Not All Those Who Wander—or Wonder!—Are Lost
One needn’t become a torch-wielding luddite to, at the very same time, be cautiously apprehensive about the widespread embrace of A.I., particularly generative A.I. for creative work such as writing. In fact, I wrote about this concerning trend at some length in an article last year, titled “Grave New World: Artificial Intelligence, Electric Shepherds, and Electric Sheep”.
Generative A.I., insofar as it wears its artist like a skinsuit and is passed along as original work, has no place in the writing world, and especially not in the work of those who write as unto the Lord—“Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward” (Colossians 3:23-24).
That being said, I must admit that my initial assessment—and nigh repudiation—of A.I. has softened over the past couple of months, especially when it comes to menial tasks that might have otherwise taken away from far more important work had A.I. never existed. If A.I. can be used to outsource what would have been mundane, mechanical labour, thus freeing up time and space for the human work of writing, composing, and painting, then I consider this a responsible stewardship of such technology.
And speaking of using technology well, they say you should never Google yourself. However, nothing has ever been said about running your work through a program like ChatGPT for a fresh perspective, even if it’s artificial. This idea didn’t materialize out of nowhere, either. A few weeks ago, my wife commented on the fact that once you’ve read a lot of a single author, much of their work runs the risk of sounding the same, or at the very least rather similar. Whether they realize it or not, most writers have particular hobby horses they may find themselves riding more regularly than they’d like to admit, treading similar ground over an extended period of writing.
And so, in an effort to discover possible gaps and helpful patterns in my own work, I took to ChatGPT with the following question: “If you had to survey the content of Iotas in Eternity and break it down into three primary themes or recurring patterns of thought (‘pillars’), what would you say they would be?” Here is an edited version of a table provided by ChatGPT that I threw together as a way of organizing its answer to my question:
Core Pillar | Core Question |
Christ & Faithful Christian Living
| How should we live in light of Christ and His word? |
Story & Imagination
| What can stories and culture teach us about the good, the true, and the beautiful? |
Eternity in the Ordinary
| How does eternal truth transform and redeem everyday life? |
At the end of its response, ChatGPT summarized its findings in a few short sentences (this is the first—and hopefully last—time I will ever quote an A.I.): “There’s an interesting relationship between the three pillars: Christ is the center, Story & Imagination is one of the primary lenses, and Everyday Life is the place where it gets lived out. Or even more compactly: Christ. Story. Life—with eternity running through all three.”
Not long after his departure from Hobbiton under the cover of night, as “the road wound away before them like a piece of string,” Frodo is reminded of something his uncle Bilbo used to say. Speaking to Sam and Pippin, his two companions, Frodo recounts how Bilbo believed there was only ever one Road before the adventurer’s feet; like a great river with springs at each doorstep, every path itself a smaller stream feeding into the larger whole. This is when Frodo recites Bilbo’s famous line,
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door. You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
And then, only a few chapters later during the Council of Elrond—Frodo having now reunited with his uncle in Riverdell—Bilbo shares a poem he’s been working on:
“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The Crownless again shall be king.”
Bilbo’s poem was, of course, referring to Aragorn—the true king of Middle-Earth who would be crowned again, representing a ‘type’ of Christ who pointed to the One True Myth Himself. Much has been made of this poem since the publication of The Lord of the Rings, even amongst those who never took the time to read the books. The opening lines are particularly popular: “All that is gold does not glitter / Not all those who wander are lost.”
A lot of what Bilbo has to say in these two passages can also be said about writing. Not long after I began Iotas in Eternity, John 3:30 somewhat naturally became the blog’s chief maxim—“[Christ] must increase, but I must decrease.” For better or for worse, every word I write has these seven words behind them, under them, and above them. You can judge for yourself how well or poorly I’ve come to realize this goal, but my great goal it remains all the same. Indeed, just as Bilbo’s poem pointed beyond itself to Aragorn, my aim is that my every word would point to Christ.
I believe it was Stephen King who confessed that his writing process is actually far simpler than most would expect. As opposed to being bogged down by a trunk full of notes or a wall stained red with interconnected threads held fast by pins and tacks that dictated his every narrative step, it was rather sheer joy for the craft that directed his work. After a long day of writing, King said he’d end the process by turning over the main story beats in his mind each night as he lay in bed, trusting the creative process—not to mention his gut as a writer—to fill in the remaining gaps when the time came for it the following day. This allowed him to stay focused on the general points without getting lost in the particulars, while remaining enthusiastic in both.
In my experience, this is where the very best writing flows out of, much like that great river Bilbo used to speak of. It all begins with an idea that refuses to let you go, one which has its grip on you to such a degree that notes and little stickies are no longer needed—be it an experience, a verse of Scripture, or even just some burning, indescribable thought that will not give you peace until you work it out onto the page.
You might not have any idea of where the piece will take you, save perhaps only a dim view of some thin road ahead which itself quickly slithers out of sight, or even how the work will turn out in the end—that is all of little concern for the time being. For now, you know little beyond the fact that you must write.
This is where the wandering—and wondering—comes in. So much of the joy to be found in writing comes down to wandering out of your front door in pursuit of an interesting idea, contenting yourself with the unexpected places the adventure will sweep your feet off to. You may get delayed or even lost along the way, but for those who write as unto the Lord, we should draw great comfort and excitement from the fact that His hand sovereignly guides even our writing. Time would fail me to tell of the countless times I found myself stuck on a particular piece of writing only for some verse or unforeseen event, no doubt carefully curated by the Lord, to come across my path and steer me in the right direction. And not just the right direction, but the best direction, leading to an end so wonderful that only He could have planned and penned it.
In our world of unfettered A.I. usage, there is a real temptation, especially among writers, to cease the cumbersome work of wandering and wondering in favor of maximum output and efficiency. I mean, why not? Everyone else seems to be doing it. Writing is hard, after all—we wouldn’t want to fall behind, now would we?
In response, I will simply say what I’ve been saying all along: not all those who fall behind are behind, just as not all those who wander—or wonder!—are lost.
And perhaps my wife was right—once you’ve read a lot of a single author, much of their work does indeed run the risk of reading rather similar. Only, I’m not entirely convinced this is an altogether bad thing either. It certainly can be, but it doesn’t have to be. After all, it is only after we’ve walked and walked the same paths that we can truly become familiar with them and then share the route with others. I keep returning to my favorite authors year after year for those things they know best, not necessarily for their range on a host of topics. I can go to others for that.
And in this way, I think ChatGPT was right as well. Much of what I write here can be distilled into those few words already aforementioned: “Christ. Story. Life—with eternity running through all three.” Not a bad synopsis if you ask me. I like to think that the reason my writing keeps wandering over the same paths—the glory of God, the beauty of Christ, the sufficiency of His word, our longing for Heaven, the weight of stories, eternity in our grief and suffering, faithfulness in the ordinary, not to mention my friends Lewis and Tolkien—is because these paths demand much wandering and wondering upon. A passing glance or cursory stroll will never do these paths justice.
Like a many-faceted jewel, each of these great truths, or paths, must not only be held up to the light for further admiration, but turned over and over—allowing beams to pierce through each angle, exposing more of the beauty therein that would otherwise have been hid if one stopped after only a single glance.
And so indeed, when it comes to writing, not all those who wander or wonder are lost. It is in our wandering that we sometimes stumble upon the very best of our ideas, and in our prolonged wondering upon these same ideas that we bear the most fruit.
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