Why I Use AI in My Creative Work

Let me be up front here—I didn’t use AI to write this. In fact, I specifically chose to use all my own everything (other than handwriting, which I guess I could have done, but it would be a LOT harder to read) so you could be clear that these are my own thoughts, words, and reasoning. And yes, I realize that I have an em dash in my first sentence, which ChatGPT does a LOT. The fact is, I loved the em dash long before AI came along, and the rise of AI and everyone’s complaints about it’s overuse of em dashes are the first time I realized that I use em dashes so much. I used them far more than AI ever did. So I started cutting back, since the use of the em dash isn’t as cool as I once thought it was. 😊

I’ve been using AI in my art, music, and writing since ChatGPT 3.5 came out. Not much at first, but increasingly as the Ais have become more sophisticated and “talented.”

True, most of my creative career took place before the first ChatGPT or LLM of any kind hit the market, but in the short span of a few years, I’ve created more with the help of Ais than I did in the 15+ years prior to its public appearance.

I say that much to first acknowledge that I’ve been there—in the creative space where aside from recording equipment and electronic instrumentation, everything was done completely by the artist. I never even used loops in my professional music, even though it was around and they could have saved me a lot of time and effort. I’ve spent the hours, days, years, and decades in striving to make an artistic career work. It wasn’t always awful, and it wasn’t always awesome. But it was incredibly fulfilling and rewarding. And I guess it was a little bit profitable, too. Not profitable enough to support a family, but profitable enough to justify the extra time put into it. And why was it worth it? Because it touched lives.

Sure, there’s a small twinge of pride that I was the creator of the art. There’s always been a touch of that. But mostly it was just a privilege to be part of the process. When I’d get an email from a listener who was touched by the music, or from a podcast listener who was touched by a discussion in an episode, or a reader whose life was improved somehow because of something I’d written, that was my lifeline, my driving motivation. That’s when I felt like I was fulfilling my life’s purpose. It was always about the good that it would do for people.

I learned early on that while my skill level certainly mattered, it was always a means to an end. Several ends, really. Skill was necessary to get the music where it needed to be (and sometimes finished works never reached what they could have been if I’d had more skill). Skill level also had much to do with my own becoming. If I wanted to be the artist that my fans deserved, I had to work hard to develop it. That work was intense. But never sufficient. It can’t be. Because no artist is as good as they ever could be. And while they shouldn’t have shame or trepidation for what they lack, they should always be pursuing more skill—bigger skill, sharper skill, more refined skill, more useful skill. It’s part of the growth of the artist.

I also learned early that with few exceptions (when my abilities were needed for something mundane, ridiculous, or just goofing off, for example), I never felt like the true creator of the work. I never felt like the one mixing the perfect blend of musical notes, emotional delivery, and performance that baked the perfect composition. I felt like a middle man. I always felt like a middle man. I felt like the music was coming from somewhere else. Yes, maybe sometimes (hopefully more often than not, but I dare not assume always) from God. Maybe sometimes it was coming from the distinctive flavor that the right combination of muscle-memory put to piano keys needed to get that wonderfully unique chord progression, melody, or arrangement, which my hands partly new, my subconscious partly new, and the logically alignment of various mathematical chord progressions created when played (or acted out) with emotional delivery.

Almost certainly the inspiration through which I played came from the handful, dozens, hundreds, or perhaps thousands of deeply moving musical pieces and inspirational songs I’d heard and loved over the years. No doubt I was often borrowing a little bit of spice from those most favorite of recipes.

But I never once felt like I’d created a piece of music completely without influence. None of it felt utterly like mine. I always felt like I was playing with the help of a muse. I hope it was the Spirit of God. I believe it often was. But I’m sure it was sometimes raw emotion, too. And I don’t feel ownership of emotion. I feel like a passerby, maybe even a resident of emotion, but I don’t feel like emotion is mine. Which may also be why I always felt so strongly that music is a shortcut to the emotions. Music can penetrate and influence emotions in 3 minutes that can take 2 hours for a movie, 2 months for a book, and 2 years for a personal experience. I don’t say that do imply that the faster emotion is conveyed, the better it is—not so. But it does explain why music is such a good communicator of emotion. Even a movie wouldn’t convey emotion nearly as effectively if it didn’t have music telling the watcher what to feel. K

I reiterate; I never felt like the one creating the music. I was the vessel used to convey it. And what was so amazing to me was that once recorded, the music could be published to continue as an independent vessel of the same cause, message, or emotion for an indefinite period of time. It no longer relied on the artist. It’s like it had a life of its own.

Does music have a life of its own? Metaphorically, yes. But biologically, no. It didn’t need to. There was enough inside the message, delivery, and recording to convey the intended experience without the need for the artist any longer. That’s why we still enjoy the music of great artists over the centuries who have long since died. Their music lives on in their recordings (whether on paper or audio file or whatever) in the hearts of those who continue to be touched by their music.

And as a musician I ask this: what is it that I want to live on? I can’t speak for all musicians, but for me (and many artists) it’s not our name, our accomplishments, or our muscle-memory. It’s the message, emotion, and experience of our music. Our skill was developed and honed in order to be vessels of things MUCH BIGGER THAN US.

Now from those statements, you might easily mistake me for one of those artists that thinks art should be created for its own sake—that the interpretation of the art is in the art and viewer (or listener) themselves. I’m not. I’ve never wanted to be the kind of artist that creates art for its own sake. I don’t think art is worthwhile simply because it’s art. Yes, it may be influential of itself. It may convey things of itself. It may even try to convince viewers of things never intended by the artist. But that has never been my intention, and it’s never been my focus. I say unequivocally that there is good art, and there is evil art. Art can communicate anything conceivable in the human psyche, and a great deal of what the human psyche comes up with should not be conveyed, at least not in a way to promote it. Yet art of all kinds does just that. It conveys good. It conveys bad. It conveys the ugly, the awesome, the darkness, the light, the fear, the joy, the entire human experience. And when that conveyance lifts, builds, and helps people to be better, to love others and themselves more, to turn to their Maker, to expand their human experience, it’s good. When it darkens, promotes hatred, fear, resentment, shame, and self-loathing, it’s bad. And one of the reasons art of any kind is SO bad, or SO good, is because it does that very thing so very effectively.

For that reason, I’ve never felt much urge to create out of a sense of self-expression, or self-identification. What I know about myself and what I feel about myself are often at odds, and what I know and feel about others can also be at odds, and to convey all of that in the most powerful way would be not only unhealthy for me, but also unhelpful to others, no matter how beautifully it’s done. Just because my darkness is relatable doesn’t mean I should glorify it. In fact, I may use my darkness to empathize with and reach those in darkness, but I refuse to use it to pull people into the darkness. I NEVER want to do that. Ever.

Besides, I’m not finished. I have no interest in conveying, engraving, and deifying an unfinished flawed self. Nor do I have the slightest interest in conveying a dishonest picture of a so-called finished or un-flawed self. Such a person doesn’t exist. There is no perfect Chas. Not yet. And until there is, I feel like my duty is not to try to bring people to where I am (heaven forbid), but rather to use my position and leverage here and now to lift those who need lifting, and learn from and reach out for those who can lift me higher. It’s not about rank. It’s about growth. It’s about doing good. It’s about becoming our full potential. And that is SO MUCH MORE than what I am now. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of where I am. I’m grateful, I’m optimistic, and I’m utterly unsatisfied. No interest in splattering my ego across my art.

Obviously my flaws will show in my art, because I’m NOT perfect, but I’m not trying to convey me, so I’m beside the point.

I’ve never felt like the creator of the experiences I’m trying to convey in my music, and I’ve never been sufficient to perform and publicize the music/art on my own anyway. There’s the musicians who have gone before me and influenced, trained, and inspired me. There’s the teachers, video makers, authors, and musicians who have guided and coached my skill development. There’s the Spirit of God, the emotions, the inspirational people, stories, and lessons all around me that act as my muse, putting what I “hear” through what I “know” (a filter we sometimes call “skill”) into technology I don’t understand (the mechanics of a piano, the recording equipment, the compression software, midi tools, sheet music programs, the editing software and technology) to pass on to listeners the singular experience that I happened to be passing by at just the right time to be able to convey in just the way I did. And many want to call it MY music, MY expression, MY unique take on the world or myself or whatever. And yes, legally speaking, it might be my “intellectual property,” but that aspect is just legalese for what I would better define as “making a particular choice while being in the right place at the right time with the right preparation when something bigger than myself passes through.” And yes, I know that’s a mouthful, but that’s how I see it.

I’ve always been amused by the sentiment, “Don’t die with your music still inside you.”

I laugh at it, frankly. And sure, it’s good advice for those who haven’t sought to develop or use their abilities to do good. But for the rest of us, it’s WILDLY naive.

A faucet doesn’t “die” with it’s water still in it. Or, I might say, OF COURSE IT WILL! A good faucet could spend every moment of an entire century pouring constantly at maximum capacity and it would NEVER EVEN APPROACH the amount of water it has access to at its source. Faucets pour out their water when they can. Some pour out a little over their lifetime, others pour out a great deal. Some water gardens, some hydrate a family. Others wash street corners, cars, and parking lots.

All my life, I’ve been an old rusty, broken, leaky family kitchen faucet that doesn’t have the greatest plumbing or mechanics. There’s always water coming out of me, and I’ve simply done my best to choose what water kind of water to flow. Yes, I need to be clean myself, but if I’ve remained clean, then the aquifer below me will have much water conveyed through me—as much as I can convey, considering the time and effort required for all the important things in life. I’m just a middle man between the aquifer and the family that needs the water.

So what does any of this have to do with AI? Everything. The technology I grew up with, and based my career on, heavily influenced my ability to be a faucet for the clean, pure water I’ve tried to convey. Without it, I might have been little more than a disconnected puddle of (hopefully) clean water resting in the base of some long disconnected pipes. But with it, I’ve been able to pour out good water that has reached all over the world. Maybe not filling lakes, maybe not showering over entire communities, but providing water to many who need it.

AI is the next step in that. I’m no longer limited to the leaky faucet of skill, money, and resources I’ve been limited to. I’m now a fire hose. I can put out ten times the music in 1/10^th the time it once took.

And how’s the water? How does it compare with the water I’ve been gushing all my career? It’s cleaner, it tastes better, and I can get more clean minerals into it because my faucet can offer more.
Am I not being true to the rusty, leaky faucet I’ve been? Well, let’s put it this way, as a faucet, I’ve always striven to put out the best water possible with the limited tools I have. That’s exactly what I’m still doing. The difference? For the kind of water I want to put out, the tools granted with the help of AI are better tools. They provide cleaner, purer water. And the nourishment provided by the water NEVER was in the mechanical hammers of the piano or the particular ink used to print the sheet music. It’s always been in the experience of the listener.

Once could say, “But AI can’t have the Spirit of God.”

And I don’t disagree with that—not completely, anyways. But I could ask, can a work of art have the Spirit of God? Can a dance choreography have the Spirit of God? Can a book have the Spirit of God? Can the pages of a Book have the Spirit of God? And I feel like we’re asking the wrong question—or rather, we’re asking the question wrong. The question should be, “Can a book convey or invite the Spirit of God?” “Can music invite the Spirit?”

Music can’t have the Spirit. It can only convey it. It can only invite it. It can only invite the listener to let the Spirit of God into their own heart.

Will it always invite the Spirit? Obviously not. Music can convey the greatest of evil, too. Or even conveyed wrong, an otherwise well-intended song can chase away the Holy Ghost, too.

In light of this discussion, I see AI no different. It can do good. It can do bad. It can convey Spiritual things, good or bad. It can invite or chase away any kind of influence or information or influence just like other forms of creation can.

For me, the point is not whether, or how much, or to what degree the human artist was involved. I don’t care about the human-to-AI ratio of contribution. I care (almost exclusively) about the quality and extent of good that is conveyed/invited/taught by the music or art. If an AI points a real person to God, does it not count as a real conversion? If a song whose lyrics were written by an AI, and it’s music written by another AI, convinces a child of God to seek Him out better, turn their life around, or perhaps just make it through another day, can we honestly reject that influence as not being legitimate or real?

To me this was never about the tools. It’s always been about the effect. It’s always been about the truth.

Should we check our sources? Of COURSE! Should we correct it when it’s wrong? Most certainly. When AI speaks truth—real, genuine truth, does that truth not count for REAL truth? Of course not. Truth is truth. Lies are lies. Don’t believe the lies, and don’t perpetuate them. But don’t be afraid to share truth when it is in fact, fact.

And when it comes to music, art, creative writing, it’s rarely about sources anyway. It’s about connection, emotion, experience.

And yes, I know some will reply, “But you can’t connect with an AI”, or “An AI can’t feel emotion, or have experience.” But neither can a song, and neither can a book. And as far as I know, we haven’t reached the level of AI where an AI of it’s own volition, outside the influence of anyone has said, “You know what? I think I’ll write a song today. And I think I’ll try to have it convey emotion to impact the depth of the truth it seeks to convey. And I think I’ll have it centered around this particular human experience.” That takes a human, asking an AI to assist them in doing just that. A book doesn’t write itself, and as far as I know, so far an AI doesn’t write a book without being asked to, either.

And if it comes to the point where AIs ARE doing those things on their own, well, I’ll be curious what they have to say.

The question for me is almost always, is the message true? Is my emotional experience with the art real?

And if I can honestly answer yes to both of those questions, then as ALWAYS, whatever small or insignificant part I might play in all of this, I consider a great blessing and privilege.