, memory, argument, revision, and life I have put into this temple of my consciousness, this attempt to make art from my life that another person might actually be able to use, and reduce it to “AI wrote this,” I say no.
The machine did not create The House of Zan.
The machine was one of the things I survived long enough to make answer to me.
And that is, actually, rare.
Companion track: “Dare to Be Stupid” – “Weird Al” Yankovic
Aftercare (The Comedown)
Use the tool.
Just know what you are letting it do.
Let it catch the typo. Let it show you the broken sentence. Let it give you ten versions if ten versions help.
Then decide what survives.
Keep the strange word when it is the right word.
Keep the ugly sentence when cleaning it would remove the person who wrote it.
And if the machine makes the sentence cleaner while making you harder to find inside it, put yourself back.
Stay in command of what passes under your name.
Because once the tool starts deciding what you are allowed to sound like, it is no longer helping you communicate.
It is training you.
Cycle II · Authorship Interference 2-4
Query The Authorship Interferences
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