The Joy and Misery of Writing

A tell-all snippet on writing The Myth of Artificial Intelligence

sitting in a coffee shop crying

Hi everyone,

I want to switch gears and post an account of the trials of writing my last book, The Myth of Artificial Intelligence. This is a departure from typical Colligo posts, and I hope you find some humor or even value in it. It’s pretty much verbatim true. My hope is that young or first-time writers who are wishing it would be easier to get into this game can benefit by seeing it’s not often easier for anyone! The point is to do it. I repeat: the point is to do it. Just start. I’d love to see more people writing what they’re passionate about. We are not ChatGPT.

Also, I should say I had a very positive experience working with Harvard University Press, and the hand-wringing waiting I mention here is pretty much industry standard. I’m also not entirely certain on the timeline between handing in the manuscript and publication as it seems like a million years ago now (it was April, 2021).

Finally, follows a blurb without an intro—I just start in midstream, at the point where I’ve returned from Europe after a two-year stint. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think.

Erik J. Larson

The Return from Europe. The Manuscript. The Pain.

So I get home—my family home, where I grew up—and it's just obvious that I'm in some sort of blue pill/red pill thing, and the desirable pill I'd already consumed overseas. This was the other pill. My parents by this time are in their mid (Mom) and late (Dad) 70s. They have this almost robotic routine of getting up at the same time, getting the coffee, Dad goes for the YouTube project on the TV to watch how-to's of flying drones (he's an ex-airline pilot). Mom does weird crafts and volunteers at the church. In the summer she's out painting something or pulling weeds or planting flowers. Dad, until recently anyway, mowing the lawn. Doing more manly yard work. It's like groundhog day for them, but they're old. They like it. Mom loves having her boy back (I'm 47 years old); not sure about Dad. We managed.

I'm in the basement now. Living. Their basement. This is how I wrote the lion's share of the Myth. True, I wrote a decent chunk overseas (though much got trashed), in paradisiacal getaways like Podgorica, Montenegro and Varna, Bulgaria, with passable additions produced in cafes in Odesa Ukraine (this was, of course, before the war). I had a beautiful Ukrainian girlfriend. (I did. What do you want me to say?). She spoke good English but we worked on it, and I paid for her English classes when we were home in Odesa, and I paid for tutors when we were traveling. We'd live somewhere for a month—Montenegro, Bulgaria, Tbilisi, Georgia, the island of Cyprus. Eventually, we'd almost have neighbors.