My UM
My UM
Search

If a machine can write a flawless essay, what’s left for the writer?

UCM graduate Robin van Wassen traces how writing has shaped her learning, identity, and voice, and asks whether AI, despite its fluency, can ever replace the intent, authenticity, and connection that define human writing. Drawing on her experience as a student, columnist, and aspiring journalist, she explores the tensions between creativity and academic rigour at Maastricht University, and what’s at stake for learners and for universities. 

A thoughtful read on authenticity, PBL, and the future of writing at UM.

by Robin van Wassen

If a machine can write a flawless essay, what’s left for the writer?

So goes one of my latest questions that I haven’t been able to shake. We live in a society where the use of artificial intelligence has become habitual, if not second nature. After all, the platforms – which are growing progressively more intelligent – seem to rival our very abilities. There’s increasing speculation that over the next years, AI will reshape and ‘take over’ human jobs through automation and augmentation. As a writer, I find this prospect particularly distressing. I worry that all the years I’ve spent carefully curating and shaping my literary voice will ultimately be in vain, and I lose sleep over the idea that writing, something so profoundly human, could potentially be replaced by a nonhuman system. 

After weeks of contemplation, I'm ready to confront the looming question and, depending on the outcome, either ease or exacerbate my worries. To find out whether writers have truly become replaceable, I want to explore the role writing has played in my life – as a student at Maastricht University, a columnist at Observant, Maastricht University’s independent magazine, and an aspiring journalist. 

Writing as connection, not monologue

For me, writing isn’t just a one-sided discourse between author and reader, but an act of expression and connection. Over the last year, I worked as a columnist and wrote weekly columns. I often drew inspiration from the seemingly mundane – conversations with friends, encounters in a grocery store, observations on a walk. Personal as they may have been, most of my columns centred around universal experiences – themes that my readers could resonate with. There was nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that I had written something that wasn’t just enjoyable to read, but relatable for the reader. In fact, the desire to connect with my readers is undoubtedly one of the main reasons why I enjoy writing and want to pursue a career in journalism. 

Naturally, the nature of my university work has differed from that of my columns. One of the unique aspects of studying at Maastricht University is the emphasis on Problem-Based-Learning, otherwise referred to as PBL. Unlike traditional lecture-heavy curricula, PBL requires students to participate in tutorials, formulate questions, and actively construct knowledge. Writing assignments is an extension of this process; they’re less about reproducing information and more about demonstrating critical engagement with a topic. Unlike my columns, which rely heavily on vulnerability and uninhibited opinion, this type of writing requires careful engagement with sources, logical coherence, and adherence to specific academic frameworks. 

Robin van Wassen

Are academic and creative writing really opposites?

Despite their key differences, I refuse to believe that academic and creative writing fall under two entirely separate disciplines. This leads me to my next point: the dichotomy, or lack thereof, between academic and creative writing. For a long time, I believed that the former belonged to a world of rigour and fact; the latter to freedom and expression. Interestingly, some of the best feedback I’ve gotten on academic papers mirrors the praise I’ve gotten for my columns. “The writing in itself is excellent”, “what you did very, very well was creating a flow in writing”, “well-written, as usual”, “written with a degree of openness that inevitably draws the reader in”, “This has ‘Robin’ written all over it”. 

I find the final two points especially noteworthy, since students are often taught that credibility can only be achieved through detachment and rigid formality. I, however, believe that credibility stems largely from authenticity. Readers – whether these be academics, peers, or the public – are far more likely to trust a writer who sounds engaged, enthusiastic, and honest, rather than one who hides behind flawless vocabulary and obsessively precise sentences.

Finding credibility in authenticity

What I find most challenging in academic writing at Maastricht University is striking a balance between creativity and discipline. On the one hand, I know I need to abide by certain frameworks, conventions – proper referencing, logical paragraphing, academic professionalism. On the other, as mentioned before, my best papers have been those where I allowed my own voice to come through. True credibility, then, seems to manifest within the balance of knowledge and distinct perspective. 

I wish more students would dare to breach the boundaries between conformity and individuality, and recognise the power of developing a unique voice, as opposed to writing from “nothing”. Simultaneously, I wish more teachers would encourage this step or at least reassure students that they can fulfil the fundamental requirements of an assignment without falling into complete emotional absence. 

Crafting a voice

Speaking of which, I’ve been asked, by tutors and peers alike, whether I’m aware of the tone I write in. The answer to that question is yes, but also no. The voice I write in is not something I ever deliberately sat down to create, but the outcome of years of trial and error. Whether I’m working on a column, an essay, or an email, I tend to meticulously write and rewrite sentences – sometimes up to ten times – before I’m satisfied with the outcome. 

Concurrently, I use a thesaurus to find synonyms and examine the subtle differences between each of the results until I pinpoint the one that “feels” right. For instance, I could’ve technically replaced the word “concurrently” with “at the same time” or “simultaneously”. However, neither of the two replacements acknowledges the fact that I rewrite sentences and use a thesaurus over the same period of time, but not at the exact same instant. 

This attention to detail may seem excessive to some, but it’s what has led me to a tone that remains consistent across diverse genres, criteria, and settings. In this respect, I would suggest that writing has been more than just an act of expression, but an act of creation – and not just of a written work, but of myself. 

A question for the university: what should AI do in the classroom?

I think my fear of being replaced largely stems from viewing AI as an all-knowing, flawlessly performing entity. However, I’ve come to realise that AI holds but an illusion of understanding. Indeed, it can generate coherent text, craft compelling arguments, and even meet the criteria required to pass a university assignment. Still, anything it produces is ultimately an imitation of what has existed before, and, as such, often lacks originality and depth. I’ve worked on group projects with students who rely heavily on ChatGPT and, frankly speaking, it showed. Their contributions were both vague and oddly weightless, as if the words had been arranged perfectly but, at the same time, lacked any real conviction or experience. In other words, it was writing that ticked academic boxes, but failed to leave a lasting impression. 

This raises a pressing question for Maastricht University: what role should AI play in student writing in the foreseeable future? After all, PBL expects students to demonstrate a degree of inquiry, critical thinking, and active engagement with the syllabus. I’ve come to see writing at UM not only as a way of being assessed, but as a tool for learning itself. Drafting an essay forces me to organise my thoughts more clearly than speaking in a PBL session ever could – I need to weigh evidence, articulate my thoughts, and refine my own stance. In that sense, the process of writing is as valuable as the final product. Therefore, using artificial intelligence as a shortcut may allow students to get by on a surface level, but simultaneously result in them missing out on the depth of knowledge their courses have to offer. 

Robin van Wassen

What writers have that AI doesn’t

Ultimately, I write because I want to. I want to express myself. I want to resonate with my readers. I want to impress my professors, tutors, and peers. I want to attain a high grade. And, as mentioned previously, I write with intent – selecting each individual word based on intuition and trial-and-error.  AI, on the other hand, does not “want”. It doesn’t cherry-pick words based on instinct, nor does it desire to resonate with readers. And that absence of intent results in writing that is devoid of meaning – a work that is merely an output, not an expression. At the end of the day, artificial intelligence systems are separated from human writing by the absence of intent, vulnerability, authenticity. And if credibility is truly determined by authenticity, I believe I’ve found the answer to my question: what’s left for the writer? Everything that matters. 

By Robin van Wassen, University College Maastricht graduate 2025, Maastricht University

Interested in more Teaching & Learning insights?

Visit edUMinded, EDLAB's online magazine on Teaching & Learning at Maastricht University

Also read