As the AI revolution comes for jobs in all sectors, I've been thinking a lot about writing this week.
Writing is something a lot of us take for granted. To me, it is an art.
To a lot of people, it's a chore. It's something they gladly turn to ChatGPT or other AI services to do.
I take pride in the words I choose and the phrasing I come up with. I couldn't think of turning that over to a computer. It makes me cringe just thinking about it.
A lot of sports writing these days is getting passed on to AI to generate recaps from box scores, and as a kid who used to read the sports section daily or devour Sports Illustrated, I'm heartbroken that kids these days won't have that same appreciation for the art form. You describe a moment in such vivid detail, or with such clever framing, that the reader can close their eyes and see it plain as day, without having seen a second of the action.
I was at a conference a few weekends ago, describing to young journalists who were looking for advice about getting started in journalism. I talked about a few jobs, a few opportunities I lucked into.
I told them if writing is what you love, just do it. Keep doing it. Do it over and over again. Ask for advice from people in the industry, they were like you once. I wasn't a particularly refined writer or good with grammar in my early days, but I grinded.
I pushed and pushed because I loved writing. I loved telling stories. I loved being able to paint a picture with words or describe something in perfect detail.
The truth is, my passion for writing started long before I had my first opportunity in journalism.
Best I can remember, the journey started when I was in Grade 6, when I wrote a book report for my teacher at the time, Mrs. Hewitson. I don't really even remember the book or the assignment parameters, but I remember I got a 98 per cent on it and a glowing review. My parents were so proud. They were both teachers, so seeing me excel in school was of particular importance to them, even if at that time my dream was to become a professional athlete (didn't quite pan out).
I'm sure my parents still have the paper in a box in their basement.
On that day, somebody believed in me and told me I was good at something. Years later, I'm sure that was just a moment in time for a teacher trying to get a batch of assignments marked and off her desk.
There were trials along the way, like when my Grade 9 English teacher, Mrs. Masters, told me I should I could consider applied English in Grade 10 (university was the top level of English, applied or college was the step below in Ontario at the time). She was so old school. Made us cursive write an essay, single-spaced on both sides of the lined piece of paper. It was agonizing to finish. Don't even remember what the assignment was about.
But that slight stuck with me. Sometimes it just takes one hater to inspire a pursuit.
Despite that criticism, I felt writing, for some reason, always came naturally to me. Arranging my thoughts in a group of sentences that flowed and sounded good worked more often than it didn't.
It's always been something that when I saw the topic, the words came together. And it was enjoyable for the most part.
That turned into a degree in English Language and Literature, with a lot of late nights and calls back and forth to my editor at the time (thanks Mom). My first year English course, I don't even remember the subject, but I remember the passion for literature and how much I enjoyed debating books and their subject matter with my fellow students in seminars.
All that is part of the writer that I am today, but I really found my own voice when I was writing pieces on a blog I started called "The Sports Scribbler". Remnants of my horrible turns of phrase and questionable grammatical choices still exist in the quiet corners of the internet.
I remember posting the commentary on Facebook and, surprisingly, got a lot of good feedback.
I turned that into writing about Toronto Blue Jays prospects for a small website at the time, just for experience.
Jumping around from job to job, I quietly wondered if I could turn writing into a career.
Centennial College in Toronto didn't think so, but a little college a few hours away let me in and my passion for telling stories only grew.
My mid-20s was less about refining writing and learning to tell a good story. My parents aren't natural storytellers.
But I found friends in those years who were great storytellers. Could have you in stitches about a trip to the grocery store, just by the way they weaved the details.
I'm not great at it, but through osmosis, I learned a thing or two about how to tell a great story. And in some ways, that improved my writing immensely.
I try my best these days to write like I'm telling a friend a story at the bar. I don't rely on big words or fancy phrases, I think that's tacky and self-important. I try and get my point across as plainly as possible.
I'm sure it doesn't always land. I'm sure the picture isn't always perfect. But it's human and it's real and guess what, we're imperfect. Art is imperfect and I really hope it stays that way.
Byron Hackett is the Managing Editor of the Red Deer Advocate and Regional Editor for Black Press Media.
