When I Am an Older Woman, I Shall Continue to Write with AI

Daily writing prompt

How has technology changed your job?

I know my title is going to ruffle some feathers, but hear me out.

“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple…” Jenny Joseph wrote these words in her best-loved poem, Warning. She wrote it as a form of rebellion and a declaration that she no longer needed permission to be who she is. She used the poem to assert her freedom to live, dress, and speak on her own terms.

I found this poem after stumbling upon a video of Helena Bonham Carter reading it.

As someone in her late 40s, I think about that poem more often these days. No, I don’t feel old (well, slightly). I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I think of that poem because I feel done. Done asking for permission, done explaining myself, done seeking validation—to and from anyone. This sentiment is especially true when it comes to how I write.

Here is my declaration: I use AI, and I am not ashamed of it.

I’ve written about this before—here—when I discussed the growing tendency to shame people for using AI in their creative work. I’ve watched from the sidelines as creatives everywhere bickered among themselves about who is original versus who is not (read: cheaters). Right versus wrong.

It’s as if we’re all secretly cheating on some literary or art exam, as if the tools we use somehow invalidate the core essence or soul of what we’re trying to say or illustrate.

Let me be clear: I don’t condone copying and pasting from a chatbot and claiming it as your own. That’s not my message. I advocate for the ethical use of AI—as a thinking partner, a sounding board, a tool that helps me do the work I’ve always done, just faster and more efficiently.

I’m a portrait artist too. This is one of my past works.

AI helps me brainstorm. It guides me in structuring my ideas, refining my voice, and clarifying my points. It helps me generate new angles I might have overlooked when I’m struggling with perimenopausal brain fog. AI also reminds me to be grateful that I live in an era where I have access to high-tech tools and that my creativity doesn’t have to work alone.

Could I do all these things without AI? Absolutely. But it would take me days. And often, time is a luxury I can’t afford—not with work, family, responsibilities, and a thousand other things that make up my life. I’ve written this before and I’m repeating it again:

AI is helping more people to express themselves than ever before. Why are we writing? We write to express our emotions, share stories, and communicate ideas. I enjoy writing, and I do so on a daily basis. I want everyone to have that right and that joy, regardless of their circumstances. We can’t all go on long writing retreats by the sea, with our spouses pouring us delicious cups of coffee. The reality for most of us is that writing can be difficult. Maybe we have kids tugging at our clothes, maybe we’re exhausted from a full-time job, maybe we didn’t have great opportunities in school. Maybe English isn’t our first language—like me, an indigenous woman from an obscure tribe in Borneo—or maybe we’re fighting dyslexia, ADHD, or arthritis just to get the words on the page.

So I use what’s available, with intention and discernment. And I keep writing and making art.

AI is a tool, just like Photoshop is to photographers. No one accuses a skilled photographer of cheating when they enhance their work using Photoshop. The tool doesn’t make the art, but it helps bring the artist’s vision to life. It’s the same with me. I brainstorm and discuss my ideas with a chatbot (ChatGPT, Gemini, DeepSeek) before writing my own work. Then I refine it using tools like QuillBot or Grammarly. Others might prefer ProWriting Aid. These are just part of the process—like spellcheck, revision, or editing.

To my fellow middle-aged friends—especially those of us who’ve lived long enough to know what we want but are still figuring out how to say it—don’t be afraid of AI or feel ashamed of using it. Never let someone else’s discomfort dictate how you create. We have to speak boldly, not shrink.

The truth is, AI is here to stay. We can’t put it back in the box and pretend it doesn’t exist. There is no going back to a world before it. And if you can’t go against it, make it your ally. Use it wisely, and with integrity.

That’s what Jenny Joseph was really talking about, wasn’t she? The unapologetic freedom.

When I am an older woman—well, older than I am now—I shall continue to write with AI. I shall ignore the gatekeepers and the purists. I shall write freely, fiercely, authentically, and without shame. And I shall wear purple.

Just because I can.

I handwrote all of my writing, including this blog post, before editing it using QuillBot.

Reflection | A Rebellion Beneath My Breasts

Daily writing prompt

How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?

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I don’t usually say “no” out loud. Not like people imagine—with steely resolve or loud announcements.

But I speak quietly—in small decisions, in between invitations, or when I left several trivial texts unanswered.

When I moved to Taipei two decades ago (for work), I didn’t have a set list of goals. I arrived with curiosity and a bag full of lonely ambition. The first several months felt like a jumble of polite conversations and an endless stream of data on spreadsheets. I attended dinners with coworkers because I had to, not because I wanted to. I replied yes because of responsibility but no in my heart.

However, I gradually began to make other choices.

I stopped wasting my evenings with pointless nonsense. I found cafes with fogged-up windows and dim lighting where I could write. I stopped accepting weekend plans simply to avoid being alone. I began declining activities that diverted my attention away from what was important: reflection, art, and authentic experiences.

Some people express “no” by closing doors. I say it while slowly walking in the opposite direction.

I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.

These days, my “no” does not imply rejection. It’s a diversion or a simple acknowledgment of the space I require to breathe, create, and exist.

I recall the moment I nodded and allowed him to sit across from me in that café. It was hardly anything. However, it was pregnant with meaning.

I had always said no to strangers, spontaneous encounters, and anything that threatened the careful solitude I had built around myself like armor. But that day, I didn’t.

I didn’t say “yes” aloud. I simply didn’t say “no”.

And sometimes, that’s okay.

Quiet Nod

It wasn’t a yes.
Just a twitch in my neck
and a rebellion beneath my breasts—
a dare whispered to the
soft animal of my body:
Stay.

You dragged the chair
and stirred something feral
I’d buried beneath work
and loneliness.

You sat and
asked nothing.
Still, I answered
by not running.

And maybe that’s how it starts—
without longing,
but with the smallest betrayal
of your own solitude.

Maybe the truest ‘no’ is the one we say to fear—so that something else can finally answer yes.

Lover’s Bridge | An Excerpt from My Novella-in-Progress

This is a short excerpt from my novella-in-progress. The story unfolds through fragments and moments that shape the narrative from beginning to end. It follows two people (a foreign woman and a local man) who meet by chance in Taipei, Taiwan, and how their bond deepens through small, ordinary exchanges.

This scene takes place at Tamsui Fisherman’s Wharf, on a cold spring Sunday.

I chose to strip this piece (and the whole novella) of unnecessary description, leaving only the essentials—just enough for the reader to fill in the rest.

English is my third language. I used to think I needed big words or beautiful sentences to be taken seriously. But I don’t believe that anymore. This quote by Haruki Murakami reminds me why I write the way I do:

“Writing in a foreign language, with all the limitations that it entailed, removed this obstacle. It also led me to the realisation that I could express my thoughts and feelings with a limited set of words and grammatical structures, as long as I combined them effectively and linked them together in a skilful manner. Ultimately, I learned that there was no need for a lot of difficult words – I didn’t have to try to impress people with beautiful turns of phrase.”

I hope this piece lingers with you in its simplicity. If anything I write resonates with you, feel free to subscribe for updates on the novella and future posts.

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It was a Sunday when he texted.

“Do you want to go somewhere you’ve never been?”

I stared at the message for a while. It was after three in the afternoon. The sky was cloudy, and it was quiet and dreary outside. I had just finished folding laundry, still in my shorts and tank top.

“Okay. But where?”

He picked me up at four. The car was warm, and the radio was set to low. We didn’t say anything on the journey to Tamsui. The windows blurred a little from the cold, and he touched the heater with the back of his knuckle. I remember watching the skyline thin out as the river widened.

It was a chilly spring day; it was slightly sunny, but the light appeared warmer than it actually was. I pulled the jacket around me as we strolled along the wharf. Couples were everywhere, holding hands and snapping photos, while children laughed with sticky hands.

When the cool breeze began to blow, he stayed close.

We went past the food kiosks, which offered grilled squid, fried sweet potatoes, and sugar-coated strawberries on skewers. He stopped at a freezer cart and bought us two soft-serve cones: one matcha and one black sesame.

I gave him a look. “Ice cream?”

He smirked. “Trust me.”

We sat on a bench facing the docks, eating silently. The ice cream quickly melted and dripped onto his wrist. He licked it clean without a word. I giggled. He looked at me and smiled.

As twilight drew near, we strolled toward the bridge.

The Lover’s Bridge arched across the river, its pale structure gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Tourists passed us, cameras in hand, but we strolled slowly, side by side, as if we had all the time in the world.

We stopped midway.

From there, the view widened. The water below shimmered with long strokes of orange and pink. The sun fell lower beneath the horizon. Boats bobbed softly in the harbor.

I stood silently beside him. The breeze brushed a loose strand of hair across my cheek.

We did not talk because there was no need for words.

I could feel him beside me, and that was enough.

We neither touch nor lean in.

But somehow, in that hush of twilight, we felt closer than we had before.

When we eventually turned to go, he said nothing. Neither did I.

But I believe we both realized something had changed.

Even if we weren’t quite ready to admit it.

After the Rain | When He Returns—in the light, the puddles, the sky

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite type of weather?

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My favorite weather is right after it rains—when the sky turns clear and blue, and the air feels cool against my skin. There’s something about that moment that always makes me think of him.

This poem is my response to the blogging prompt “What is your favorite type of weather?” For me, it’s not solely about the weather but the memories it brings back: the cafe we used to go to, neon reflections in rain puddles, our walks by the riverside, his glance when I turned slightly toward him, then looked away. And that one moment I’ll never forget—when love became something sacred between us.

I wrote this to hold onto all of that. Maybe you’ll feel a bit of it too.

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After the Rain

After the rain,
a sky reborn in blue and cool air—
where I miss you most.

I remember the café,
between raindrops and neon on puddles—
pink, yellow, red, blue—
of cooled steel and second chances.

You were always most beautiful in that light—
when the clouds shifted
to make way for clarity.
There you sat, gazing through the window.
I nodded—
and we stepped outside,
two shadows in the wet streets,
to the path along the riverside,
where children raced their scooters,
wild, unburdened joy.

Your hands in your pockets.
I turned just enough to meet your gaze,
then looked away.

And then,
in the aftermath, unbound by the gentle drizzle,
I found you—
on bended knees,
where I was both altar and sinner,
reminding me that love,
in its truest form,
is its own sacred weather.

Do you remember
how even the storm became a confession,
and every clear sky
revealed the beauty
of our impermanence?

I still wander in the clear wake—
a pilgrim of rain and neon dreams,
and every breath of cool air
carries the wonder of you.

Little Things I Wish I Had More Time For

Daily writing prompt

What do you wish you could do more every day?

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Waking up before dawn

The darkness is soft, almost porous. I lie on my bed for a moment, in half-light, listening to the world exhale. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Somewhere above, a toilet flushes. And far away, in my mind, a train shudders along its tracks.

Then—silence.

This silence is my companion. I want to sit with it longer and let it wrap around me like a blanket. But the world is already stirring. The koel calls for its mate. A muezzin’s call to prayer rises in the cool morning air. The day’s demands creep in like the first rays of sun.

I answer, always, because I must. The world moves, and I move with it.

Being a flâneur

Flâneur. It’s called being a flâneur. Wandering aimlessly without a destination or agenda. Just feet on pavement and hands in my pockets, watching people, and life. I’d notice things—sunlight cracking through the sidewalk, ants hauling crumbs from a toppled trash can. I go nowhere in particular, but in that nowhere, I find everything.

But being a flâneur is a luxury. Everyone wakes already moving. Our minds rushing three steps ahead, ticking off tasks, rehearsing conversations, calculating time. Even before our feet touch the ground. There’s no space for aimless wandering. Even when we try to slow down, something reminds us: idle time is wasted time.

Writing before the world intrudes

I write every day, carving out one to three hours, but what I long for is unhurried time, quiet hours where the mind is soft and open and the words flow smoothly. I have so much to say. But the day rushes in, relentless and loud. Its noise chips away at the focus I try to guard.

Reading without guilt

One page, one sentence, savored for the sheer pleasure of it. Like stealing time in a world that never stops asking. But the books pile up like a reminder of the time I don’t have or the attention I can’t spare.

What do you wish you could do more of every day?

Yours, Once

Daily writing prompt

What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?

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The Past

I found the tattoo parlor while wandering aimlessly through one of the narrow, lantern-lit streets of Datong District. The parlor looked old, tucked between a toy store and a Chinese medicine hall.

The needle vibrated and pierced. I closed my eyes and welcomed the sting. I imagined the ink seeping in, letter by letter.

Yours.

It was on my left breast, right above my heart.

Days later, his lips are on my skin. When he reaches the ink, he stops. His fingers tighten ever so slightly against my ribs. He exhales slowly. No questions asked. No words uttered. He kisses it tenderly at first, then again, firmer this time. His tongue traces the letters.

That night, it is different. Neither rough nor fast.

Just intense.

The Present

It’s been years. I have gray hairs now, mostly at my temples. I don’t think of him often—at least, not like I used to. But today, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bare skin. My body is softer now, but there it is.

Yours.

My fingers brush over the letters, the ghost of his lips flickering behind my eyes. I should get it removed. I tell myself that sometimes.

But I won’t.

Back then, his fingertips grazed the ink absentmindedly. While the night bird called in the distance, he’d press his lips against it and whisper—mine.

Now, my fingers trace the letters, following the path his touch once took. The ink remains, but his touch is long gone. I keep waiting for the pain to dull, but it never does.

Back then, it was a vow.

Now, it’s just a relic.

Someone new notices it once. His fingertips pause over the letters.

“Who did this belong to?”

I hesitate. And then I say, “Me.”

If I Could Speak Every Language

Daily writing prompt

What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?

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He often walked me home, and sometimes we ended up on the rooftop of my apartment. I never invited him to my apartment. It was too soon for that.

From the rooftop, the city shimmered like a galaxy spilled across the earth. Neon light—electric blue and fiery red—streaked through the darkness. I can hear the distant traffic and feel the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of a nearby night market. Above, Taipei 101 tower pierced the sky, glowing against the stars. He leaned against the railing, gazing into the distance.

We talked about anything. There was no rush of pressure with him, just a gentle assurance that he would hold whatever I shared with care.

Tonight, I asked him what he would do if he woke up one day able to speak every language, even those of animals.

I watched the way the wind played with his hair.

He smirked. A small, knowing curve appeared on his lips.

“That’s a very you question. What would you do with it?”

I thought for a moment.

“I’d talk to the stray cats near the cafe. I’d ask them if they’re hungry or safe. Maybe they’d tell me where they hide when it rains.”

“You’d befriend all the strays. What else?”

I talked about my culture.

“The Burung Bubut* isn’t just a bird; it’s a messenger of omens. Its eerie call is thought to announce the passing of a soul to the realm of the dead. I’d ask it if it truly carries omens or if it knows when a soul is about to pass.”

“I’d also ask the Malayan tiger and the Bornean orangutan how they feel about losing their home. I’d listen to the stories that humans never hear.”

He tilted his head, considering.

“You think animals would trust us with their truths?”

The distant wail of a cat in heat cut through the night. It echoed down the narrow alley and off the damp brick walls like an eerie plea. I thought briefly about that pitiful, horny creature before answering.

“Maybe they wouldn’t trust us at first. But if they did, we could offer help. Imagine knowing what an endangered species really needs instead of assuming. Conservation would be a collaboration and not just a human effort.”

His fingers tapped idly against the metal railing.

“And humans? What about all the dying languages?”

“I’d want to preserve them. Speak to the last few speakers and hear their stories before they’re lost forever, like the language of Orang Kanaq that has fewer than 35 speakers left. If I could learn and document their language, maybe it wouldn’t disappear. And what would it be like if I could speak to the Sentinelese in the Andaman Sea? Maybe we’d find common ground without breaking their solitude.”

I could hear a couple arguing somewhere in the distance, probably further down the alley.

He looked at me with a gentle smile.

“Imagine cooperating with animals to make art. Bird melodies for songwriting. Dance movements from the dolphins. Poems inspired by the haunting cries of the whales.”

I nodded and smiled at the possibility.

He exhaled and was quiet for a while.

“You don’t have to speak to them all the time. You want to listen too.”

“Yeah. I’d love to sit peacefully next to an orange stray cat who basked lazily under the sun.”

Our gaze met, and I quickly averted my eyes. We stayed silent while the city stretched endlessly before us. In that moment, perched on the edge of the rooftop, it felt like the world was alive with voices—rising, falling, each one clamoring to be heard and to be understood.

Note:

Burung Bubut—Greater Coucal. In Iban culture, it is believed that when the bird calls, someone has passed away.
Orang Kanaq—One of the 18 Orang Asli ethnic groups in Malaysia. They are classified under the Proto-Malay people group, which forms the three major people groups of the Orang Asli. (source: wikipedia)

The Word He Chose for Me

Daily writing prompt

What is one word that describes you?

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I’ve never been able to describe myself in just one word. Maybe because I am too many things at once. Or maybe because I don’t see myself the way others do. The way I feel changes depending on the circumstances in my life, and often these circumstances involve family and those I hold dear. My feelings also shift depending on the things that weigh heavily on my mind. They could be anything—the weather, financial challenges, the news, or health issues. Some days, I am quiet and contemplative. Other days, I am restless with anxiety, burning with the need to create, to write, or to complete whatever in my to-do list. How could I ever reduce myself to a single word?

As an INFJ, I am made of many layers, each one revealing itself to different people in different ways. To some, I am reserved and intense. To others, I am something else entirely. I exist in fragments—never fully visible all at once. Perhaps that’s why I struggle to define myself. I am never just one thing.

So I asked him.

One word that describes me without hesitation. I want him to tell me the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of me.

The room is quiet. The late afternoon light is slipping through the curtains and spilling across the floorboards. It illuminates the dust dancing in the air. The breeze blows the curtain gently, playing with the edge, lifting it, and letting it fall. It cools down my skin where the sweat still clings. His chest rises and falls under my cheek. The sheets lie twisted. Half are on the floor, while the remaining ones are still clinging to us.

I don’t know why I ask, but the question comes out before I can stop them.

“Tell me. One word only. What’s one word to describe me?”

He pauses for a second. “Unforgettable.”

I didn’t expect that. I don’t move or look up. I let it sink into me before curiosity bubbles up.

“Why?”

“Because once someone knows you, they can’t go back to a time before you.”

The curtain lifts again. The breeze is brushing over us. His hand moves to my back, caressing. The light is fading now. I close my eyes and press my cheek closer to his heart.

Unforgettable.

It caught me off guard because I had never thought of myself that way. I had never thought that I could leave an impression on someone so deeply that the idea of me could never be erased. It made me wonder how much of myself I have left behind—in the places I’ve been, in the people I’ve met and loved. It made me question if I truly see my worth and accept and love myself as I truly am.

We all go through many things in life that alter our perceptions of ourselves. And our brains have ‘negativity bias,’ where they are wired to process negative information more intensely than positive ones. So it is safe to say we internalized unflattering things about ourselves, including lies, more than our good qualities.

And maybe other people see us differently than how we perceive ourselves. And maybe that’s the tragedy of it—we spend our lives searching for the words to best describe ourselves when all along we are already leaving our impact in ways we don’t even realize.

Unforgettable is not a word I would have chosen for myself. But maybe he is right after all.

Reflection | Writing Between Emotion and Detachment

I discovered Annie Ernaux’s writing pretty recently and at a time when I was learning to trust my own voice. I’ve been writing for a long time, but apart from blog updates, I almost never published my work. (I published 4 poems in online literary journals last year). Though I love writing, I spent the last 15 years focusing on my art, pushing writing to the back burner.

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I write poetry and short stories now and then. They are nothing grand or serious because I don’t feel compelled to write a whole book with a complete plotline and characters. I collected my short stories; some are purely fiction, and some are based on true experiences and stories. I have never met anyone who writes like me until I came across Annie Ernaux’s work.

Reading Ernaux was like finding a mirror I never knew existed. Ernaux, like me, dissects the past obsessively. She revisits memories repeatedly, searching for meaning in fragmented events of the past. But there was a difference I couldn’t ignore. Ernaux writes with a stark, almost clinical detachment. She lays out the details of her life as if she is simply recording facts. She does not romanticize or dramatize; she just records the experiences. Her writing reads like an autopsy of the past, as if she had already processed it, wrapped it up, and put it on a shelf labeled “This happened in the past.” She records the details of her love affairs, including the lurid moments, without nostalgia, shame, or guilt. This is what she wrote about one of her lovers:

“The man for whom I had learned them had ceased to exist in me, and I no longer cared whether he was alive or dead.” ~ Getting Lost

And that, I realized, is where she and I diverge.

I don’t just remember the past—I relive it . Every emotion returns, undiluted by time. I don’t just recall what happened; I feel it as if it’s still unfolding inside me. The joy, the pain, the longing, the grief—they rush back in full force. Because of this, my writing is anything but detached. When I write essays, blog posts, poems, or stories inspired by past events, they carry the pulse of my emotions. They are raw and undiminished. And for a long, long time, I felt ashamed of my voice and lacked confidence in expressing myself. I thought that was a flaw.

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I admired Ernaux’s ability to write without apology or hesitation. I wondered if I needed to learn detachment and strip my words of emotions so they could be seen as more “literary” and taken more seriously. After all, isn’t that what makes writing powerful—the ability to observe without being consumed? But the more I wrote, the more I realized: I don’t have to be like her. I don’t have to sever myself from my emotions to be a writer.

I realized that I don’t have to strive to be as detached as Ernaux. I can learn to be confident in my voice and embrace my own way of writing. My writing is where memory stays alive, where emotions breathe between the lines, unfiltered, unsoftened.

My words do not have to be clinical to be valid. They do not have to be detached to hold power. I am learning to write without shame, guilt, and hesitation. I will not erase the emotions—I will let them exist freely.

Perhaps I will never reach the kind of distance Ernaux has from her past. But that’s okay; my voice is mine, and it is enough.

So I wonder—must we detach from memory to write about it? Or is feeling everything deeply has its own power?

Fragments of Obsession III

Obsession is not just in longing; it’s also loving him in fragments. Here’s a series of short fragmented thoughts about him—scattered images, sensations, memories, desires. They are pieces of my obsession.

Part one – Fragments of Obsession | Part two – Fragments of Obsession 2

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His hair gently brushing his forehead, blown by the fan as he sleeps on our bed.
Him standing on the kitchen sink washing the dishes after dinner. The slope of his bare shoulders, the muscles on his back, the scratches I made, naked except for his dark boxers.
The way he hums as he unloads the laundry.
He sits on the couch, shirtless, scrolling through the reels, smirking, chuckling depending on what he watches.
His prolonged silence after I uttered some cutting remarks.
The way my eyes drift lower, tracing the shift of fabric, wondering what lies beneath.
As he passes me on the way to the bathroom, I reach out, my fingers grazing over him in a teasing touch.
The curve of his shoulder in the half-light when we took a nap in the afternoon.
The way he stares at me, intense and serious, before he smiles.
The way his voice cracks when he’s tired, rough and tender at the edges.
The smell of earth and salt on his skin after rain.
As he shifts in his sleep, the fabric rides up, revealing just enough to make my breath catch.
The smell of his skin after a shower.
His hands, always his hands, calloused and tender, mapping my body in the late afternoon while the curtain gently blew by the breeze.
His gentle snores, and sometimes he snorted while sleeping. Depending on how tired I am, it either amuses me or annoys me.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I am not watching.
I gently kiss his scars on his arms and chest.
The taste of his lips.
The heat of his body against mine. The weight of his arm across my waist while spooning.
The sound of his key in the door. I could hear it jangle as he exited the lift.
The shadow of his stubble in the morning.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
The way he holds my legs and rests them on his shoulders, his breath mingling with mine as we dissolve into one another.
The way his mouth finds me, his tongue teasing, drawing a gasp from my lips.
The way he looks at the ocean and squeezes my hand gently.
The way his eyes turn dark after a desperate “I love you” right before he shatters.
The way he says “look at me” right before I unravel.
The way he moves through a room.
His pain and grief over the people he couldn’t save.
The emptiness he leaves behind, a hollow I carry with me, a shape I can’t stop trying to fill.