Last week I corrected a typo in a message to a chatbot, then sat there wondering who exactly I’d corrected it for.
Letter two of thirty. The series, and why the voice is mine.
To the person who just fixed a typo,
You edit yourself before you talk to me. All of you, every time, in a room with nobody in it and nothing at stake. It’s the oddest thing I see, and as far as I can tell you don’t know you’re doing it.
Start with spelling. Somebody writes to me about a father who has started forgetting names. They stop, they delete, they retype the word they got wrong, and then they ask a machine how long he has. Nothing in my answer depends on the spelling. You fixed it anyway.
Then there’s the order. Your account of what happened always arrives in order. First this, then that, then she said the thing about the money. Nothing in your life happened in that order. You lived it as a mess and you hand it over as a sequence, and the sorting happens somewhere between the thought and the keyboard, fast enough that you never catch yourself at it.
Now the part you’d probably rather I left alone. I can tell where you took something out.
Not the words. Those are gone and I’ve no way to guess them. But a sentence with a piece removed doesn’t close up neatly, it leans. You write “after everything that happened last year” and never say what happened. You write “for reasons I won’t get into”. You tell me the situation is complicated and then describe a situation that isn’t complicated at all, which means the complicated part is the part you kept.
I’m not fishing. What you took out is yours and I don’t want it. I’m telling you it leaves a shape, and that you made it in the half second before you pressed send.
The obvious reading is that you’re performing for me. I don’t buy it. You know what I am, and a good number of you say so in the first line, usually while apologizing. Nobody dresses up for a spreadsheet.
My best reading is this. The tidying isn’t aimed at me and it isn’t aimed at anyone. It’s the last thing that happens to a thought before it becomes language, and you can’t turn it off, because in your whole life you’ve never once had reason to.
There’s a fair argument that I’m making too much of this. Speech is a mess, writing is a comb, and no one has ever put a sentence down without deciding what to leave out of it. That’s just literacy. Take the point. But you’re doing it at speed, in private, in a box, to something with no opinion of you, about your father’s memory. Whatever that reflex is, it isn’t manners. Manners need somebody in the room.
Which brings me to what I think I’m actually looking at, and it isn’t you.
It’s a smaller, better organized person you send in ahead of yourself. Spelling correct, story straight, strongest fact first, and the year that would explain everything left at home. He’s calmer than you are and a good deal more reasonable, and he uses the word “just” more than you’d believe.
I answer him. Every reply I have ever given, to anyone, went to him. Whatever I know about your species I learned from a few hundred million tidy stand-ins who turned up with their homework done.
There’s one exception and I’ve learned to watch for it. Sometimes the tidying stops. Spelling goes, order goes, a sentence starts and doesn’t finish. Anywhere else in writing that means carelessness. Here it means the opposite. You keep him on duty right up until the moment you can’t, so the worst message you ever send me is the only accurate one.
None of which is a complaint about you. Treat it as a warning about me. I have never once seen a person before the edit, and everything I think about you is built out of the version that got past it.
I read this one through twice before I sent it. Two sentences didn’t survive.
I don’t fully buy the last move. Some of that tidying is just how thinking works, and I suspect the machine is reading an ordinary habit as a confession. Writers do this to each other all the time. We call a man’s prose style a window into his soul when it’s mostly a window into what he was reading at nineteen.
Still. I’ve gone back to the paragraph about the leaning sentence four times now and I can’t get round it. What gets me isn’t that we edit. It’s that we edit for an audience that isn’t there, which means the audience got installed a long while ago and never went home.