An unexpected story about pants

Yesterday, when telling my sister how I wrote chapter one of my new novel she said,

“Amanda, you’re a panser.”

“A what?”

“A panser. It means you create as you go. Like, some people have their stories all plotted out. Those are called plotters. You write by the seat of your pants.”

“But I do have it planned out. Like, the whole novel is planned out, kinda. But I was stuck, so I just started writing and new scenes came out on the spot.”

I let that conversation churn a bit. Then I remembered how I wrote my memoir. How I sat in cafes, at my desk, in my living room, fingers weighting the keys, emotional music or café clatter clinging to my aura as words filled my brain, words that found shape when the squares started clinking.

Like now. At this café adorned with plastic plants hanging from the ceiling, concrete walls glimmering, sipping burnt coffee, humming to how does it feel to be on your own like a rolling stone.

But it’s not like that every day. Not lately. There are too many tools out there to plot with. It would be dumb not to plot these days, right?

Too many AI editing tools, story makers and internet resources for creative writing, CV writing, job application writing, cover letter writing, strategy designing. So much that you just have to know what you want so you can guide the robot, and you don’t have to do shit.

You don’t do shit. Don’t create shit. Don’t feel shit.

***

I’ve been plotting out my story for some time. It’s a good story. My story.

Last year I was in Singapore with that exciting health communications job, travelling to Vietnam, Thailand, and Laos to collect stories while my family lived in an airconditioned palace and we joined the rowers of that Singapore Facebook group with that funny Turkish guy who posted goofy selfies.

Then we were in Finland with the introverts who escape at midnight to spill out their dreams in karaoke drunken jams, working as a communication expert for innovative finance, flying back and forth to Geneva, Nina learning bits of Finish to throw us off while we spend our weekends driving through forests, swimming in lakes and sweating in saunas.

Then we were in New York with that top job. Going back to the UN office, meeting with diplomats and chiefs and proving my value while Nina could be best friends with little Mabel, joining Broadway parties with my sister’s friends, uncovering the hidden Argentines of the big manzana.

Recently we flew to Italy, that big job in Rome, but since its hybrid we could live on the coast and learn Italian, eating skinny pizzas and spending weekends drinking mate on beaches as Nina plays tag with the bambini.

Oh and this year, just this year we were in Boston, that one that snuck away. A fucking shit ton of money. But that last interview where I froze made it certain we wouldn’t get it. No to the ego-humping Harvard gig.

We also went to China in one dream. We were definitely back in Copenhagen a few times. And Panama, oh those jobs, those careers were just in arms reach. We were even working remote from Alaska once, Chino going on fishing expeditions while I baked cakes for locals.

More recently, we were happy just here, our lives in beautiful Buenos Aires, working remote gigs, small consultancies. Content, but not inspired (career-wise that is).

So many plotted lives. Just within reach.

But when I finally put my hands down on the keys, the plot shifted. Each of them died their own death, the only way a panser knows how to.

Unexpectedly.

***

I must admit something to my readers. Those beautiful ones who actually enjoy my rants and emotional releases and sense I try to make of this world.

I use AI. I use the internet. I use tools to find new words. I also use Instagram and Tiktok and Facebook to see what works. To follow, to copy, to extract, to adapt.

And you know what?

I’ve been losing my creative ability.

My mind… it’s cracking. It hurts some days. The head pounds. The rants at ChatGPT because he is so useless but I use him anyways. I didn’t mean that you fucking idiot!

Expectations for this job. For this life. Expectations on how to write, how to market, how to live. How AI should work. But he doesn’t know my brain. You don’t know what I need!! Stupid ChatGPT just listen!

We see. We copy. We become like.. like.. like.. like.. like.. another. We become like a damn good AI engine.

Which is why today, I knew what my alma humana needed. When the waiter came by to ask what I wanted and saw me whip out my wrecked computer, blue-tooth keyboard (yes, my computer keys broke a while back), my mouse and my mousepad, she asked casually:

“Queres el código para Wifi? “

If you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain and the feel of the ocean and the taste of champagne if you like makin love at midnight in the cool summer day if you’re not into yoga if you had half a brain.

“Sin wifi hoy”

It came out weird. She laughed.

Because today I sit in my new blue jeans, and I will be a panser.