Scammed!

          Have you ever been scammed in the era of AI? Fooled by connivers using Twitter bots to prey upon your desires? I was scammed this week. By writing about it, I hope to lessen the sting. I’d like to laugh through the nose at my latest escapade, so that it never warrants a paragraph, let alone a chapter, in my future memoirs. But I’m not laughing yet.
          What memories belong in a memoir, anyway? At fifty-six, I’m still gathering my stories, my life lessons, and stacking them. The pile thickens. Once “the grinders cease because they are few,” I’ll select the choicest morsels from a vast assortment of events. Pivot points matter the most—the crises of magnitude that change a life’s trajectory. The turning points.
          Scams should be forgotten like stubbed toes and spoiled milk. But in the era of quantum computing, where humans and bots can scarcely be distinguished, I wonder if our scam histories might soon snuggle in beside our medical and legal records. Word scams may burn us writers the way flames scar firemen.
          Over the last four years, I wrote a book of 120,000 words, of which I’m very fond, and a sequel nearly as long. I love them both. But what good are all those words—each one individually chosen, grilled to perfection, and arranged upon the platter—if readers never sample them? Did I prepare this enormous banquet for myself? All who are hungry, come and eat! The door is open, and the food is free.
          Perseverance counts, supposedly, in the business of traditional publishing. He who hangs in long enough, always improving his craft, will one day be recognized for his workmanship. The right person will finally read his book. That literary agent, with a hound’s nose and an eagle’s vision, will request the full manuscript, read it (straight through), love it, dream about it, and offer representation. Maybe she’ll secure a two-book deal with a Big Five publisher, since the sequel is even better than the opener.
          Dear Reader, I don’t enjoy writing about this!
          Most people are better with technology than I am. They can smell a scam. But not TAT. So when an “author” who has sold 30 million copies inquires about TAT’s work, he replies candidly. When she asks him if he might be interested in her insights on the publishing journey, he says yes, indeed. He could benefit greatly from her many years of experience. He writes back in detail. Ultimately, he shares his manuscript and his synopsis, both meticulously crafted, the best he’s ever prepared them. She responds, “I think my agent might be interested in your work. It’s very good. Would you mind if I connected you?”
          “Thank you. That would be appreciated. Would you review my query before I send it?”
          “I’d be glad to. I suggest putting the synopsis, comps, and bio in the body of the e-mail, not separate. For the attachment, the first two chapters should suffice.”
          When the accomplished “literary agent,” closed to unsolicited queries, requests the full manuscript, TAT sends it the following morning, before heading to work. The “agent” communicates that day, eloquently and promptly.
          TAT inquires of another famous “writer,” one he met through Twitter a few months earlier, asking questions about her agent. (TAT had discovered the connection between this newfound “writer” friend and her “agent” by doing his own research. That knowledge wasn’t handed to him.) He asks the “writer” about her experience with the “agent.”
          “You’re in great hands with her. She’s the best.”
          The “agent” reads the book far too quickly, makes no meaningful comments about characters, scenes, or marketability, but states encouragingly that the book needs some work to make it shine before the next big steps together. TAT asks for a phone call or Zoom call but gets no answer. The “agent” has an “alpha reader” in mind, if TAT is ready to go forward, whose name matches a successful horror writer’s. The “alpha reader,” similarly, ignores the request for a phone call. She accepts payment via PayPal, which converts from dollars to pounds and flows to an agency with a foreign-sounding name.
          Fortunately for TAT, his wife believes it’s all a scam, and explains her thinking on a cold, wet one-mile walk after supper. TAT laughs at her suggestion that he’s being ripped off, but ten minutes later, he understands. Within twelve hours, the PayPal payment has been stopped. The “alpha reader” and “agent” are writing back in less elegant language than before, wondering what the problem is.
          TAT contacts real, successful writers and friends who confirm the sad reality—he was scammed. Son Josiah runs the messages sent by five fake actors through an AI detector. The likelihood of their being AI-generated comes back at 100%; the odds of TAT’s messages being AI-generated are 14%.
          Jerry Jenkins asks TAT the penultimate question: “The responses to you sounded like AI, didn’t they?”
          Yes, eventually. But not at first. Paul Simon’s lyrics from “The Boxer,” come to mind.

And I am just a poor boy though my story is seldom told

I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises

All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest, mhmmmm, mmmm.

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