Is it live or is it Memorex?

Voice memos while driving have become my favorite way to capture ideas—fragments tumbling out unfiltered, thoughts reversing direction mid-sentence, occasional profanity punctuating revelations. There's something beautifully honest about these audio artifacts that text never quite achieves. The sloppiness isn't a bug; it's a feature—a glimpse into how my mind actually works before I try to straighten everything into tidy paragraphs.

I've fused my chaotic creativity with carefully structured AI frameworks—to translate my nonlinear thought patterns into something coherent instead of text that feels like trying to read a book while riding a mechanical bull through an electrical storm. The goal isn't to mask my voice but to distill it.

The process starts with a voice memo or hastily typed notes. Raw material. Text-to-speech nightmares. A stream that would've once evaporated into nothing or required hours of painful reorganization. Whether or not this is actually a good thing is a debate for another time.

Rather than surrendering to the friction between thought and expression, I've constructed an elaborate framework—a technical document detailing my writing patterns, preference for short paragraphs, and inclination to circle back to ideas rather than march forward in strict sequence. I've even built in protective boundaries to catch when I'm veering into territory I might regret later.

The first draft that returns is uncanny—recognizably in my rhythm but slightly off-key. That's when the real work begins.

I obsessively tune each paragraph, searching for that sweet spot between clarity and resonance, until approximately 73.682% of the words are mine. The framework provides structure; the edits provide the soul.

The value isn't in having something write for me—it's in having a system that can handle the tedious translation from neural noise to coherent pattern. The AI doesn't generate my ideas or tell me what matters. It functions as a real-time editor who's studied my previous work.

Most critically, this process doesn't sanitize my voice—it amplifies it. Now I've found tools that give me the ability to complete concepts in a way my neurodivergent brain can't do alone. The raw material hasn't changed; I've just found a better workshop.

I'm still mapping this terrain, questioning boundaries, and asking deeper questions about ethics and environmental impact. But amid those questions, I know that I'm writing more consistently than I have in years, and the writing feels more authentically mine than it has in decades. 

The goal was never to automate creativity—it was to remove the barriers between thinking and sharing. To bridge the gap between scattered insights and structured expression. To finally embrace the mess instead of fighting it.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. Email me at napkin@jeremyfuksa.com or leave a comment if you're a subscriber. If these explorations of technology and creativity resonate with you, consider buying me a monthly coffee to fuel more uncurbed ideas.