Rambling to the Robot: Redux

On AI, Voice, and Why the Page Is Still Sacred

One of my earlier blog posts titled “The Proof of Love” reflected on the idea that love isn’t proven by its ease or its beauty, but by its persistence—by the way it endures disappointment, frustration, even pain. It was one of those essays that felt essential to write. Personal, honest, and, in my view, deeply human.

If you’ve been following my work, you know Jake—the sharp, untamed character who cuts to the bone, sometimes recklessly. Jake is loosely inspired, at least in part, by my friend, Cosmo. Like most characters in fiction, he’s a composite—exaggerated, stylized, and shaped by narrative needs. He’s not a stand-in for anyone. He’s a character, filtered through fiction, shaped by theme.

But the creative tension between Calvin and Jake? That’s real. That’s us.

So when Cosmo read “The Proof of Love,” he sent me a one-line message:

Did you write this, or did the robot?

And here’s the thing—he already knew the answer. He could feel it.

Not that I didn’t write it—I did (mostly). Every idea in that essay is mine. In fact, I sent Cosmo the exact prompts I gave the AI: dictated reflections, structured thoughts, thematic throughlines. As I told him, “100% of the ideas are mine. 70% of the writing is mine. 30% is the robot stitching things together.” He didn't doubt my assessment.

But then he said:

I knew it wasn’t all you. It didn’t sound like you.

It didn’t surprise me. It was just Cosmo being Cosmo—a reaffirmation of his artistic purity. The kind of conviction that’s as inflexible as it is admirable.

Even while conceding that the ideas were mine, there was still something in him that recoiled at the very presence of AI in the work. To Cosmo, if the page doesn’t carry the full weight of the author’s voice—unfiltered, unassisted—then something essential has been lost.

We don’t disagree on that principle. We just draw the line in different places.

When it comes to the books, we are in total agreement: the page is sacred.

Which brings me back to this post, and to the title: Rambling to the Robot: Redux.

Because I’ve written about this before. I’ve said, clearly, that I don’t use AI to write my books. I won’t. I can’t. The novels come from a place that can’t be outsourced or co-written by suggestion. They are rooted in emotional authenticity, in memory, in confession and risk. They’re often written as a character (Calvin), and even when they sound like me, they aren’t me. Not entirely. They’re me processed through story.

The blog, though—that’s analysis and commentary. It’s reflection. It’s a place to think out loud. And in that space, AI has become a tool. A helpful, time-saving, idea-organizing tool. It helps me publish more often, stay connected to readers, and keep moving through the thematic echo chamber I’ve built.

Cosmo doesn’t share that comfort. And that’s okay. His discomfort keeps me honest. His purity—his almost suicidal commitment to truth, like Jake—is what makes him invaluable to me. Not just as a friend, but as a creative counterweight.

It’s the same dynamic I wrote into the fiction.

You may notice that the blog sounds different than the books.

That’s not accidental.

That’s process.

In the books, I write as a character. I vanish into voice and structure and memory.

On the blog, I ramble to the robot. I dictate the ideas and I let it help shape the reflection—but not the truth.

If you ever sense a shift between the two—it’s there for a reason.

And if you ever wonder why I don’t let the robot into the books, it’s because I believe that when something is sacred, it should be written with your whole self.

Not just your thoughts.

Not just your ideas.

But your rhythm, your scars, your fingerprints.

Your unmistakable voice.

Javier

© 2025 Chapelle Dorée Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced, distributed, or modified without permission.