Thoughts on AI in the Arts
Quoted in part in the Post Star article, “AI in the Arts: Does It Belong,” by Andrew Valenza, published April 02, 2024. Read the full article here.
Should AI in the arts be a flash-in-the-pan, a fad, where creatives can play for a time in mediums outside their usual bailiwick, there is something to be said for the excitement it offers. It is a glimpse into the mind of authors, many of whom use AI-generated art to create portraits of their characters and settings that they then share on social media. Think of it like a visual tour of that goes beyond the page. In the realm of the visual arts, admirers can walk the streets of Van Gogh’s café and wonder at the turn of his starry, starry skies. For fun, for free, it is an extra that can be beautiful, thrilling, and inspiring.
But AI-generated art and writing is theft when based on foundations that are not in the public domain. These seemingly harmless conglomerates of someone else’s creations do not result in royalties to the original artist when those images are used to sell books, shirts, coffee mugs, prints, and so on. From authors whose words were stolen to train an AI program, someone else is profiting off plagiarism.
The question has been debated in my writing community about whether it is acceptable for small press and indie authors, who cannot afford cover artists to create original images, to use free AI services to piece together their own covers. However, those same starving authors are no different than the starving artists whose work product has been filched.
Worse is the impact AI-generated writing has had on the marketplace. First, a number of entrepreneurs have churned out a library of AI-generated writings for profit. Even when the AI is trained from their own previous scribblings, it is still recycled words at best, and self-plagiarism in reality, that is mass-produced. The more titles a producer lists on a major selling site, the more readily the algorithm redirects potential readers to their catalogue. This devolves into a glut in the marketplace that shuts out actual authors putting in real hours producing new material, a process that naturally cannot match a computer program’s speed.
More insidious are the large publishing houses seeking to replace authors with these faux materials. Authors and literary agents have seen publishing contracts that are dependent on the author consenting to their manuscript being used to train AI. These terms mean no future revenue for that author, even though it is their work being sold under multiple titles. Most authors work a “day job” to pay the bills, and the Top Five publishing houses control roughly eighty percent of the industry, meaning that’s a lot of heavy-hitting corporate types piling onto the already unfair pressures creatives face.
Supporters of AI will ask: why shouldn't people profit off of using AI tech to produce sellable books and art? That is a skill in and of itself. But at what cost? The vitriol unleashed in the public square of social media against AI-produced work-for-profit can be so powerful, it nearly destroyed the career of individuals who were unaware that the cover art or subsidiary sales attached to their materials were based on stolen goods.
So, while AI is the cool, new toy that is fun to take for a spin down the creative highway, that hot commodity is still a vehicle built from black-market bits.
Lament to the Weekend
“Weekend, oh dear, sweet Weekend. You are much too soon gone.”
~ A series of Twitter laments to the end of the weekend ~
Why simply whine when you can lament in full-on literary style? The following is a collection of tweets lamenting the end of the weekend. #MondayBlues
5/22/2022
Sunny days and carefree laughter,
So many plans and promises made,
Hours passed, our friend no longer,
Weekend's glory now in shade.
5/08/2022
When joy has gone, and the sunset in shade,
When merry tunes and laughter fade,
I shall seek you more, my beloved friend.
Oh where art thou, my dear, Weekend?
5/01/2022
Weekend, oh Weekend. Why do you wander away?
Weekend, oh Weekend. Please come back to play!
#FridayKiss: Twitter stories - 2022 edition
Part of the Writing Community on Twitter, #FridayKiss is a weekly writing prompt. The only rules are to use or imply in the story the prompt word and have fun, all within Twitter’s 280 character limit, of course! The following is a collection of my contributions, which include multiple tweets that continue the story but still meet the goal per tweet.
Frost, 12/23/2022
People thought I carried my hurt around like a noose. His made him downright frosty at times. Did I regret tumbling through the sheets with him? Watching his fingertips come to rest on the wooden curio dog I’d carved for him, I realized the hours were worth it.
Familiar, 11/25/2022
Some old crooner comes on the speakers, singing about the familiar places he's see his love. I swirl the wooden stirrer around my coffee cup, cutting a heart into the foam. It's been two weeks since Jack left for his fresh start on the West Coast. Not a word since.
No surprise. Not with the way we left things. Yet another sad ending where I can't say what I want or make my feelings known, even to myself. It's become uncomfortably familiar. So, when the bell chimes over the door, I see a bluster of leaves scatter across my boots.
A maple, rich red with deep colored veins, rests against my toes. I bend over to collect it and run a finger along the split paths. As I reach the tip, there behind my autumn sampler, is a familiar worn bomber. Lowering the leaf, I feel a swelling in my chest. "Jack?"
Space, 10/07/2022
He’d read the space between the lines, grown enormous by each passing sigh, hurried look away, furrowed brow, and hour locked in the washroom. So, when she bit her lower lip and whispered she was pregnant, he kissed her with all the missing passion of those long weeks.
Late, 9/30/2022
He was growing frustrated. “Why should we not marry? You have said your courses are late. Could there be a better reason?”
“They may not be… because of that. And there are better reasons.”
He stepped forward, his eyes so fierce. “You refused when I said I loved you.”
Speed, 9/23/2022
Grey. His eyes had to be grey, even though they’d appeared a sullen blue in the sun. Candlelight flickered across his irises, teasing at hints of hazel. When he laughed, they lit up, filled with life. I stared, surprised at the speed with which I was falling for him.
Feelings, 9/16/2022
Prudence glared at the back of his head. It wound around the corner. The front door slammed, Jules ignored when he’d offered to get it. James stormed across the street, unconcerned by the carriage closing in. How dare he accuse her of lacking feelings? She ached now.
She’d warned him about the others. He hadn’t cared, claimed he’d be there for her and their child. It swelled in her throat, the realization that of all her conquests - the succession of gaudy wealth, debutante chasing, endless prattle - his was the laughter that mattered.
Balance, 9/09/2022
Strolling by, Matthew stalled at the door to the library. His lips parted. They must have because a hint of a gasp huffed at the sight of her. Dust caught in her hair, trailing down her skirt which was snagged out of place while she balanced on the ladder. Beautiful.
Stars, 8/11/2022
She came to town all stars in her eyes. Red lips and rosy cheeks. Her laughter flowed like gin in a speakeasy, just a word could loose her joie de vivre so you didn’t want it to stop. Taking her in was simple. She was butter in my stare. God, I’d kill to kiss her now.
Drive, 7/29/2022
He stormed to the sideboard. He’d proposed days ago. One word was all he asked. Even no would suffice. He slammed the lid to the decanter into the glass bottle, nearly cracking it. He would call the carriage and get an answer. He’d go through Hell just to see her.
Special, 7/22/2022
“It was ordered from London,” he said. “Made especially.” He leaned forward as she plucked at the silk bow, his hands inches away as if he wanted to rip the paper himself so he could revel sooner in her expression of shock then tears.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
He traced a finger down her spine and followed in lazy circles along the small of her back, drifting over the curve of her waist. “I like special occasions,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware of any.”
“Oh.” He began nibbling on her shoulder. “You’ve never stayed until dawn.”
Friends, 7/15/2022
We were supposed to be friends. Weekend buddies at the cafe. Late night messages. Sharing laughs over drinks while we people watched and complained about blind dates. Why was he staring, as if right through me? Why did I burn as he did?
Sleepy, 6/10/2022
I loved him from the moment I stepped off the train & wandered into his sleepy, little town, lost & alone. He caught me with those chocolate eyes of his when he pushed the latte across the counter, adding a biscotti “on the house” because it looked like I needed it.
Brilliant, 5/06/2022
Brilliant, they said. She was the shining star of the season. Too bad it bored her. She ached for the seedy dives w/ their bathtub gin & sultry jazz. The thrill of stealing the family auto for a whirl. Mostly, she just wanted the man whose sweat was mingling w/ hers.
Question, 02/04/2022
(Okay, I cheated a little on this thread. Not every entry used “question,” but I was apparently inspired.)
He'd forgone the card room again. Not even a tilt of his head in the direction of the men's rich guffawing filtering out the door. A tray of champagne was waved off. I hadn't seen a glass in his hand the whole of the evening, come to think of it. Surely he wasn't....
Lady Featherstone was trailing hopelessly behind her daughter who was slicing through the ballroom guests like a thoroughbred declaring victory. Many a man would declare themselves a pirate if that is what it took to capture her fortune. He could have her. Flirts.
A curt bow ended their latest banter. Yet, he didn't seem as pleased with himself as on previous encounters. His lips were too thin, and his eyes touched the floor as he strode away. A hand reached automatically for an offered glass. It fisted and fell.
Flirts, gamblers, and drunks had no place in my circle. I'd made that abundantly clear the last time he swirled me around the ballroom, insufferable like a peacock rattling his tail feathers. He'd kept his distance after that, never seeking to sully my dance card.
Watching him sweep the room with his gaze, as if searching for buried treasure in that sea of plenty, I wondered which debutante would be his next prey. But he held back. A grim expression studied the floor. Had little Miss Featherstone so irked him?
Heat bubbled up from my chest. It washed over onto my cheeks. Why? Why should I care whether he was vexed, if little Miss Mighty Inheritance played her games with him? He was nothing to me. Still, the room grew insufferable, made so by the burning of my own skin.
The evening air welcomed me the moment I escaped out the side door onto the patio, a cool embrace to my enflamed cheeks.
"You aren't leaving?" a voice hurried up behind me. He was blocking the door leading back into the house.
"I was looking for my sister," I lied. “I should return."
"Of course," he answered me. Despite my approach, he remained firmly in place. How could one man so completely fill a doorway?
"Step aside."
"Would you please grant me a chance to speak?" Why was he looking at me like that? Sadness, regret even.
"I'm sure there are plenty of other fortunes, I mean, ladies here who would be pleased to speak with you."
"It isn't your fortune that is the attraction," he said.
"Good, because mine is nothing compared to some." Fire burned across my cheeks again. Damn him. Mortified that he drove me to dismiss myself in such a way, I skirted around him to bolt through the door.
Although he stepped aside, his eyes bore through me when he said, "Fortune is nothing compared to a sharp mind and a fast wit and goodness of heart."
I glanced back. "No doubt you will find plenty of that. You have before," I dismissed him.
“My reputation is not who I am." His voice was so small, his stance uncertain. I was completely lost, frozen without a response or the means to escape. "Please, grant me a chance to prove myself."
A silky tune commenced the Jubilee as couples glided around us. Gowns swirled as the ladies, smiles bright upon their powdered faces, circled their partners. Men admired their journey. But we simply stood there, staring. Why did he make me question everything?
A Recollection of Revere and Revolt
Written by “Subsequent Son,” as he is lovingly known in my social media circle. His contribution to our family newsletter so moved me, that I sought and received his permission to share it with all of you. Happy Holidays!
The English language is one with a wide array of words and phrases, some meaningless and others effective. It’s kinda like a buffet. Some words are so tempting and delicious that you’ll pile your plate sky high. And then others smell rancid… There are so many words, and yet I find myself at an impasse for one that could accurately describe the past few years.
I, like many others, have used this time to reflect. Like how, against all odds, has humanity survived this long? Everyday, I would catch wind of the next, big headline or ascertain the destruction of our country, and every time, these thoughts occur anew.
But perhaps, for the duration at least, I should reflect upon other things. The holiday season is a time to be thankful afterall, so dear reader, I wish for you that like me, you’ll forget about all the harrowing happenings and instead just enjoy a very merry Christmas.
#FridayKiss: Twitter stories - 2021 edition
Part of the Writing Community on Twitter, #FridayKiss is a weekly writing prompt. The only rules are to use or imply in the story the prompt word and have fun, all within Twitter’s 280 character limit, of course! The following is a collection of my contributions, which include multiple tweets that continue the story but still meet the goal per tweet.
Celebrate, 12/31/2021
She glared at the puddle collecting beneath his boots on the oak floorboards. "Do you expect me to celebrate your return?"
"Well, I had rather hoped...." The corner of his mouth teased upward.
"Nothing. Weeks gone by with not a word." His stunned silence aggravated her. "I knew not where you were, even IF you lived!"
"None of my letters reached you?" he asked.
"You...?"
"Everyday. What's more, your father and mine have given their consent."
Her heart swelled as if fireworks had shot from her belly.
The welling in her eyes encouraged him to brush his fingers across hers. When she did not resist, he cradled her hand - so delicate in his calloused grasp. "Every moment I thought of you. Dreams of your smile kept me warm at night. I reveled in every moment of it."
Color bloomed across her cheeks, soft at first like a spring daisy, then deeper with the full lushness of a summer rose. She'd thought him a coward. Run away after having stolen a kiss but was caught like a thief when her mother had come across them in the garden.
"Dare I hope," he raised his chin so he could find her eyes from his post at her feet, "that despite this unintentional absence, you would do me the kindness of bestowing your heart to me and become my wife?"
A rush flooded through her, sweeping away the anguish. Words simply were not enough. The long weeks of doubt and regret and loss and bitter rage spilled over, and tears coursed down her cheeks. He had not abandoned her. His whispered hopes of a life together were, in fact, more than a ruse. Still, she had to answer yes.
It was barely a whisper, but her unreserved consent rang through his ears with the force of a cannon salute. Without a second thought, he rushed to meet his mouth to hers. She did not hesitate to answer him this time. This was the celebration he had longed for.
Angel, 12/17/2021
A flurry of butterflies danced from the center of Marie’s chest and cascaded down her arms as he slipped a lock along her neck. She reveled in the delicious sensation of his breath on her skin. A hint of whiskey reminded her - this was no angel at her shoulder.
Chance, 12/10/2021
It was mere serendipity. A swirling ocean of colorful, knit hats bobbed through the vendors' booths at the green market. She chanced to see his auburn locks through the delighted faces turning into the dusting of snow floating down. That smile when he spied her.
"Hey, I know you," he laughed.
She tucked her hands into her pockets. The lace on his left boot was dangerously close to undone. "I thought you didn't like these kinda things."
Crinkles blossomed at the corner of his eyes when he smiled. "Thought I'd chance it."
"Not much to risk," she swept a glance around. "Just artisans, food, some good music...."
"And you."
Rosiness kissed his cheek bones. In the glow of the fairy lights, it made his eyes an endless sea of blue. Snowflakes shimmered on their surface from his lashes.
Heat burst over her own cheeks. 'It's just the cold,' she told herself. Frost danced between them when they exhaled, the dewy waltz drifting further apart as he began to lean back. Watching the color spread across his face, she realized her chance was fading fast.
"There's a great coffee shop," she said. "Just opened a block over. It's not far, just..." She felt caught, staring in the direction behind her shoulder. She couldn't make her body turn back to face him. "If you like bisque or...?"
"Never been." he answered. She took a chance and met his eyes. His brows were folded together. He dipped his chin when he asked, "Would you join me?"
"I... I'd love to," she breathed.
His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back, content. Oh, that damned smile.
Rescue, 11/12/2021
A sea of glittery gowns and polished shoes and sparkling jewels and fraudulent hopes clutter the ballroom below me. I'd give anything to avoid this task tonight. Already the orchestra is grating. Mother insists I chose. One man can rescue me from this endless season.
I spot him by a potted plant thinking he'd made his escape. A gaggle of hopefuls swoop in on him. He'd love to disappear into the fronds behind him, I can tell. Slowly, I glide down the stairs, joining the other contestants. He brightens in noticing me.
Rather than insert myself in the throng, no sense rushing the inevitable, I allow Mother to lead me through the crowd. Her faux delight in seeing everyone, the unnatural lilt in her laughter, is like glass breaking - unnerving. I relish the order of fetching drinks.
I linger by the curtain as if undecided which glass to chose from the butler's tray. At last, the man is called by a more decisive guest and moves on. My name whispers through the heavy velvet at my back. Time has caught up with me. A hand snags my wrist and whisks me from sight.
While he ravages my neck, his hands caressing the curve of my hips, I tell him all. Surprise widens his eyes as he breathes disbelief. "Say you'll marry me," he grabs my cheeks. "Prudence, let me care for you." I almost thought news of the child would frighten him.
His lips stretch to breaking, his smile is so wide when I accept. Another passionate embrace of his lips to mine. "I cannot wait," he tells me, then leads me past the curtains, through the crowd, onto the steps, where he announces before I can stop him. A season over.
Polite applause follows a few gasps of surprise. Whether from the sudden announcement or shock from those who know me intimately, I couldn't say. I study the man so pleased with himself by my side. I've enjoyed our interludes. Of course, it's my money that saves him.
Undress, 10/22/2021
The clatter of my brush seems to echo through the bedchamber. I fold my hands in my lap, hoping that will still them. Nattie had scurried down to her supper before the last inch of wedding lace had been breezed from my bodice and settled onto the chaise until morning.
A click of the door latch has me raising my eyes to find his in the mirror's reflection. William's hand seems caught there, as if frozen to the metal's surface. As his gaze devours the length of my neck and crest of my breasts, I feel as if he's already undressed me.
Even without his tux jacket, William's presence over me is impressive as he stares at my reflection. I wonder if I should rise to face him. His fingers pause moments from caressing my skin. Instead, he reaches into my hair and begins sliding loose the pins one by one.
My hair tumbles to my shoulders. An incredible poof on my crown has me reaching for my brush, but William lifts it from my fingers. A hand on my elbow draws me from my chair and circles me to his chest. He simply stares. Slowly, I find his top button and slip it free.
Cuddle, 10/15/2021
Rain splatters against the window. I tuck my knees to my chest and bury my shoulders under the plush blanket Chris left. Our song keeps playing in my head, a lovely refrain of simple smiles. Muffin bounds onto the couch and hunkers down into my stomach, purring.
A subtle click of metal turning stirs me. It's gotten dark out. Soft clattering of a suitcase in the hall has me sitting up. Then, Chris is in the doorway, hair dripping. "Hey." He stalls, unsure. "I'm an idiot." I nod. "Can I -" But I'm in his arms before he's done.
A car engine turns over. I watch the headlights round the walls of our bedroom as it changes directions. They catch the band on Chris's finger. He'd put his ring back on. I draw his hand to my mouth and kiss his knuckles. He stirs in his sleep then pulls me closer.
My skin dances as a not-so-subtle wake to his finger tracing the path down my sternum. "You know I can't stay," I groan. Dew cools my palm as I sweep the grass, searching for my shirt. An arm ensnares me and draws me close. "Wait until the sun rises," he whispers.
Hands, 10/08/2021
"Prudence.” Fingers embrace my wrist. He yanks me into an alcove. The waltz muffles as the curtains swish closed, hiding us from scandal. A hand caresses my hip. Already, I bare my neck, letting his lips dawdle toward my decollete. I love the way he sullies my name.
His chest presses to mine, forehead resting on the wall. The band quiets between songs, only bubbling laughter and vapid chatter cover our breathing. “Prudence,” he whispers moments before Mother calls for me. His hand slides down my thigh, returning me to the ground.
I smooth the layers of my gown and step out from behind the curtain. Candlelight, magnificent through the crystal chandeliers, dazzles me. His lips light upon my hand before I reenter the ballroom. “Why will you not marry me?” I smile then join the sea of suitors.
The Man Who Muses: a short story
Inspired by author Harlan Ellison’s snarky response to the dreaded question: Where do you get your ideas from?
When you should tire of blank screens and vacant words, there’s a small city in a tiny county that bears its name in upstate New York where the #writingcommunity goes to seek inspiration for their next book – Schenectady. Twenty bucks and a cigarette’s the cost.
Within the crosshairs of Hamilton Hill, on the outer sights of the gentrified plots, lies a shady spot colloquially known as the Murder Lot. They say he comes there from the West side of Broadway, donning a dusty fedora and a moth-bitten tweed, crinkling in his fist ideas on yellowed slips guaranteed to win awards. Make it fifty with a full pack of smokes, you might even get yourself the next best-seller.
Someone claimed to have asked him once where he got those ideas from. From between the piles, it’s supposed, of the overpass. He draws them out like water from a well, stashed amidst the soggy cardboard signs the panhandlers stuff into the crack, when the black-and-whites of the local police roll by, so they can make themselves scarce. They just come to him, he said.
I thought to follow one day. Hurried into my pick-up to circle the block, tracking where he’d go once he reached the bottom of the pedestrian path. West along Broadway, just as I had been told, I got caught at the light and watched him begin the ascent up the tree-covered steps toward St. Anthony’s. But when the light turned green and I charged up the wooded street by the cathedral, I never saw him reach the top. He simply wasn’t there.
The price is thirty now, or so they say. I never saw him from that day to this. He won’t take my call. But he’s still out there, just the same, waiting with a story that needs to be told.
A little backstory -
Author James Scott Bell tells a story in his lecture on “How to Write Best-Selling Fiction” about how writers go to Schenectady, NY for their inspiration. As he tells it, that idea originates with famous sci-fi author, Harlan Ellison, who allegedly grew tired of people asking him where he got his great story ideas from. Ellison finally started answering that there was a clearing house in Schenectady that would send him a six-pack weekly for twenty-five bucks.
That quip seems alive and well today in the literary world because the city of Schenectady turns up even as recently as this year as in a TV series with a sort of wink-and-a-nod by the writer to his peers. Having grown up in a nearby county, I was rather tickled by the joke. This story was the result and is dedicated to James Scott Bell, who was nice enough to email me about it when asked.
A Dream-Inspired Dream
How a dream became a historical fantasy series
Being an author was never part of the plan, never part of the dream. I had always enjoyed creative writing in school, plenty of poems fill my personal journals, but I never felt I had any particular talent for it. Life never takes you where you expect to go, though, does it?
I was inspired by an intern who liked my professional writing. Flattered by his enthusiasm for my work, I found myself itching to write a novel but not sure what I would write. Searching through the filing cabinet of ideas in my mind from over the years, I realized that the story I most wanted to tell was that of Savannah and Jonathan from The Enlightened Series.
Their journey began as as dream I once had. I was walking through a forest when a man approached me from behind and held a knife to my throat. Unlike in Witness to the Revolution, the man spoke German, testing me to see if I was a Hessian spy. For the rest, well… you will just have to read chapter two to get the idea, though I woke before the scene ended.
The dream stayed with me, tucked away in that proverbial filing cabinet for years.
One day, I saw the pilot episode for a book-turned-television series I had never heard of called Outlander. As I watched the main character get sucked back in time, I thought, “Oh, cool! That idea works,” remembering Savannah and Jonathan. Then, back into the filing cabinet they went for another several years.
Once I decided to write their story, several dilemmas began to hold me back. Firstly, although I had some knowledge of the Revolutionary War already, I was nowhere near an expert. It made me fearful of potential criticism for being historically inaccurate. Thus began the dreaded writer’s block.
So, I chose a time in the War - 1778 - where the sides had come to a draw and a location where there was constant skirmishes but no major battles. Plus, by writing the story in first person from the perspective of someone from the twenty-first century, it was completely realistic if Savannah was wrong (well, me - the author, really) about how she interpreted life in the eighteenth! This freed me up to write about fictional people without fear of being corrected. (Though, the more I wrote and researched, the bolder I became with my writing. In the second book, all but two of the new characters (including the dog!) are real.)
Then, came the Outlander Problem - how to differentiate the story of Savannah and Jonathan from the popular book and television series? That is where the magic began. Literally. And I am so grateful! By incorporating an entire magical universe shifting behind the Revolutionary War, the book series was able to explore themes more honestly due to the separation that only fantasy can bring.
The biggest idea I wanted to explore was that there were no true “good guys” versus “bad guys.” Only people serving the cause they felt was right, using means that they justified were necessary to reach their goals. Somewhere along the way, the so-called “good guys” will make bad decisions that have lasting repercussions. The “bad guys” will do what is right. It is only by reaching the end of the series that the reader (and the characters!) will come to decide whether those decisions were the “right” ones when all is said and done.
May 23, 2021