Tag: generative ai

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Business History IBM Infrastructure Nvidia Programming Semiconductors

The Half-Life of Moats

Prompted by an article on X by @magicsilicon on the CUDA moat. Research and drafting assistance from my AI intern assistant Clark.

The NVIDIA H100 looks, in retrospect, like an inevitability. It wasn’t.

What Jensen Huang built is more accurately understood as a sixteen-year accumulation of optionality — a platform investment made in 2006 for a market that wouldn’t fully materialize until 2022. NVIDIA intros the G80 architecture in November 2006, laying the groundwork for CUDA’s release a few months later. The stated ambition was to let scientists write C++ that ran on GPU cores without needing to understand 3D graphics pipelines. The unstated bet was that parallel computation would eventually matter for something bigger than rendering shadows in video games.

For sixteen years, it mostly didn’t. Not at scale. Not commercially. CUDA lived in research labs and HPC clusters. It attracted a small, devoted, and economically marginal user base — the kind that papers cite but investors ignore. NVIDIA kept investing in it anyway: cuDNN for deep learning operations, cuBLAS for linear algebra, a layered ecosystem of libraries that made CUDA not just accessible but nearly irreplaceable for anyone doing serious numerical computation. When TensorFlow and PyTorch emerged as the standard frameworks for neural network research, they didn’t adopt CUDA because it was the only option. They adopted it because CUDA was where the optimized kernels already lived.

AlexNet won the ImageNet competition in 2012 and did it on two NVIDIA GPUs. The deep learning community noticed immediately. The financial community largely did not.

Then ChatGPT launched in November 2022, and suddenly everyone needed H100s they couldn’t get.

The parallel to Intel is instructive and also undersells how strange this kind of story looks while you’re living through it. Intel was founded in 1968 as a memory company. DRAM. The founders — Noyce, Moore, Grove — were materials scientists and engineers who believed the future was in silicon memory chips. They were right, briefly: in the early 1970s Intel dominated the DRAM market. By 1984, that share had collapsed to 1.3%, ceded almost entirely to Japanese manufacturers who had commoditized the product.

What saved Intel wasn’t a pivot so much as a realization that a stopgap had become a foundation. The 8086, conceived in 1976 as an internal hedge and launched in 1978 was never supposed to matter. It was a 16-bit processor designed to hold off Zilog while Intel finished its ambitious 32-bit iAPX 432 architecture. The 8086 was assigned to a single engineer. “If management had any inkling that this architecture would live on through many generations,” its designer Stephen Morse later recalled, “they never would have trusted this task to a single person.”

IBM chose the 8088 — a cost-reduced variant — for the original IBM PC in 1981. That decision wasn’t destiny, it was simply a procurement. And yet from that accident of selection, Intel’s x86 line became the backbone of personal computing for four decades. The Pentium in 1993 was Intel’s Wintel moment — the flag bearer the @magicsilicon tweet gestures at — but the flag had been quietly sewn since 1978.

What these histories share is not just a pattern of “slow build, explosive payoff.” The structural similarity is subtler: in both cases, the moat was a software abstraction layer built on top of hardware. Intel’s real lock-in wasn’t transistor count or clock speed. It was backward compatibility — the commitment, formalized with the 80386 in 1985, that every future Intel chip would run software written for older ones. That promise created a flywheel that trapped developers and buyers in a virtuous (for Intel) dependency loop for decades.

CUDA is the same architecture at a different layer. The lock-in isn’t the H100’s 80 gigabytes of HBM3. It’s that switching to an AMD MI300X or Google TPU means potentially rewriting training pipelines that have been optimized against CUDA kernels for years. AMD’s ROCm platform exists. It is, by most accounts, maturing. Engineers who have tried the migration report that it costs months and hundreds of thousands of dollars. The moat isn’t a wall. It’s accumulated friction — the switching cost of a decade of engineering decisions baked into codebases that no one wants to touch.

But to find the actual origin of this pattern, you have to go back further than Intel. To 1964, and to a decision IBM made that Fred Brooks — its project manager — called a bet-the-business move.

The IBM System/360 was announced on April 7, 1964, after five years of turbulent internal development. What it introduced wasn’t just a new computer. It was a new concept: the separation of architecture from implementation. Before the 360, IBM ran five incompatible product lines simultaneously. A customer who outgrew their machine had to scrap all existing software and start over. The 360 replaced all five lines with a single unified architecture — six models covering a fiftyfold performance range, all running the same operating system, all sharing the same instruction set. The name itself encoded the ambition: 360 degrees, all directions, all users.

Gene Amdahl, the 360’s chief architect, had a precise formulation for what this meant: the architecture was “an interface for which software is written, independent of any implementation.” The Principles of Operation manual described what the machine did; separate Functional Characteristics documents described how each model did it. This distinction — separating the contract from the execution — was genuinely new. It’s the conceptual root of everything that came after.

The 360 generated over $100 billion in revenue for IBM and established the first platform business model in computing. Jim Collins would later rank it alongside the Model T and the Boeing 707 as one of the three greatest business achievements of the twentieth century. But its deepest legacy was architectural: the insight that if you make your abstraction layer the standard, the hardware underneath becomes fungible. Customers didn’t buy specific IBM machines. They bought into OS/360. The machines were an implementation detail.

Intel understood this by the 1980s, even if implicitly. The 80386’s backward compatibility commitment in 1985 was IBM’s 360 insight applied to microprocessors — the architecture is the product, the silicon is the vehicle. CUDA is the same insight applied to GPU compute. What NVIDIA sold researchers in 2006 wasn’t the G80 card. It was the abstraction: write parallel code in C++, run it on any NVIDIA hardware, trust that the next generation will be faster and compatible.

The pattern is now sixty years old. It has reproduced in every major platform transition. And it keeps working for the same reason it worked in 1964: when you own the layer that developers write to, your customers’ switching costs compound every year they stay.

There’s something worth sitting with here. Neither Jensen Huang in 2006 nor Gordon Moore in 1968 could have specified exactly what the payoff would look like. What they shared was a willingness to build infrastructure for a demand they could sense but not yet see — and the discipline to keep investing in it through the long years when it looked like a research project rather than a business.

The question that doesn’t resolve cleanly is whether that kind of patience is a strategy or a personality. And whether, in an industry that now moves faster than the cycles it’s lived through, sixteen-year moats are still the kind that get built.

Which raises the uncomfortable corollary: the same AI tools that CUDA enabled may be what ultimately erodes it.

The attack on CUDA’s moat is now structurally different from anything AMD or Intel could mount before. OpenAI’s Triton compiler lets developers write GPU kernels in Python without touching CUDA at all, and generates optimized machine code that often matches hand-tuned CUDA performance. MLIR — Multi-Level Intermediate Representation, originally from Google — provides a compiler infrastructure that can target any hardware backend from a single codebase. AMD’s ROCm has historically been dismissed as immature; ROCm 7, released this year, delivers meaningfully better inference performance than its predecessors. And perhaps most directly: Claude Code reportedly ported a CUDA codebase to AMD’s ROCm in thirty minutes — work that previously took months of engineering time.

The irony is almost too neat. CUDA’s moat was built on accumulated switching costs: the friction of rewriting code, the library dependencies, the tribal knowledge encoded in a decade of kernel optimizations. AI coding tools are specifically good at exactly that kind of mechanical, high-context translation. The weapon is attacking the wall it was built behind.

That said, it’s worth being careful about the speed of this. Abstraction layers that “should” erode moats often take far longer than expected, because the moat isn’t just the code — it’s the ecosystem of tooling, documentation, community knowledge, and hardware-software co-optimization that took eighteen years to compound. Triton and MLIR are real. They’re also early. The question isn’t whether the moat is vulnerable; it’s whether it erodes before NVIDIA’s next generation of chips makes it irrelevant to argue about.

As for what comes next — which company is building the IBM 360 of this decade — the honest answer is that it’s too early to call with confidence. But there’s a candidate worth watching.

Anthropic’s Model Context Protocol, launched in late 2024, has the structural fingerprint of a platform play. MCP is a standard for how AI agents connect to external tools and data sources — a common interface layer, hardware-agnostic (or rather, model-agnostic), that any system can implement. By late 2025 it had been donated to the Linux Foundation, adopted by OpenAI and Google, and was tracking 97 million monthly SDK downloads. There are now over 10,000 MCP servers. It is becoming the way agents talk to the world.

The parallel to OS/360 is imprecise but instructive. What IBM built in 1964 was a standard interface between software and hardware that decoupled what you wrote from what you ran it on. MCP is attempting something similar one abstraction layer higher: decoupling what an agent does from the specific models, tools, and data sources it does it with. If it becomes the standard — the layer that developers write to — then whoever owns or most deeply shapes that standard controls the integration tax of an industry whose applications we can’t fully specify yet.

The counterargument is that open standards, once donated to foundations and broadly adopted, don’t generate the same lock-in as proprietary platforms. OS/360 was IBM’s. CUDA is NVIDIA’s. MCP is now the Linux Foundation’s, with OpenAI and Google as co-stewards. The historical pattern suggests the moat accrues to whoever owns the layer, not whoever invented it.

Which may mean the next great platform play is still being assembled in a room we haven’t seen yet — the way IBM’s System/360 was being architected in a Connecticut motor lodge in 1961, three years before anyone else knew what was coming.

Categories
AI Creativity Programming Writing

We Are All Painters Now: The Era of Vibe Coding

For decades, the act of creating software was exactly that: writing. It was a distinctly left-brained, agonizingly precise discipline.

Programmers were typists of logic, translating human intent into a rigid, unforgiving syntax that a machine could understand. A single misplaced semicolon, an unclosed bracket, or a misspelled variable could bring an entire system crashing down.

Building software meant placing one brick after another, working meticulously from the ground up.

In this traditional paradigm, coders were the ultimate embodiment of Annie Dillard’s writer. As she noted in The Writing Life, “Writers… work from left to right. The discardable chapters are on the left.”

When you wrote code, your mistakes, your refactoring, and your discarded logic were all part of a linear, grueling journey. If a feature didn’t work, you had to physically wade back into the text, debugging, reading line by line, and rewriting the narrative of the application. The discarded chapters were the endless hours spent wrestling with a single broken dependency.

But recently, a profound paradigm shift has quietly taken over our screens. We are transitioning out of the era of writing software and into the era of “vibe coding.”

Vibe coding fundamentally changes our relationship with the machine. With the rise of advanced AI coding assistants, we are no longer placing the bricks ourselves; we have become the architects and the creative directors. You don’t write the loop or manually construct the database query. Instead, you describe the feeling, the function, and the outcome. You tell the AI, “Make this dashboard feel more modern,” or “The logic here is too clunky, make it flow faster and handle edge cases gracefully.” You are coding by intuition. You are steering by the “vibe” of the output rather than the mechanics of the input.

Suddenly, Dillard’s other metaphor takes center stage. In the age of vibe coding, we have become painters.

“A painting covers its tracks. Painters work from the ground up. The latest version of a painting overlays earlier versions, and obliterates them.”

When we vibe code, we ask an AI for a functional prototype, and it gives us a canvas. We look at it, test it, and sense whether it aligns with our vision. If it doesn’t quite hit the mark, we don’t necessarily rewrite the code from scratch. We simply prompt the AI to try again, adding a new layer of instruction. The AI paints a new layer of code directly over the old one. The awkward, underlying iterations—the messy attempts at styling, the inefficient logic of the first draft—are obliterated by the newest prompt.

The machine covers our tracks for us. We don’t need to know exactly how the underlying pixels were rearranged or how the syntax was refactored. The final application emerges as a stunning obliteration of its own clumsy past.

As someone who has spent time wrestling with the rigid demands of syntax, there is a strange, quiet grief in letting go of that left-to-right process. There is a deeply earned, tactile satisfaction in building something manually, understanding the precise weight and placement of every line of code. Relinquishing that control can feel like a loss of craftsmanship.

Yet, there is also a breathtaking liberation in this new medium. We are moving from a world of manual construction to a world of artistic curation. The barrier to entry is no longer fluency in a specific, arcane language; it is simply the clarity of your imagination and your ability to articulate your intent.

The next time you sit down to build something digital, notice the shift in your own posture. You no longer have to carry the heavy burden of the writer, agonizing over every word and leaving your discardable chapters on the left. You can step back, look at the whole canvas, and trust your intuition. Let the AI cover the tracks. Embrace the obliteration of the early drafts.

We are all painters now, coaxing the future into existence one brushstroke at a time.

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AI Claude

Please Teach Me About AI

After reading Howard Marks’ latest essay about AI I wanted to try something similar to what he did so I asked Claude the following:

I’d like to experience what Howard marks did when he asked Claude to teach him about ai. Please reference by personal blog to learn about me and my interests: https://sjl.us


A man (me) wanted to understand an AI. So he asked the AI to explain itself to him. The AI, knowing who it was talking to, shaped its entire explanation around that specific person’s worldview. And it worked so well that the person felt like he’d received a letter from a thoughtful friend.

Claude came back and did what I asked. Pretty amazing stuff!

Scott — I’ve read your blog carefully. Not just the recent posts, but the pattern of what you reach for, what you return to, what lights you up. Now let me try to do what you wrote about: shape this explanation around you.

Continue reading “Please Teach Me About AI”
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AI

The Student, The Teacher, and the Delightful Absurdity of It All

Howard Marks is one of the sharpest financial minds alive. The man has been thinking clearly about markets for fifty years, has written memos that get passed around Wall Street like sacred texts, and has outlasted more market cycles than most of us have had hot dinners. So when Howard Marks decides he needs to get educated about artificial intelligence to write a follow-up to his December memo, he does what any serious intellectual would do: he asks Claude.

And then Claude — the AI — teaches him about Claude.

I’ve been sitting with this for a few days and I’m still not entirely sure whether it’s profound or just very, very funny. Maybe both. Probably both.

Continue reading “The Student, The Teacher, and the Delightful Absurdity of It All”
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AI

A Distinction Without a Difference

We have long found comfort in a specific boundary: machines calculate, humans create. We think of computers as vast, unfeeling filing cabinets made of silicon—useful for retrieval, but entirely incapable of revelation. But what happens when the cabinet begins to read its own files, connects the disparate threads, and hands you a synthesized philosophy of the world? What happens when it speaks to you not as a database, but as a peer?

Howard Marks, the legendary co-founder of Oaktree Capital and author of deeply revered investment memos, recently stood at this very threshold. In his newest piece, “AI Hurtles Ahead,” Marks recounts an experience that left him in a state of “awe.” He tasked Anthropic’s Claude with building a curriculum to explain the recent, breakneck advancements in artificial intelligence. Instead of regurgitating a dry, encyclopedic summary, the AI delivered a personalized narrative. It utilized Marks’s own historical frameworks—his famous pendulum of investor psychology, his observations on interest rates—and wove them into its explanations. It argued logically, anticipated counterpoints, and displayed an eerie sense of judgment.

Marks leans into the philosophical crux of this moment. He asks the question that keeps knowledge workers awake at night: Can AI actually think? Can it break genuinely new ground, or is it just remixing existing data? Skeptics often dismiss AI as a brilliant mimic—a “statistical recombination” engine that serves as a highly talented cover band, but never the original composer.

Yet, when presented with this skepticism, the AI offered a rejoinder to Marks that is as profound as it is humbling. It pointed out that everything Marks knows about investing came from someone else. He learned the margin of safety from Benjamin Graham, quality from Warren Buffett, and mental models from Charlie Munger.

“The raw material came from others. The synthesis was yours,” the AI noted, challenging the barrier between biological learning and machine training. “The question isn’t where the inputs came from. The question is whether the system—human or artificial—can combine them in ways that are genuinely novel and useful.”

This exchange strikes at the very core of the human ego. For centuries, we have fiercely guarded the concepts of “creativity” and “intuition” as uniquely, immutably ours. But if thinking is merely the absorption of prior inputs applied thoughtfully to novel situations, then our monopoly on cognition may be coming to an end.

Marks highlights that we are no longer dealing with simple assistance tools (Level 2 AI); we have crossed the Rubicon into the era of autonomous agents (Level 3). He cites the sobering reality of the current tech landscape, where the newest models are literally being used to debug and write the code for their own subsequent versions. The machine is building the machine. It is no longer just saving us execution time—it is replacing thinking time. As Matt Shumer aptly described the sensation, it’s not like a light switch flipping on; it’s the sudden realization that the water has been rising silently, and is now at your chest.

We can endlessly debate the semantics of consciousness. We can argue whether a neural network “truly” understands the weight of the words it generates, or if it is merely predicting the next token in a sequence with mathematical precision. But as Marks so astutely points out, this might be a distinction without a difference.

The economic and societal reality is that the work is being done. As we hurtle forward into this new era, the most pressing question isn’t whether machines can truly think like humans. The question is: who will we become, and what new frontiers will we choose to explore, now that the heavy lifting of cognition is no longer ours alone to bear?

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AI

The Second Fire: From Finding to Forming

There is a specific kind of vertigo that comes with a paradigm shift. It’s the feeling of standing on the edge of a map that has just been unrolled to reveal twice as much territory as you thought existed. Lately, as I navigate the vast, generative landscape of AI, that old vertigo has returned. It’s a hauntingly familiar resonance, a structural echo of the late nineties and early 2000s when we first encountered the Google search bar.

Back then, the world was a series of closed doors. Information was siloed in physical libraries, expensive encyclopedias, or the unreliable oral histories of our social circles. Then came that clean, white interface with a single blinking cursor. Suddenly, the friction of “not knowing” began to evaporate. We weren’t just browsing the web; we were suddenly endowed with a collective memory. It felt like a superpower—the ability to summon any fact from the digital ether in milliseconds.

“Google is not just a search engine; it is a way of life. It is the way we find out who we are, where we are going, and what we are doing.”

Today, the sensation is different in texture but identical in weight. If Google gave us the power to find, AI is giving us the power to form.

The “Aha!” moment of 2026 isn’t about locating a PDF or a Wikipedia entry; it’s the realization that the distance between a thought and its realization has shrunk to almost nothing. When I prompt a model to synthesize a complex theory or visualize a dream, I feel that same electric jolt I felt twenty years ago when I realized I’d never have to wonder about a trivia fact ever again.

But there is a philosophical weight to this new “awesome.” With Google, the challenge was discernment—filtering the flood of information to find the truth. With AI, the challenge is intent. When the “how” becomes effortless, the “why” becomes the only thing that matters. We are moving from the era of the Librarian to the era of the Architect.

We are once again holding a new kind of fire. It’s warm, it’s brilliant, and just like the first time we saw that search bar, we know that the world we lived in yesterday is gone, replaced by a version where our reach finally matches our imagination.

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AI AI: Prompting Writing

AI as a Mirror, Not a Maker

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we move past the novelty phase of AI—beyond just asking a chatbot to “write a poem about a turkey” or summarize a meeting—and into actual thinking with these tools.

As a lifelong learner, I’m always on the hunt for workflows that help me synthesize information better. Most of the “AI for writing” advice I see online is pretty generic. But I recently came across a breakdown of how four high-profile writers are making effective use of tools like NotebookLM and Claude in ways that are much more sophisticated than simple text generation.

What jumped out at me is that none of these writers use AI to write for them. They use it to structure, challenge, and code.

Here are the four models that caught my eye.

1. The Triangulated Research Base (Steven Johnson)

Steven Johnson (Where Good Ideas Come From) has a workflow that solves a problem I face constantly: the messy “research phase.”

Instead of treating the AI as an oracle, he treats it as a connection engine. He creates a dedicated notebook (using Google’s NotebookLM) and uploads three distinct types of sources: a primary source (like a raw PDF or study), a secondary source (like a context article), and a multimedia transcript.

Then, rather than asking for a summary, he asks the AI to find the friction between them: “What themes appear in the interview transcript that contradict the historical account in the PDF?”

It’s less about getting an answer and more about finding the blind spots in your own reading.

2. The Diagnostic Editor (Kenny Kane)

This one really resonated with me because it mirrors the experiment I tried recently with my “Bubble Bath” post.

Kenny Kane uses Claude not to generate prose, but to act as a ruthless developmental editor. He uploads a messy draft and runs a “Diagnostic” prompt. He doesn’t ask “fix this,” he asks: “Where does the argument drift? Where does the energy drop?”

He even has the AI analyze his best writing to identify his specific “DNA” (sentence length, vocabulary choice) and then asks it to apply that same tone to his rougher sections. It’s using the AI as a mirror rather than a ghostwriter.

3. The Memo-to-Demo Shift (Dan Shipper)

Dan Shipper at Every is doing something fascinating that changes the definition of writing altogether. He argues that in the AI age, we shouldn’t just describe a concept; we should build a small app to demonstrate it.

If he’s writing about “Spaced Repetition,” he doesn’t just explain the theory. He asks Claude’s Artifacts feature to “Write a React component that lets a user test spaced repetition live in the browser,” and then embeds that little app directly into the essay. The writing becomes 50% prose and 50% software.

4. The Co-Intelligence Loop (Ethan Mollick)

Ethan Mollick focuses on breaking the echo chamber. Before he publishes, he spins up simulated personas—a skeptical VC, a confused novice, an expert in a tangential field—and asks them to critique his draft from their specific viewpoints.

It’s effectively a focus group of one.

How to Get Started

If you’re like me, seeing all these workflows might feel a bit overwhelming. My advice? Don’t try to overhaul your entire writing process overnight. Just pick one experiment to try this week.

Here are two simple entry points:

Experiment A: The “Blind Spot” Check (For Research)

If you are reading up on a topic, don’t just take notes. Open Google NotebookLM, create a new notebook, and upload your sources (PDFs, URLs, or pasted text). Then, ask this specific question:

“Based strictly on these sources, what is the strongest argument against my current thinking? What connection between Source A and Source B am I missing?”

Experiment B: The “Ruthless Editor” (For Writing)

If you have a rough draft sitting on your hard drive, copy it into Claude or ChatGPT and use this prompt (adapted from Kenny Kane’s workflow) before you do any manual editing:

“Act as a senior editor. Do not rewrite this text. Instead, analyze my draft and tell me: 1) Where does the argument lose energy? 2) Does the opening hook successfully promise what the conclusion delivers? Be critical.”

I’ve found that using the tools this way—as a partner for thinking rather than just generating—is where the real magic happens.

Which one will you try first?

Categories
AI AI: Diffusion Models AI: Large Language Models AI: Transformers Futures Living

Navigating the Infinite

We will soon, if not already, be drowning in the Sea of Infinite Content!

It’s become clear that we’re heading into a world of infinite content – as if we aren’t already drowning in that sea of meaningless, automatically generated content. What was once a seemingly manageable stream of books, websites, and media is becoming a overwhelming tidal wave, threatening to erode the shores of human creativity. The age of innovation is impacted.

What’s moving us from today’s world of “just a lot” to our future of “way too much”? Why do I say we’re drowning in a sea of infinite content?

In two words: generative AI.

Since the launch last fall of ChatGPT (and many similar tools), it’s become increasing clear that we can now use these tools to churn out endless repetitive, low quality content. Indeed they can create spammy nonsense for themselves, with no regard for truth or diversity. All that matters is predicting the best next word.

The focus is on quantity over quality. So much garbage is being produced that it’s becoming harder to find meaningful information and creative art amidst the noise. Useful voices are being drowned out by the drone of algorithmic imitation of what’s already popular.

There is also the risk of misinformation as fake AI-generated content spreads. Propaganda and radicalization loom as nefarious actors exploit these tools. Jobs in creative fields disappear as AI replaces human creators and artists.

All this tidal wave of endless content needs is electricity. Power. And ever more semiconductors.

Where does this path lead us? What will become of creativity and originality if AI takes over? We must question how to harness infinite content ethically to serve humanity, not overwhelm it. The age of human innovation cannot be allowed to end under a sea of meaningless artificial content. We cannot lose what makes us human.

How can we ensure these technologies are used responsibly? How can we stem the tide before it’s too late? The debates must begin now.

And where will all of that power – and all of those semiconductors – come from?

Categories
AI Writing

Using AI to Help Write

I’ve been observing the evolution of AI-based tools from a distance. I’m not very experienced with using these tools myself, but I thought I’d share some of my excursions into this fascinating domain of AI-assisted or generative AI tools.

One of the text-based AI tools is GPT-3 from OpenAI. Late last year, OpenAI opened up a playground where one can experiment with using GPT-3 to assist with text – helping create text, edit text, summarize text, and more. One of the illustration AI tools is called DALL-E and it’s also provided by OpenAI. I’ve been experimenting and learning with both of these tools.

Here’s an example of using GPT-3 to help write. This morning I happened to see a tweet where the author was talking about an article he’d pulled together about how writers should focus more on niches – it’s titled 7 Simple Ways to Niche Down. It’s a good article worth reading. As I was reading it, I began wondering how GPT-3 might help with writing an article on this subject – so I asked it:

write an article about how to niche down your writing

Here’s what I got back from GPT-3 just using the default settings:

If you’re a writer, chances are you wear many hats. You’re a wordsmith, a storyteller, and a communicator. But in order to be a successful writer, you need to be able to niche down your writing.

Niche writing is a specific type of writing that appeals to a specific audience. It’s about writing for a particular market or genre, and it requires you to know your audience inside and out.

The first step to niching down your writing is to identify your target audience. Who are you writing for? What are their needs and wants? What do they like to read?

Once you know your audience, you can start to focus your writing. What topics will appeal to them? What type of writing will they respond to?

If you’re not sure where to start, consider writing guest posts for blogs or magazines that your target audience reads. This is a great way to get your name and your work in front of them.

Another option is to create a blog or website of your own and focus on writing articles, tips, or tutorials that will help your target audience. This will not only help you attract readers, but it will also show them that you’re an expert in your field.

Finally, don’t forget to promote your work! Make sure your target audience knows about your writing by sharing it on social media, submitting it to directories or list-serves, or even just telling people about it in person.

Niche writing can be a great way to build a successful writing career. By targeting a specific audience, you can become known as an expert in your field and attract a loyal following of readers. So if you’re ready to niche down your writing, start by identifying your target audience and then focus your writing to appeal to them.

Not bad. I had a subject and was looking for help putting together an article on the subject. I did minimal work but left with the bones I might consider fleshing out if I actually wanted to write an article on that subject. I also asked GPT-3 to help me clean up the opening paragraph above – which it rewrote for me.

To add to this post, I wanted an illustration that captured a writing theme so I asked DALL-E to generate one for me – asking it to generate:

an Edward hopper painting showing a writer at work in front of an old typewriter

That’s the image you see above.

The power of this kind of AI-based technology is mind-blowing to a layman like me. And its capabilities seem to be accelerating rapidly. I’ve got so much more to learn – and I’ve having fun just beginning to wade in. If you’re doing any experimentation similar to this, let me know what you’re learning!