ChatGPT wrote my bio and it taught me something I’d forgotten

‘What would you say your title is?’ My old friend and colleague had just read out an AI generated bio for another friend at the table. She had called herself ‘Director… or for agencies I say Creative Lead’. Write a bio for NAME, Director of COMPANY was the instruction provided to ChatGPT. The results were instant and stunningly accurate. Aside from one small error attributing her a ‘degree in architecture from a prestigious institution’, it mirrored what I might say about the work I had observed her deliver over two decades, had I taken the time to craft it.

My mind scanned all the titles I had been given or bestowed upon myself over the last 20 years. I had also called myself a Director at one point. There was even an Executive in front of it since I reported to the board. None of that existed anymore. What was I now? ‘Oh just say creative producer’ I said, not quite believing it myself.  To give the machine a little more context, she asked it ‘write a bio for Pip Carroll, Creative Producer in Melbourne’. I held my breath. As a comms professional, my friend’s delivery was convincing. ‘Pip Carroll is an accomplished Creative Producer based in the vibrant cultural hub of Melbourne, Australia. With an innate passion for the arts and a flair for curating unforgettable experiences, Pip has become a driving force in the city’s creative scene’. Ha, I thought. First strike to AI. That would have been a stretch a decade ago. These days I barely leave Coburg.

Another paragraph followed in which I ‘rose through the ranks’, using my ‘deep appreciation for diverse artistic expressions’ and a fictitious ‘degree in arts management’, to ‘establish (my)self as a pivotal figure in the local arts and entertainment landscape’. Wow. AI me sounds insufferable, who doe she think she is? Why do I hate her so much? It is because she has all the drive and energy that I had once been in possession of? A digital self still alive to the buzz of partnerships and possibilities, still thrumming with enough adrenaline to carry her through five meetings and fifty emails on a quiet day (riding fast through traffic in-between appointments). Yep, the AI hard-sell hurt. I couldn’t bear to spend a minute in the company of this old version of myself, who would never have admitted but quietly believed she could be pivotal to something, anything.

That Pip Carroll doesn’t exist anymore, but AI doesn’t know that (yet). It doesn’t know that illness forced me to give up the not-for-profit company I had toiled for a decade to establish, years of work wiped away in a single moment. It doesn’t know that in the years since, I have been trying to find ways to re-engage with work that my body and mind can manage. To find some room on a plate already loaded up with domestic duties as a single parent to two young boys. I felt the chasm between the present and former versions of myself. I felt grief for what could have been. I felt anger, disguised as discomfort with the vanity inherent in my AI self. I felt like I wanted to get it over with.

She kept reading. ‘Throughout her career, Pip has demonstrated an extraordinary knack for bringing innovative concepts to life.’ She stopped and looked me in the eye, exclaiming ‘That’s so true!’, perhaps sensing that the last two paragraphs had bombed. ‘Her portfolio boasts a wide spectrum of projects, from immersive theatre to cutting edge multi-media installations.’ She looked up. ‘Theatre true, multi-media not true’, I said, signalling for her to keep going, concerned I’d forgotten a cutting edge multi-media installation I had been instrumental in staging. ‘Each endeavour bears Pip’s signature touch, characterised by meticulous attention to detail, a deep respect for artistic integrity and a talent for orchestrating seamless collaborations among diverse creative minds.’ Huh I thought. I could live with that. Maybe I don’t hate AI me so much. Maybe AI understands me better than I understand myself. I resolved to give my cyber simulacra a chance.  

‘Pip’s work is a testament to her dedication to pushing boundaries and challenging conventions in the pursuit of meaningful, thought provoking art. Her ability to transform abstract visions into tangible awe-inspiring experiences has garnered her recognition not only in Melbourne but also on the international stage.’ Really? Well, I mean there was that one time when the guy from New York said nice things about my work. Where does Chat GPT get this information? I wondered. The depth and breadth of the internet suddenly appeared to me as a vast ocean in which I was floating, flotsam data thrown overboard from a constellation of servers converging to conjure my AI self.

‘It’s kind of saying all the things you would never dare say about yourself’ I suggest. ‘I’m using mine in every proposal from now on!’ jokes my friend. I sat with the tension between what I could accept in my friend’s AI bio and what I could not accept in mine. Lost in-between the story I tell myself and the story I tell the world, feeling it was important to arrive at some kind of truth. The same indecision plagued the building of this website. This lofty attempt to validate my own name with a .com benediction. Who was I now? I didn’t want all the work I had done to be lost to insignificance, but at the same time I didn’t want to make any promises about what I could deliver. Multiple variations of themes and explanatory texts were drafted (luckily with a very patient designer), unsure of what identity I should present to the world. The questions seemed unanswerable. What is important about me? Who am I to other people? Who am I to myself?

The notion that I could influence people’s opinion of me seemed like a vanity all of its own. Any attempt to create an authentic online presence ultimately futile. Who decides what values are ascribed to my character? ChatGPT certainly made a very quick assessment, in my experience humans do the same. Is my identity in the eye of the beholder? Or does the power to decide who I am live inside me, inextinguishable, vulnerable only to my own revisions. I identify as female. As a mother. As Autistic. As chronically ill, invisibly ill. As a survivor. I identify as a watcher, a joker, a clown. Paradoxically I identify as both a loner and collaborator. I identify as a Bob Dylan tragic, an Irish rebel, a lover of spreadsheets. I do not identify as a writer but I’d like to in the future. Like fellow Autist Hannah Gadsby, I identify as tired.

None of this was helpful in launching a website (can you imagine how it would have looked? I laugh thinking about it). In the end I identified myself as Creative Producer, Community Engagement as it best describes how I might be able to sell my services. The economic argument once again asserting itself over all other possible outcomes. Acceptance that I too, like the rest of us, must prioritise the value I can contribute to the vast machine funnelling resources upward to their inexorable end. The faceted jewels of identity stowed inside pockets for now. And anyway, I like working. I like making things happen. I like ‘pushing boundaries and challenging conventions in the pursuit of meaningful, thought provoking’ outcomes. So thanks ChatGPT for reminding me who I am. What I am capable of. I’ll take (some) of your bio and run with it. After all, I’m getting better every day.