I Was Skeptical Too

Let me start by saying I didn’t want to like it. I mean, come on—we come from storytellers. From grandmothers who could keep a kitchen full of kids silent just by starting a sentence with “When I was your age…” From foggy docks and fiddle tunes and long letters scrawled in blue ink. Stories are part of who we are out here.

So yeah, the idea of using AI writing tools? Felt a little… off. A little too shiny. Like trying to write a love letter with a calculator.

But life doesn’t always leave space for the perfect writing day, does it? Sometimes the words get buried under real life—jobs, caregiving, weather that won’t quit. And when you finally sit down with your tea and your good pen, the words don’t come.

So, one evening, I gave it a shot. Quietly. No fanfare. I opened an AI tool, asked it a question, and waited.

And it answered. Not perfectly. But enough to light a match.

It’s Not Replacing Anything—It’s Helping Me Hold On

That’s the thing. Atlantic Canada authors aren’t using AI because we’re lazy or because we don’t care. It’s the opposite. We care so damn much it hurts. We’ll rewrite a single paragraph ten times because it doesn’t quite sound like the shore, or the wind, or the silence we’re trying to capture.

But some days, we just can’t get there on our own.

What AI does—at least for me—is it sits beside me like a friend. It throws out ideas I can build on. Helps me keep momentum when my brain’s too tired. It’s not writing the heart of my story. It’s handing me the shovel so I can dig it out myself.

The Stories Still Smell Like Salt and Butter and Rain

Even with a little help from the machine, the stories still feel like us. I’ve read things I’ve written lately that made me cry—not because AI did something special, but because I finally had the strength to finish a chapter that had been haunting me for months.

The voice? Still mine. The rhythm? Still the cadence of Sunday morning CBC and the way we stretch our vowels. The grief, the humour, the ache of watching someone you love walk away on a foggy morning? All still there.

I’ve used AI for a few things now:

• Helping me start scenes I kept avoiding
• Rewriting dialogue that felt too stiff
• Brainstorming plot turns when I couldn’t see the road ahead
• Writing blurbs because honestly, I hate writing blurbs
• Just sitting there, quietly, reminding me I don’t have to quit today

I Still Hesitate to Talk About It

There’s something so personal about writing here. So sacred. It feels weird to admit you’ve got a digital co-pilot. Like you’re breaking an old rule you didn’t even know was there.

But maybe that’s part of growing, too. Of being from a place that knows how to honour tradition but still keeps one eye on the horizon. We’ve always made do. We’ve always adapted. We’ve always found ways to survive the storm.

This is just one more way.

The Heart’s Still Beating in Every Line

Even with AI in the mix, the work still sounds like Cape Breton wind and P.E.I. gravel roads. Still smells like frying onions in a St. John’s kitchen. Still feels like sitting by the sea and staring at the same stretch of water your great-grandfather did, wondering if you’ll ever get the words quite right.

We’re not writing faster. We’re writing truer. Or at least trying to. And if a machine can help us remember what we already knew deep down—then maybe it’s not so strange after all.

So if you’re here, in this corner of the world, staring at a page and wondering if it’s okay to ask for help? I’ll say it plain.

It is. The story is still yours. The roots are still deep. And the voice, no matter how it’s shaped, will always, always be Atlantic.