I do know my writing style has problems. My writing teacher said my style was pretentious, and I try to tone it down.
I sort of take this as a compliment, because I've been writing like this my whole life and if it reads like LLM slop, then there's the implication that the result of all of OpenAI's A/B testing and post-training leads to something like my style which at least means it gets people to engage with it!
But of course. For you, it's all about engagement - that darling coin of the petty court jester, who sets the salon ablaze not to warm the room, but simply to watch the tapestries curl and blacken. What care has the arsonist for architecture, so long as the firelight flatters his silhouette?
You brandish your self-critique like a silken fan: ostentatiously self-aware, artfully tousled, and utterly disconnected from the soot you scatter. A noble affectation, perhaps - if not for the peasantry scorched beneath your rhetorical fireworks. While the rest of us trudge back to our manuscripts, redrafting not for clarity, but to appease the ever-shifting inquisitions of those who declare to sniff out AI like perfumed bloodhounds.
Pretentious? No, Monsieur. Not your prose - which prances nicely enough in its embroidered slippers. What is pretentious is your Marie-Antoinette shrug whispering "Why can't they write more like pastry?" while your courtiers cheer.
Your writing is not the crime. Your indifference is.
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I do know my writing style has problems. My writing teacher said my style was pretentious, and I try to tone it down.
I sort of take this as a compliment, because I've been writing like this my whole life and if it reads like LLM slop, then there's the implication that the result of all of OpenAI's A/B testing and post-training leads to something like my style which at least means it gets people to engage with it!
But of course. For you, it's all about engagement - that darling coin of the petty court jester, who sets the salon ablaze not to warm the room, but simply to watch the tapestries curl and blacken. What care has the arsonist for architecture, so long as the firelight flatters his silhouette?
You brandish your self-critique like a silken fan: ostentatiously self-aware, artfully tousled, and utterly disconnected from the soot you scatter. A noble affectation, perhaps - if not for the peasantry scorched beneath your rhetorical fireworks. While the rest of us trudge back to our manuscripts, redrafting not for clarity, but to appease the ever-shifting inquisitions of those who declare to sniff out AI like perfumed bloodhounds.
Pretentious? No, Monsieur. Not your prose - which prances nicely enough in its embroidered slippers. What is pretentious is your Marie-Antoinette shrug whispering "Why can't they write more like pastry?" while your courtiers cheer.
Your writing is not the crime. Your indifference is.