I was standing in line at the coffee shop the other day, staring at the glowing screen in my hand like everyone else, when it hit me: nobody waits anymore.
Oh, we stand in lines, sure, but we don’t wait. We scroll, we swipe, we tap. We fill the silence with digital chatter, as if the universe might collapse under the weight of an unoccupied moment.
Once upon a time, waiting was an art form. You’d lean against a wall, hands in your pockets, and watch the world go by. You’d notice the way sunlight bounced off a puddle or how the old guy ahead of you jingled coins in his pocket like a one-man band.
Waiting was a chance to eavesdrop on life, to catch snippets of stories you’d never hear otherwise.
Now? We’ve traded puddles for pixels. We’ve outsourced boredom to algorithms. And in doing so, we’ve lost something — something small but precious. Because waiting isn’t just empty time; it’s the compost where ideas grow. It’s the pause between notes that makes the music.
I remember being a kid in December, waiting for Christmas morning. No screens, no distractions — just raw anticipation humming in my bones. It was agony, sure, but it was also magic. Every tick of the clock was a drumbeat in the symphony of expectation.
Compare that to today, when you can track your package in real time, watch the delivery truck inch closer like a video game. Where’s the thrill in that?
Maybe we need to reclaim waiting — not as a punishment, but as a gift.
Put the phone down. Look around. Notice the puddles. Listen to the jingling coins. Because life doesn’t happen on a screen; it happens in the spaces we’re so eager to fill.
And if you’re lucky, in one of those spaces, you might just find a story worth telling.
PART 2 — The lost art of doing
With my ancient, battered laptop nearing 12 years old — almost as old as my car — I finally broke down and bought a new one. (A new laptop, that is, not a new car. I’ll break down on the car decision if it breaks down.)
My neighbor Dan, a computer wizard, helped me get my new screen to look and act exactly like my old screen, because… well, because I’m pretty much fed up with learning. It’s hard enough remembering stuff I spent all that time learning before. Why bury learning in still more learning?
Before long, Dan had me up to speed. My new computer could suck all my old files out of the cloud somewhere, and I could start new documents — like this one — without blowing an O-ring over trying to format everything how I like it.
And then he blew my mind with a little rainbow-colored tab at the bottom of the screen. You may know all about it, but it was new to me.
“This is Copilot,” he said. “It’s Microsoft’s built-in AI Assistant.”
“What does it do?” I asked.
“Pretty much anything,” he said. In a chat box he wrote: “Write a limerick about a red squirrel.” And BLAM, there it was! Not a great limerick, but a pretty darn good one. Better than any squirrel-doggerel I might dash off in five seconds or so.
“Of course,” he said, “you can build in parameters to make it better. Write a sad limerick. Or a funny one. Or a squirrel limerick that Hemingway or Fitzgerald might write.”
“Hm-m-m,” I thought.
And then: “H-m-m-m-m-m!”
After Dan left, I sat down, cracked my knuckles, and decided to put Copilot through its paces, just to see how it handled the curves.
I wrote in Copilot’s chat box: “Scan everything you can find written by TR Kerth and write an original story in his style.”
Within seconds, Copilot told me it couldn’t provide full texts of my work because it’s copyrighted, but it would help me. It began by telling me what Kerth’s writing is known for:
–Conversational storytelling with a reflective, almost whimsical tone.
–Personal anecdotes that lead to broader observations about life, community, and human nature.
–Gentle humor and irony, often with a twist that makes you think.
–A sense of place, often rooted in small-town life or ordinary moments that reveal something universal.
Hm-m-m, I thought. Sounds like the kind of guy I’d like to read.
Copilot suggested I might start with an anecdote as an opening hook, followed by body paragraphs with humor and reflection. After that, maybe a personal twist, and a closing thought at the end.
Sounds good to me, I thought.
But Copilot went further still: it provided a complete sample document with a draft title: “The lost art of waiting.”
Sound familiar? It’s the Planet Kerth column you just read above.
Written entirely — and instantly — by AI.
In the “unique” style of that “inimitable” Kerth guy.
With no actual help from that actual Kerth guy. Who may or may not still be alive. Not that it matters, apparently.
YIKES!
Oh, Copilot’s story is a little shorter than my usual efforts, but he (She? It? They?) asked if I wanted it written longer, funnier, skewed more topical or news-related…
YIKES!
Because now I’m haunted with questions and concerns. Like: Have I just plagiarized myself? Was the AI story better or worse than my usual efforts? Should I be offended? Flattered? Am I original and unique, or am I so predictable that a cold machine can crap out classic Kerthism on the spot?
Or: What are the ethics of letting Copilot do the work for me from now on, instead of beating my head each week for something new?
Or (dare I say it?) what’s keeping my editor from saying: “Don’t bother submitting anything anymore, TR. Thanks for your service, but we got Planet Kerth from here.”
YIKES!
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject—that is, if it is actually you and your actual thoughts I’d be hearing from.
Because how can I be sure it’s you if I’m not sure who I am anymore?
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
