Every writer begins with a tool—pen, keyboard, voice—and that tool quietly begins shaping the work long before the first word appears.
Hold a pen, and the world looks like paper.
Sit at a typewriter, and you hear the rhythm of finality with every keystroke.
Tap words into a smartphone, and your thoughts grow shorter, quicker, and more disposable.
Speak to an AI agent, and suddenly, the act of writing becomes a conversation.
This is Hammer’s Law, repurposed for the writing life:
“When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
In other words, when you write with a certain tool, your problems—and your stories—begin to resemble what that tool is best at producing.
Even in ancient times, the tool shaped the form. The Sumerians, among the first to leave us written language, used a reed stylus to press wedge-shaped marks into wet clay tablets. The writing tool wasn’t just a convenience—it defined the look, rhythm, and even the shape of their language. Cuneiform wasn’t simply a script; it was the natural result of using a reed to poke and press into clay.
Our tools today are more complex, but the law still holds.
The keyboard makes editing effortless—but also endless.
The voice-to-text interface may encourage spontaneity, but it lacks the pause that handwriting enforces.
The AI co-writer can accelerate ideas but risks making us forget the slow discovery that happens in silence.
The danger isn’t the tool—it’s mistaking it for the only way to write.
As writers, we must stay aware: every tool comes with a worldview. If you use a hammer, the world becomes a nail. If you use an AI, the world becomes a prompt.
To write with clarity, sometimes we must step back and ask:
Is this the story I meant to write—or the one my tool wants to tell?
I’m still picturing writing with a hammer and giggling inside. Thanks