10/5/23

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Man, I have been all over this week. And I don’t mean physically – I mean it’s been time to grab the seatbelt and buckle in for the rollercoaster ride of emotions. There have been many times I’ve wanted to shout, “Stop this ride! I wanna get off!”

Even sleep hasn’t been an escape. The dreams are in the rollercoaster seat behind me.

Ever since I found out that one of my novels, The Home For Wayward Clocks, is a part of the Books3 collection of 183,000 books that were stolen for AI training (and yes, I said stolen), I’ve been in a tizzy. That, combined with book banning, just really has me in an Orwell’s 1984-Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 state of mind.

For those who don’t know, The Home For Wayward Clocks’ being on the Books3 list means that it was used to train AI, and it was used without my permission, without my publisher’s permission, and without any compensation. It, and 183,000 others, despite being protected by copyright, were just used to teach AI how to write. Add that to, going back a few months, I found out that my own books have been removed from my school district’s library shelves. There is a plaque on the wall of my old high school, declaring me to be a successful alumni – but no one within the building can read what has made me successful. I now own a t-shirt that says, “I write banned books,” created for me by a very thoughtful student. My husband, Michael, brought me a pin that his workplace is handing out. It says, “I read banned books.” Michael had one modified to read, “I read and write banned books.”

I never wanted a t-shirt or a button. I never wanted to write banned books. But now, I’ve apparently done just that, and I also have apparently helped those behind the AI development to create what I consider to be a monster and a dark indication of where we could end up.

I can see where AI, in many fields, would be a good thing. But not in the arts. The arts belong to the creative and imaginative and innovative human mind, and to those who appreciate it.

Today was a culmination of this. It started when I double-booked myself; a piano tuner was showing up to tune my beloved piano, and at the same time, a reporter from a local paper was coming to interview me about what I thought about AI. The tuner showed up first, and for a while, I watched in amazement as he exposed the insides of my piano and then used a wonderful combination of his cell phone, which listened to the strike of each key and told him if it was sharp or flat, then manual tools to adjust the strings,  his ears to listen, and his hands to play. I was enthralled, but then had to run downstairs to the classroom when the reporter showed up.

As she and I talked about AI and what it means to writers, what it means to the publishing industry, and really, what it means to the world, we could hear the tuner upstairs. We heard notes go from sour to sweet. And from time to time, the tuner and the piano would burst into song.

We talked for quite a while, this young reporter and I. And while we were each from a different generation, and a different field of writing, I saw my anxiety echoed in her questions, and in her words.

In the meantime, in between the arrivals of tuner and reporter, I received a box in the mail. Inside was a beautiful painting, created by a friend. She saw my daily photographs, saying good morning to the Pacific Ocean, while I was in Oregon several weeks ago, and she was inspired to create her own unique vision of that, and then gift it to me. I held it in my hands and returned for a moment in my mind to that lovely magical place. This painting was created by human hands, and behind it was human emotion. How she felt when she saw my photos, recreated in a painting which then came to me, and recreated my own emotions, plus the feelings of gratitude for this friend.

All without any type of computer intervention. Just human thought and emotion.

Before he left, the piano tuner sat at my piano and played. I heard that piano sing in a way I’ve never heard it sing before. And it sang under the effort of human hands, and a mind that knew how to put, not just technically correct notes into the air, but emotion too.

Oh, it was lovely.

When everyone was gone and I was alone again, I went upstairs to my office, where I write, and where I reach out to people who want to write. I carried with me my copy of The Home For Wayward Clocks, the first one I lifted out of the box when it arrived in my home back in 2011. The one I signed to myself, This one is mine. Which is how I’ve signed every one of my first-books-out-of-the-box since then. I slid that book back in its place on my shelf, the first one in a line of fourteen. Soon to become fifteen.

They are mine. Created by an imagination and a brain that is uniquely my own. Created by hard work and hope and always passion. They are mine, and for others to read, not to abuse.

I have great respect for the human mind, for the creativity and imagination and emotion that it creates and shares. Knowing that there are people behind the books I read, the music I hear, the art I gaze at, just adds to my appreciation and absolute joy and gratitude of being a part of that world.

For a while this afternoon, I soaked it all in. With the passion of the journalist, wanting to get the words just right, the passion of the pianist as he made my piano sing, the passion of the artist who recreated my favorite place on this earth on a canvas that I can turn in my chair at any time and see.

Which means that for that same while, I was peaceful, I was hopeful, and I felt such a part of an incredible segment of our world.

I hope there are many, many others who share that, who feel it, and will let those behind AI and book banning know that we are not willing to give that up in our lifetimes, and for future generations.

Hope always rises.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The piano tuner, working his magic.
The painting. Look familiar?
All 14 of my books. Created by me, my mind, with no unnecessary AI intervention. All me.
The Home For Wayward Clocks. The one that started it all.

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