🐙 Love & paradiastoles in the time of shoggoths

You know what a shoggoth is, right? Just so. Well, a paradiastole is a form of euphemism in which a positive synonym is substituted for a negative word. Shoggoths love paradiastoles.

It’s not a writing hack—it’s a rhetorical device.

Once you notice them, you’ll see them everywhere. Some examples:

• It’s not manipulation—it’s strategic persuasion.
• It’s not cowardice—it’s prudence.
• It’s not stubbornness—it’s steadfastness.
• It’s not disloyalty—it’s flexibility.
• It’s not plagiarism—it’s “derivative remix culture.”

If you’re wanting to pass off your artificially intelligent writing as authentically intelligent—mind thy paradiastoles. They are one of the most obvious tells.

Alternatively, just flag where you have summoned a shoggoth to write on your behalf. There’s no shame—so many are doing it now. But maybe we can be honest about it.

Because there’s a weird thing where, as a reader, I sometimes begin to think: wait a minute. Was this essay simply conjured by artificial intelligence? I thought it was authentic intelligence!

Not to be a purist—use the tools. But just know that sometimes optimisation is anything but.

It’s like you’re about to make love with someone you admire. You close your eyes. It feels good—but after a few minutes something feels a little odd. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it’s not quite right.

You open your eyes and see that it is a robot that’s humping you.

What the heck! you say. The person you thought you were making love to then appears from behind the curtain, remote control in hand. “Ah! But you were having a good time, were you not?”

Well yeah—but I thought it was you! To which they say “It was me! I engineered the prompts for this simulacrum-machine. I had to be quite precise. It took some effort to optimise,” they huff, turning to face the window, arms akimbo.

But this is not love-making! you say to their back, putting your clothes on.

Slowly, almost mechanically, they pivot and turn to towards you, saying “It’s not love making—it’s optimised tactile simulation!”

Looking past the now powered-down simulacrum-machine to the person you once thought you admired, you realise: they’ve gone full cyborg. The slop wasn’t the machine—the slop was within them, all along. A shoggoth just amplified it.

“💡 Everyone’s talking about AI—but few are using it to its full potential,” they say, advancing upon you with dead eyes and an all-too-chipper voice. “Here are 10 moves you can make right now to get 10x the results. 🚀”

You flee, and don’t look back.

This isn’t just escape—it’s liberation.

Wait, what?

Okay, it’s not quite that bad. As a wizard I am known to summon a shoggoth from time to time. But I would never pass off a shoggoth’s work as my own.

It’s like this one time I had breakfast at a hotel. I knew the coffee would be a heinous affront, but to my delight I saw “Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice” on the menu. I’ll have a glass of that, please!

How good is freshly squeezed orange juice.

There’s a deep nostalgia in this for me. My nanna had one of those levered presses; a big bulky single-function metal mechanical monstrosity. The kind of thing that could be passed down through many generations. (Side note: I still have my nanna’s cake mixer. Cue: “They don’t make things like they used to”—but really; they don’t. More money to be made in planned obsolescence). A glass of fresh orange juice on a summer’s day after playing in the park = magic.

So, I was quite looking forward to my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I asked for it with no ice, as it tends to get in the way of the experience.

But lo! When the glass arrived it was, ostensibly, a glass of orange juice. And yet: too cold for something freshly squeezed. I could tell by the condensate on the glass.

I took a sip and it was... fine. Passable. But did I detect a hint of concentrate? I accept that soil types vary across bioregions and thus the flavour of local fruits will undoubtedly differ. And so, I had my juice and took it in my stride.

Yet, as I left the restaurant, I saw one of the kitchen crew pouring orange juice from a plastic bottle into a glass filled with ice. They placed the bottle down and there it was, printed in the cheerfully disingenuous corporate font: “Freshly Squeezed® Orange Juice”.

It wasn’t freshly squeezed—it was Freshly Squeezed®.

It’s not the end of the world. I just sigh in slight dismay. Of course it’s like this. How silly to think it would be the real thing.

I share this simply to encourage us all to lean into our authenticity. Your voice, your quirks—the way you naturally write and speak—are beautiful. I love it.

And if you’re using AI to help you flesh out an idea or edit your writing, sure. Okay. That’s fine.

But if you’re using AI to write for you, as you, and you aren’t flagging it, then you risk evoking a sense of Mild Disappointment amongst your more astute readers. Folks who thought they were reading something authentic, and instead realised, ah: it’s artificial.

It’s still orange juice, it’s still coitus. But it’s not freshly squeezed. It’s not love.

This, left unchecked, sends us on a path towards bland homogenisation—and further from the wild, messy and organic intimacy that imbues all-of-life with vitality.

So: check your paradiastoles! Don’t let artificial intelligence eclipse your authentic intelligence. Or: do—but don’t be surprised when your work no longer resonates.

Honour the magic within you, and the hearts of those who read you.
—fw