AI Isn't My Co-Author, It's My Cognitive Bridge

When people see the words writing and Artificial Intelligence together, the pitchforks appear, and that wagon moves quick — fellow writers jumping aboard as it gains speed toward my slaughtering.

I get it. I really do. AI is unsettling, and it’s taking over the world in ways that feel intrusive. From music to print, AI gives those who aren’t creative a tool to use, which immediately adds insult to injury for already‑struggling artists.

I’ve loved writing my entire life. I once heard a quote that said if you wake up and the first thing on your mind is the same every day, then that’s what you’re meant to do. Now, as a mother, my first thoughts are usually about how exhausted I am and the never‑ending to‑do list waiting for me. But between that chaos, my mind still finds its way back to longing — for time, for quiet, and to write.

Growing up, writing was all I wanted to do. I had my fair share of teachers and friends tell me I had a gift worth nurturing, but the realities surrounding that dream made it impossible.

Before we keep moving, I want to put all the wild assumptions to rest. I have never used AI to outsource creativity or bypass the time and work it takes to write. I’m not on the bandwagon, clasping the Kool‑Aid — mostly because I dislike crowded spaces more than anything. And I’m right there with you: using technology to create and then passing it off as your own feels sacrilegious to those of us who’ve spent more than 10,000 hours on our craft and know the emotional rollercoaster we must ride indefinitely until it stops — its ending, success, and happiness.

I use AI to translate. Not language. Not synonyms. I use AI to help me navigate an audience saturated with neurotypical minds.

I write what I want to write — what comes naturally, what bursts from the seams and demands to be written — but that often means a lot condensed into a few paragraphs.

I have hyperphantasia and hypersynesthesia. If you’re not familiar, it basically means my senses have a mind of their own, and I see the world cinematically. I read for escapism, and my love of fiction probably developed when my young mind realized I could beam myself into the very pages I turned.

When I read, I can smell the scents being described. I can feel the wind, the touches, hear the voices, and with that, feel deeply the emotions of the characters. I have mourned many fictional friends because of this — genuinely grieving characters I journeyed with from the comfort of my bedroom.

I can sit in silence and envision a movie I’ve seen from start to finish as though I’m sitting before a screen. Hours behind closed lids or staring off into the ether as I camp out in my psyche and watch a private viewing of Twilight for the umpteenth time.

I view the world differently than most. And while I’m continuously intrigued and fascinated by the strange development of my brain, it has hindered me in more ways than I can count.

Most people think autistic individuals lack the capacity to feel, but that isn’t true. We’re so deeply empathetic that someone else’s horror, rage, or sadness can overstimulate us until we crawl into our havens and assume the fetal position with noise‑cancelling headphones in place.

But what does this mean for my writing? Get to the point, Emily — I know.

Like any author, I write what comes to mind and describe it in the way I understand it. That often means an oversaturation of imagery, poetic prose, and descriptive language.

You need to write to be a writer — but what is a writer without readers?

Artists display their work because they want it to make people feel. Writers are no different.

There are different types of readers. Some love commercial fiction — easy to read, easy to understand, enjoyable. Some love nonfiction, annotating and contemplating facts and details. And some love literary fiction — depth to the point of mental fatigue.

My writing falls into the latter.

I describe everything — the particular shade of green in the grass, the direction the wind travels. It’s heavy stuff. It’s for those who enjoy poetry and lyricism, which is not the masses.

So how do I use AI?

Simply. I write, I edit, and then I copy and paste the chapters into Copilot and ask:

“Can you please read this and compare it to other books in the genre that have been successful?” “Can you highlight areas that may be overwhelming to a reader?” “Can you give me a breakdown of what the story told you?”

And Copilot answers.

I look at the information — the comparisons to other titles and why they compare, the highlighted sections that may be too dense or busy for average readers, and the summary of the writing and whether the story I’m telling is clear.

I take this information and edit — or sometimes not — accordingly.

I don’t understand the average mind. I don’t understand what makes people tick, and I’m alarmingly blunt. All of this translates onto paper.

Before Copilot, I would write and receive rejection after rejection — the same notes about harsh tone, exaggerated description, complicated world‑building, constant shifts in direction. Readers couldn’t see the circle back around because they’d already lost interest somewhere in my three‑paragraph description of an ant.

If I had an agent or editor — or the funds to acquire one — I’d use them. But what is an autistic person supposed to do when they can’t find a human to help them communicate with the audience they’re trying to reach?

Artificial Intelligence is the closest thing I have to informative, constructive criticism, with access to information that helps me understand the way people read and work — and how to connect with them.

It’s my cognitive bridge, and I refuse to feel guilty about it.