What I Would Say to My Students Today, in the Age of AI
Ryan Boudinot reflects on his own viral 2015 article on MFAs that is still generating controversy to this day
In 2015, Ryan Boudinot (author of several acclaimed books, including The Littlest Hitler: Stories) wrote a brief, charmingly blunt article for Seattle’s venerable alt. paper The Stranger called “Things I Can Say About MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One” that enraged much of the online literary world—and drew approving and relieved nods from much of the rest. As is sometimes the case with a pithy piece that sticks in people’s craws, the article has resurfaced a few times over the years, thanks most recently to a response on LitHub from writer Timothy J. Hillegonds called “A Singular Pursuit: Why All Writing (and All Writers) Matter More Than Ever Today.” Hillegonds pushes back on some of Boudinot’s broad observations about how most writers of quality develop by using his own life and career as a counter-example. In so doing he arguably misses most of Boudinot’s points about MFA programs and the types of aspiring writers who populate them (the original piece acknowledges exceptions to every rule), but Hillegonds’ dialogue with the piece is generally civil.
Towards the end, Hillegonds asks, rhetorically, “I wonder what Boudinot would say about his students today, in the Age of AI.” Fortunately, Boudinot is still alive and available to answer such questions, and sent a short response to LitHub, which declined to publish it. In the interest of giving Ryan a platform to respond, we’re pleased to present it here as an op-ed. Enjoy.—Eds.
What I Would Say to My Students Today, in the Age of AI
by Ryan Boudinot
“I wonder what Boudinot would say about his students today, in the Age of AI.” --Timothy J. Hillegonds, A Singular Pursuit: Why All Writing (and All Writers) Matter More Than Ever Today, Literary Hub, March 19, 2026
Thanks for asking.
For starters, I’d tell them that they’re already smart enough to express themselves without assistance from a machine. I’d say that the aspects of their work that are perceived as imperfections offer the most promising opportunities to learn. I’d tell them it’s important to produce as much bad writing as you possibly can as quickly as possible. I’d wish them as much fulfillment from their writing as I enjoy myself.
You might divide your writing life into two categories: transactional and experiential. I think the question of whether to use AI depends on how your writing sits within your life in relation to these categories.
Transactional writing is writing that you do in exchange for something. This can be money, sure. I’ve done a lot of transactional writing. In recent years, I’ve written for tech companies about cybersecurity, agentic AI, infrastructure modernization, other stuff. In exchange for this sort of writing, I’ve earned a living. I long ago abandoned any kind of hang-ups I had about this sort of work. I find any opportunity to work on sentences all day a privilege and a pleasure.
Another kind of transactional writing is writing for social status, praise, or esteem. Or even as a mechanism to convince yourself that you’re cool. I’ve done my share of this kind of writing, too. The trap, I think, in writing for such intangibles, is to base your motivation on whether or not to continue writing on how your writing is received. A book that sells few copies, an article that sparks a backlash—these can be reasons to tap out and try your hand at something else. I’ve known a fair number of writers who’ve decided to give up writing when their work didn’t succeed in the ways they’d hoped or imagined. I totally get it; I’ve tried and given up on lots of things. I don’t play guitar anymore. Go ahead and quit and make yourself happy some other way.
Experiential writing is writing that’s disconnected from any expectation that anyone will ever read it, and which, despite this, still feels worthwhile. The entirety of the reward lies in the interior, in the process itself. I’ve found certain philosophical traditions informative when writing in solitude with no expectation of payment, publication, or an audience. The Bhagavad Gita advises us to disconnect from the fruits of our actions. Marcus Aurelius counsels us to not care what people in the future will think of us, as they’re “the same annoying people you know now.”
If you want to use AI as part of your writing process for transactional reasons, sure, whatever, knock yourself out. AI has a lot to offer for writers who are focused on getting something external in exchange for their work. I hope that the novelist who uses AI to “help them write” their work gets totally famous with lots and lots of money and lots and lots of people who send them heart emojis on social media all day long.
Artificial intelligence is irrelevant to writing as a process of inner investigation and accessing holiness. I’d no sooner turn to generative AI to “help me write” than I would ask it to help me have sex or taste food.
Writing novels is super fun. I love doing it. The activity is its own reward. Since I hit a nerve with that essay I wrote eleven years ago, I’ve steadily made more stacks of paper with words on them. I assume they’ll never get published. I intend to produce as many more manuscripts as I can before I die. Writing is a far more fulfilling activity than I could have imagined years ago. There’s no way, at this point, that writing could conceivably disappoint me. I don’t need my writing life to be anything different than what it already is. I consider myself tremendously blessed that written expression is something that I even get to enjoy during my fleeting tenure on this planet. Writing is an act of unconditional love. I wish upon anyone who decides to take up the practice such bliss.
That’s what I’d say.
Ryan Boudinot's most recent novel is Broken Utopia, published in 2025 by Publication Studio. He is active on Substack, where he is serializing his memoir, How to Get Good at Losing Your Job.
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