Several people in my life, upon learning that I’m writing a book, have asked me if I’m using AI like they would have asked me if I’m using a Commodore 64 back in 1988.

I am ignorant of AI. And maybe that’s good.

But I just want to say I have a sore neck from the hours of writing, deleting, erasing, rewriting, crumpling, scribbling, printing, reading, highlight, note-taking, and doodling I’ve given to laboring this book into existence, along with countless prayers for help.

It won’t be a magnum opus, or a NYT bestseller, but it will be a labor of human error and love.

Nothing artificial about it.