A beady-eyed burnt-orange sun crept over a smoky horizon, and it’s hot-air balloon season in Colorado. Juxtaposition: A new day dawns, but the same destructive fires continue to destroy homes, kill animals, and upend lives while others carry on as usual. My hay guy just delivered a load, $2.50 a bale more than the last load, and said the fire is ten miles from his home. I don’t complain. The fire is sixty miles from mine. A few of us are on a hot-air lark. We need both prayers and larks. Please hold a thought for the three firefighters who died, and those still fighting, heroes coming from 28 states. They are your neighbors and mine.
In farm news. I am considering asking my farrier to take his belt sander to my heels. He’s good at pedicures, and I am not the salon type. I’d hate to subject my feet to a stranger with perfect hair. Especially the foot with all the screws and staples in it. My feet look like vulture claws, with a bit of roadkill between the toes. No wait. My feet look like duck-lene flippers. Huge and flat. Big toenail in the back.
Alas, I’m not gonna risk a good farrier over cracked heels. Even if it’s beyond Vaseline and socks at bedtime. My feet would have nightmares if I tried to sleep in socks. Instead, I put olive oil on my feet, then taped a plastic bag around my ankle and slipped into muck boots. It’s ideal to leave them in the sun all day, but who can stand sitting around that long? I know what you’re thinking. That’s where I got the idea. No better way to condition a leather bridle. Or any dried-out piece of tack that you want to breathe some life back into. Follow me for more beauty tips.
This week, I received an invitation from Oprah’s Book Club for a talk about my book. Also, a request for an interview on NPR. Terry Gross wasn’t mentioned. And I was invited to speak to a dozen highly respected book clubs. Yay, me. Half the time, they credit me with books I’ve never heard of, as if matching my name to the one on the cover was complicated. Yet they agree that my book (titles interchangeable) is totally underrated. They can make me famous.
I’m not done with my rant about AI, but a pause for photos of my dogs. AI can’t do a left turn like that. It’s how you can tell it’s really me.
Mister says, AI is beneath contempt. He likes a human with soft thighs. Jolene says, if it gets us out to play tug sooner, isn’t it good?
Jolene’s stitches from the spay have absorbed, and she has an impressive five o’clock shadow on her belly. Viking belly. When I took the cone off and she was free, the first thing she did was climb on my lap, plant her snout on my chest, and close her eyes. She’s right; that cone poked both of us day and night. A sharp thing between us. My forehead scar is healing, but not as quickly as Jolene’s, and the stitching isn’t as good. Jolene, who is not burdened with sympathy for others, says, you owe me for ten days in lockdown. Let’s rumble.
Mister had a low week. It might be the heat, or he may have tweaked his back. Maybe after getting to know Jolene on drugs, he has lost his tolerance and this is his defense against Jolene 2.0. It’s been coming for a while. Oh, he loves her in his deep, soulful way, but she throws her butt into his belly and flops. It’s teenager-rude. Mister has instigated a NO-PLAY policy with Jolene. He needs more meditation time. Mister’s always been that type. He looks at me with pleading eyes. Can you take her somewhere?
If you decide to respond to the AI email, especially if you try to make them stop, the hard sell ignites. AI has a sweetly commiserating writing style here. It understands my concerns but still prattles on about being different than all the others. But they all use the same format, repeating the same words. Relentlessly. They love my book so much. It’s a confection meant to charm an unrequited author. But thanks to you, dear readers, I am quite requited.
Terminator AI is programmed to have the last word. I tell AI to stop, or I’ll bill them for my time. It doesn’t, so I do. A PayPal invoice. A day later, just for fun, a past-due notice.
This malicious scam is hurtful, especially to first-time authors. Scammers steal the back-cover blurb, which any author will tell you is harder than writing the book, and let AI scramble it in such a way that you feel exceptionally understood. Flattered and Shakespearian. Oceans of readers are dying for your book, if only you agree. Instead of being taken seriously, AI not only bludgeons the author with their own stolen words, but charges a hefty price to play. Pro-tip: The interviewee does not pay the interviewer.
On top of that, it’s almost as if Amazon is against authors. AI farms crank out thousands of books a week. Amazon won’t reveal the number of books generated instead of written… but they do limit authors to three books a day. How long would it take to write a book worth reading? Oh, wait. The bar isn’t that high.
Mister says, do these AI imposters even have literary dogs at their feet, serving as story consultants and spiritual advisors as they write? Like real authors do? Jolene says, what’s an author?
Haven’t women been told what to say our whole lives? Not too loud and only polite topics. Be kind and lie if the truth upsets. Can we finally use our authentic voices? We are women of intelligence. We don’t need a machine to put words in our mouths. Not while we can still chew our own food.
Now, AI has cannibalized our email, spitting out a dull summary with bullet points. No different for a love note or a death notice. Followed by a choice of polite canned responses. Egads. Friends would know from the stilted language that it wasn’t us. But isn’t that the plan? AI kills our individuality, turns our unique word choices into toothless pea soup, and makes us all sound like robots. Humorless.
Take a breath. Mister seems to have aged this year, but haven’t we all? It’s okay if he wants to slow down. Mister’s ears fall wider on his head, and my heart skips a beat, knowing that one day he will walk on from us. So I love him today, just a bit more. Jolene licks his ear. He hates it. Mister would like you to know that he isn’t dead yet and that writer woman is a big fat sap. Jolene would look at her watch about now if she had one.
I have prided myself on my beautiful feet. Those days are gone, fair and square. Along with soft hands and color in my hair. But my voice has only gotten stronger. I have practiced my art, pounded out letters, and painted words. Sculpted emotion and let it dance. AI may manage a thin impression. It can’t replace any of us cantankerous gray mares. Not unless we let it.
And maybe the thing I am ranting against is how the culture diminishes us to the point of convincing us we need help with ordinary things. Don’t choose convenience over your unique bucket of weird bits. Don’t let the box speak for you. Think of writing as a cognitive puzzle. Use your words. Tell your story. Then walk the dogs.
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My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.
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Women Aging Cantankerously
