Writing Tips (Sometimes): One Key Disadvantage of Traditional Publishing

This is part of my series of essays for writers. Get them delivered to your inbox by signing up here!

Wilfred Potato demanding affection.

I do a lot of workshops, and a few months ago, I gave one titled something along the lines of “Selling Books in a Digital World” where I laid out the two most commonly discussed business models for indie authors: Amazon-Only with books available in Kindle Unlimited, and Wide Distribution with free first in series. I walked through each of the paths, talking about the advantages and disadvantages of each, as well as indicating places where I’d seen authors diverge from the paths, or commenting on the various implementations I’d seen other authors use successfully or unsuccessfully.

The workshop was well-attended and well-received, and at the end, I opened it up for questions. Most were standard—asking for me to repeat the names of platforms or services, to clarify a point I’d made, or to elaborate more on a concept. But one woman asked me something that has stuck with me since.

She said, “Ariele, thanks for all this. It makes sense, and it seems like there are a lot of options for authors. But I noticed that many of the marketing strategies you explained involved either being in Kindle Unlimited or doing price promotions. My own book was just published with a small press, and I don’t know how they manage where the book is distributed or how they decide prices. What advice would you give me?”

If you’re curious, my “thinking on my feet” advice was, “Make a plan, and then talk to your publisher about it and see if they’d be willing to work with you to make it possible.”

But since then, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this question. Because here’s the thing—when you sign a contract with a traditional publisher or a small press, you’re giving up something important: control over your product. Any size publisher will become responsible for your book covers, prices, and distribution, and while it may sound like a weight off your shoulders, those are also three of the biggest tools in your marketing toolbox.

If you want to get a Bookbub, you have to have control of the pricing.

If you want to be in Kindle Unlimited, you have to have control of your distribution.

If you want to experiment with genre conventions in your book cover, you have to have control over design.

If you want explore the wide range of marketing options available to authors, you have to have full control over your product.

Otherwise, you’re primarily limited to sending newsletters, talking about your book on social media, or doing PR. And while these methods are certainly valuable and can have an impact, they represent only a small fraction of the marketing landscape.

This is not to say that traditional publishing is wrong or bad—there are other reasons authors choose to go that route, and many publishers have other resources that aren’t available to indie authors. But I think it’s important to keep in mind that many publishing companies no longer provide much in the way of marketing for their authors (as demonstrated by the recent DOJ vs PRH trial). So if you are considering seeking out a publisher rather than being indie, make sure you ask about marketing before you sign any contracts.

Blueberry discovering his love of tennis balls for the first time.

Imposter Syndrome: Video!

In February, I had the opportunity to speak at the History Quill annual conference on the topic of imposter syndrome. I will admit, it was a difficult topic for me to address, and I ended up doing an immense amount of research, as well as running through the presentation with my therapist.

As part of my process for doing workshops, I always do several practice sessions, and this time, I recorded one of them! It is now available on YouTube.

This workshop delves into the definition of imposter syndrome and the nuances around what is not imposter syndrome, the symptoms of the condition and the dangers of imposter syndrome when gone unaddressed, as well as strategies for moving forward from imposter syndrome, including when to see a therapist. I also address the specific manifestation of imposter syndrome in writers, and why it is such a common phenomenon in our industry.

The workshop is roughly 45 minutes long.

Moving forward, I will be recording practice sessions for all of my workshops and posting them on YouTube (though it might take me a bit after the workshop to get it uploaded) to be available for free to anyone interested in watching. They are all lecture-style, and very similar to what you might expect attending a virtual workshop by me.

You can follow me on YouTube for automatic updates, and I will send out a short note here whenever I release a new one.

The Swamp Hag of Blackrock Fields: An Excerpt

I recently launched my most recent collection of original fairy tales, titled The Swamp Hag of Blackrock Fields and Other Tales.

Below, find an excerpt from the eponymous fairy tale.

This collection is the second in my series of Ariele’s Fairy Tales. You can find five additional original fairy tales in the first book, The Bald Princess and Other Tales.

(Patrons get all books free with their membership, which is a savings of $15 - $50 per year! Click here to learn more!)

The Swamp Hag of Blackrock Fields

Once upon a time, there was an old woman named Mabel who lived in a swamp. The children at the nearby village called her a hag, though she preferred they use the more accurate term “swamp hag.”

She mostly kept to herself, foraging for food from the surrounding wilderness, growing a small garden behind her cottage, and only occasionally heading into town to trade for supplies. On rare occasions, people from the village would make their way out to her for assistance with various health-related needs. She was always happy to help, and they trusted her.

Mabel had lived in the cottage many years, ever since Horace ran out on her. Only twenty-five years old they’d been, and he’d chased after Gralia Taylor, the florist’s niece. It had hurt at the time, but Mabel discovered she was better off without him. She liked living alone, and she liked having a cat. Horace had hated cats.

AI-generated art of Mabel

The village was pretty standard as far as small rural towns went. Only about a thousand people lived in and around the town, and that was only since about ten years prior, when the queen had fixed the roads leading out this far. There had been an influx of people who wanted to farm the land. An inn had been built, and new businesses were popping up all over—a shoemaker, a tailor, public baths, and lots of new houses.

Before that, it had been a much smaller town with fewer resources, and a few times a year, Mabel had traveled three days to get to the next nearest town. Now she could get all the supplies she needed here. So, in some ways, the growth was a blessing. But it also meant more people, more curious noses poking around her swamp, and more unkind rumors floating about, suggesting she was up to all kinds of nefarious things in her tiny cottage in the woods.

She did her best to ignore the rumors, but at some point, she knew she would have to address them. After all, she didn’t need an angry mob with torches and pitchforks showing up to burn down her cottage in the middle of the night.

On this particular day, the late summer heat had finally cooled, and just a tinge of color painted the leaves on the trees a glinting gold. Apples were ripe for the picking, and Mabel had decided to take her basket up to the grove of apple trees on the northern edge of her swamp. She wore heavy boots, as the ground was muddy underfoot, and she had shortened her skirts to help prevent them from getting waterlogged—a hazard of living in a swamp.

Her dear cat, Gooseberry, scampered ahead of her, occasionally meowing to make sure Mabel was following. Gooseberry loved walks with Mabel, and Mabel loved seeing Gooseberry so happy.

Mabel breathed in the crisp morning air, feeling her magic relax at the scent of the fallen leaves. Frost-laden grasses crunched underfoot. This was her favorite time of year, just after the fall equinox, when the days shortened and the shadows drifted across the forest earlier and earlier. And when the leaves fell from the apple trees, it left the crooked and gnarled branches bare, and Mabel felt she understood those trees. For she, too, was crooked and gnarled, at least on the inside.

Her favorite tree grew tall on the eastern edge of the grove, and it had the biggest, sweetest apples. They shone red and yellow in the morning light. Gooseberry dashed toward the tree and scrambled up it, strutting daintily along the branch. With one swipe of her claw, she released an apple. Mabel caught it deftly and tossed it into her basket.

An hour later, her basket was overflowing, and she had even stuffed some of the fruit into her apron pockets. “That’s enough, Gooseberry!” she called out. The creature dropped elegantly to the ground and dashed over to Mabel for some scratches. “Good kitty. When we get home, I’ll get a big bowl of milk for you.”

Gooseberry purred, rubbing her head against Mabel’s fingers. Then they began the trek home.

Between the cottage and the apple trees, most of the path was covered in a layer of water a few inches deep. The cold night had left thin sheets of ice floating in the shadows, but the warm sun had melted most of them by this late in the morning. She splashed past the rotting stump of the great old oak that had fallen four winters before, and strode beneath the bare branches of the red maple graveyard; only one tree still bore leaves, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t last many more winters.

AI watercolor art of a possible Mabel

Gooseberry leaped from hassock to hassock. She’d fallen into the water more times than Mabel could count, but was now quite skilled at keeping dry. Ahead of them, the ground rose, shifting into a more standard deciduous forest. At the base of the hill, water in the swamp flowed into a small pool, and a tiny stream trickled out into the trees, where it followed the curve of the hill and flowed into the next swamp.

Mabel stomped most of the way up the hill, relishing the crunch of leaves underfoot, and then frowned when she realized Gooseberry had not followed.

“Gooseberry?” she called out, scanning the trees and looking over her shoulder. There was not much undergrowth in this part of the forest; just ferns and honeysuckles. But Gooseberry was nowhere to be seen. She called again, “Gooseberry!”

Then she heard a meow coming from the base of the hill. Frowning, she tromped through last year’s leaves, rounding the massive oak growing halfway up the hill. Gooseberry meowed again, and Mabel picked up her pace.

She slipped partway down, then skidded the rest of the way to the bottom of the hill, catching herself on the branch of a sweet birch tree at the edge of the stream.

“Gooseberry?”

Then she heard a groan. An unmistakably human groan.

“Is someone there?” Her frown deepened as she eased into the stream, aiming toward the sound.

The groan came again, this time followed by a string of swear words. Gooseberry meowed—the cat and the person were clearly in the same place.

Mabel hurried, splashing in the icy water, her toes growing colder with each step. She neared a small pool and gasped. A shirtless man kneeled in the water, splashing water on his face, which was covered in a bright red rash. It wasn’t only his face that was covered, either—his arms and hands and chest were also inflamed.

Gooseberry paced worriedly on the bank of the stream, meowing at the top of her lungs.

“Oh my,” Mabel murmured. “Have a little run-in with the gloam nettles, did we?”

“It burns,” the man groaned.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Mabel tsked. “Wait right there. No, on second thought, get out of the stream before you freeze. And stop washing—you want the sap to dry on your skin. Try not to touch it. I’ll be right back.” She set her basket on the ground near Gooseberry and raced off to pluck some spotted jewelweed from a patch she saw growing nearby. It wasn’t the perfect remedy, but it would have to do until she could get him into a bath.

When she returned, he was sitting on a rock on the edge of the creek, shivering, with a deep grimace etched into his face. Beneath the inflammation on his skin, Mabel thought he was rather handsome. He wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t take care of the gloam rash—no, he’d be dead.

“Come along,” she said, gesturing for him to stand. “We’ve got to get you back to my cottage.”

“What’s that for?” he asked, nodding at the clump of jewelweed stems she held in her hand.

“It’ll help with the burning,” she said, “but first we have to get you cleaned up.” She bent down and picked up the basket of apples. “Here, you carry this. It will keep your hands busy to prevent you from scratching.”

He took it almost automatically.

Mabel frowned and glanced around. “Did you have a bag or anything?”

“At my campsite.” He gestured into the trees.

“Ah.” She nodded. “We can get it later. Come along.” Flashing him a smile, she tromped into the trees with Gooseberry meowing in her wake. At first, she didn’t think the man was going to follow, but a moment later, she heard leaves crunching underfoot behind her.

“What’s your name?” she asked after a few moments.

“Cyrus,” he replied.

“I’m Mabel,” she said, “and this is Gooseberry.”

They walked in silence for a few moments before the man ventured, “Er, not to be rude, but… are you…?” He trailed off, as if uncertain how to phrase his question.

“The swamp hag, yes,” she replied. “Very different from a regular, run-of-the-mill hag, to be clear. The children can’t seem to get that into their tiny little brains.”

Cyrus chuckled and then broke off with a wince.

“Don’t worry,” Mabel said. “We’re only a few minutes from my cottage, and we’ll get you taken care of.”

“I’m very uncomfortable,” he admitted. “Did the cold water make it worse?”

“Probably not,” Mabel said, keeping her voice cheerful. Though it undoubtedly had. “But it’s better not to wash for a few minutes after.”

“I’ll remember that next time.” He sounded rueful.

Mabel laughed. “I hope there won’t be a next time. Most people prefer to avoid gloam nettles at all costs.”

She led him out into the clearing surrounding her cottage. It sat up on a small hill overlooking the deepest part of the swamp. The water there was covered with duckweed, though at this late date, it was unlikely the plant would last much longer. Gooseberry leaped onto the fence as Mabel unlatched the gate, and Cyrus followed them into the cottage.

The coals in her stove were hot, so Mabel tossed some wood in and blew on the coals to make flames lick up. She dragged a chair as close to the stove as possible and gestured for Cyrus to sit down.

“I’ll just draw you a bath then, while you warm up,” she said, stomping out to the well to fill a pot. When she reentered her cottage, Cyrus was sitting so close to the stove he was liable to set himself on fire, but she just grinned at him and went to drag the washbasin into the yard. She had carefully grown thick vines to make quite a cozy—and private—bathing area, as she didn’t have much room in her cottage.

As soon as the first pot steamed, she lifted it and carried it out to the basin.

“In you go,” she ordered.

Cyrus followed her outside, obediently carrying the second steaming pot Mabel had stuffed into his hands. Mabel carried a third and then dumped in two buckets of cold water. She dipped her fingers beneath the water. It was hot, but not painfully so.

“You can add another bucket of cold water from the well if you need to,” she said. “I’ll bring you soap and a washcloth shortly. Get in.”

He nodded as she strode back into the house. Gooseberry was waiting at the door, yowling to be let out.

“In a moment, cat,” Mabel said. “It’s not every day I have a handsome man taking a bath in my backyard.”

Gooseberry meowed again.

Mabel grabbed a bar of soap, a washcloth, and one of Harold’s old robes she’d kept. It was too large for her, but she enjoyed wearing it. It was comfortable. Hopefully, it would fit Cyrus, though he was taller than Harold had been.

“Coming out!” Mabel called, and as she stepped out, she was pleased to see Cyrus had settled into the basin. Keeping her eyes averted, she handed the man the soap and washcloth. “I’ll just put the towel and robe on this chair here,” she said, “and I’m going to take your clothes and wash them. Make sure you scrub every ounce of skin with soap and water, and start with your face.”

“You’re too kind,” Cyrus said as she ducked back into the house with his clothes in her arms.

Twenty minutes later, he appeared at the back door, his face still inflamed. The robe was wrapped around him and he held the towel in one hand.

“It still hurts,” he said.

“Yes, I’m not surprised,” Mabel said kindly, taking the towel and tossing it into the laundry basket. “Is it better, worse, or the same?”

He paused for a moment. “Maybe a tiny bit better. Or the same. Not worse, at least.”

“That’s good! Progress. Now have a seat.” She’d spent the last twenty minutes making a lotion from jewelweed, beeswax, and dried gloam flower, which could only be harvested during the twilight hour. She then infused it with cooling magic, and now carried over a bowl of it. She pulled up a chair and plopped down. “Close your eyes.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “You know, I’m being awfully trusting of the Hag of Blackrock Fields.”

“Swamp hag,” she corrected. “And if I wanted to eat your heart for dinner tonight, I would have already carved it out. Now, close your eyes.”

His eyes widened for a moment, but then he did as instructed.

She dabbed a little of the jewelweed potion on his cheek and gently rubbed it in. At first, he flinched, but then he relaxed as the cooling effect of her lotion took over.

“Thank you,” he murmured, leaning back against the couch.

“Working?” she asked. She carefully massaged the cream into his face and neck. “I need to make more, but you can use this on your arms and chest, okay?”

He nodded, eyes still closed. She stuffed the bowl into his hand and returned to the kitchen to finish mixing up the rest of the cream. She returned a few minutes later to see him hurriedly rubbing the last of it into his arms, and she handed him the second batch.

“Now then. I have to meet someone in fifteen minutes, so you just stay here and rest. Understand?” She gave him a stern look. “I’ll bring you some willow bark tea to help with the inflammation. I want you to drink it all, and I’ll check in on you in an hour.”

“Thank you,” he said again, this time meeting her eyes. They were deep brown, and something like embarrassed gratefulness burned in them. “I owe you.”

She brushed off the comment with a wave of her hand. “Your clothes are drying on the line. Grab them whenever it is convenient.” The teapot whistled, and Mabel poured him a cup of tea and set it on the low table in front of him. “I’ll be back.”

Mabel removed her apron and grabbed her satchel. “Gooseberry, you stay here with the nice gentleman.” She opened the door and then glanced over her shoulder. The man was watching her. She gave him a brief smile and then stepped out into the cool late morning air.

For some reason, her heart was pounding in her chest. But it couldn’t be because there was a man in her cottage. That happened regularly, when husbands came with their wives—or their husbands—for help with various types of remedies. No, it was something about him specifically. His eyes, maybe, or that she’d had ample opportunity to stare at his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since Harold left. Maybe she was just feeling some midlife loneliness. That must be it.

He would leave and she would put him out of her mind. That was all there was to it.

February Cat News

The Winter Soldier (aka Buck) has made a lot of discoveries the last few weeks. He has discovered the joy of the cat tree, the delights of every single dog bed in the house, and the wonder of whatever happens to be on the kitchen counter at any given time. 

We have learned that he loves chasing the laser, loves catnip, and loves Wilfredo Potato most of all. The two of them have become thick as thieves, attacking floating leaves through the windows, sitting on random surfaces together, and chasing each other madly around the house at 3 AM. 

He's also started coming to the humans for attention, which is excellent progress, and if the rest of the family is hanging out in the same room, he tends to show up to see what the fuss is about, even if he's a bit late to the show.

I think he's starting to like it here!

Writing Tips (Sometimes): Let's Talk About AI

You may have noticed that a lot of people seem to be talking about AI. You may have also noticed, at least in the author community, that everyone’s feelings on it are not only divided, but viciously so. In only the last couple of weeks, I saw a post by one author claiming that anyone who thinks AI is okay has failed an ethical meter and would be judged by her accordingly. And I saw another Facebook post by a different author suggesting that anyone who is anti-AI is a luddite, an idiot, and not worth listening to.

You’ve probably also noticed that the majority of the news articles about the topic use extremely emotionally heightened language. I’m looking at a list of articles now and here are a few of the phrases:

• “Gaslighting, love bombing, and narcissism”

• “Ring Alarm Bells on Rogue AI”

• “Unnerving Interactions with ChatGPT”

• “ChatGPT AI robots writing church sermons causing hell for pastors”

• “The monster is already on the loose”

• “Get ready for a sound revolution”

• “AI comes for the creative class”

The problem with emotionally heightened rhetoric is not that it is posing a particular angle on a new development in the world—it’s that it is telling us how to feel. And when we don’t recognize the rhetoric being used on us, it takes away our ability to decide for ourselves how we want to feel.

Now, since I don’t intend for this post to be a rhetorical analysis of news articles, lol, I’m going to simply say this: pay attention to the language. Because so often, the language is used to grab your attention and emotions, but the narrative it’s weaving is false. And you’ll notice that anytime anything new happens, this is the language used to talk about it. Not just AI. Everything.

Now that I’ve got that gripe out of my system, let’s actually talk about AI.

First, let me be clear that I’m what I call "AI Curious."

The picture at the top of this email was made using MidJourney. I used ChatGPT to answer a few questions I had about AI (ever wonder how support vector machines work?), and I used Google’s search engine to fact check a few things I thought were true but wasn’t certain about. I also used ProWritingAid to edit this post.

And I now run a brand-new discord server about AI, which you can click here to join.

I think AI is fascinating and exciting, and I don’t think anyone who is curious about it or interested in it is evil. That said, nor do I think anyone who is uncomfortable with it or prefers to avoid it is dumb.

AI is an extremely complex and nuanced topic, and so much of what you see are people applying binary conclusions to something that is the opposite of binary. You’ll see people saying “good/bad” and “yes/no,” but AI is not as simple as all that.

So what is AI?

"Artificial Intelligence" is an enormous term that encompasses a wide variety of different technologies. It is not only things like MidJourney or ChatGPT, it is also things like search engines, GPS, and email spam filters. It is editing software, robots, and algorithms. It is autonomous vehicles, space travel, social media, Spotify, Amazon, Netflix, Alexa, and Siri.

It is many things—and plays a role in many of the tools you likely use in your day-to-day life, whether or not you realize it.

Have you heard of a neural network? Do you understand the difference between heuristics, decision trees, and support vector machines? How about reinforcement learning? Do you know the difference between supervised and unsupervised learning? Do these words mean anything to you: classification, regression, clustering, association, dimensionality reduction?

These concepts are all part of understanding how AI works, where it gets the data it’s trained on, the advantages and disadvantages of AI, and potential pitfalls of the tech. And while you don’t truly need to know every detail and every nuance, the more you do know, the more educated of an opinion you can form on the topic.

Because AI, like any other technology, has pros and cons. It can be used for good things, and it can be used for bad. It can help people with disabilities navigate the world. For example, someone I know with dyslexia is using ChatGPT to help them write professional emails; I know several writers with aphantasia using writing tools to help them write descriptions with more depth and emotion; the ability to connect on platforms like social media can allow people confined to their homes to experience less isolation and loneliness.

But AI can also be used by corporations to exploit people. And when a tool is programmed on biased or racist data, it will produce biased and racist outputs.

My point is that it is unwise to go all in on or completely dismiss AI without understanding the full scope of the technology. If you don’t understand how it works, that’s okay. You can learn. I gave you some great keywords to get started with (above).

The second point I want to make is about ethics, because the number one objection to AI I see tossed around in the author community is that it’s “unethical.”

Now, you may not know this about me, but I’m a hobbyist philosopher. Sit me down sometime and ask me about absurdism or my essentialist definition of “dogness,” or tell me your feelings about Wittgenstein or Simone de Beauvoir, and I will be entertained for hours.

What I’ve noticed in these conversations about AI, is that people are conflating ethics with “something that makes me uncomfortable,” or “something that goes against my own moral code.” Sometimes these things align, but sometimes they don't.

Ethics is the study of “good and bad,” born from Socrates’s attempt to answer the question, “How should we live?” It’s an entire discipline that has been discussed, debated, and argued by some of the most intelligent people in history, reaching all the way back to Plato and Socrates—and the thing is, people still don’t agree on it.

To flatly say “AI is ethical/unethical” once again places a binary conclusion onto a concept that is immensely complex. Certain things about AI are definitely unethical. For example, I would argue that corporations selling each other data that is owned by someone else (looking at you, Findaway Voices/Spotify and Apple) is definitely unethical. But do I think the machines trained on the data are inherently unethical? No.

I also want to mention here, before someone yells “theft!” or “What about the artists?” that I am both an visual artist and a writer. I have posted many drawings online and written millions of words that are freely available to read. And I know for a fact my work has been used to train one machine or another. And I’m not upset about it. Why? Because I understand how the technology works.

Am I upset Findaway sold my audiobooks to Apple? Yes.

But these are two separate conversations: one is about the exploitation of creators by corporations; the other is about machine learning. There is overlap, but they are not one and the same.

Again, as I don’t intend this to be an essay on ethics, let me leave you with this: if you are concerned about the ethics of AI, brush up on your understanding of ethics first. Start by reading the Wikipedia article on ethics or watch Hank Green’s Crash Course on philosophy.

The last thing I want to say about AI (today, haha, because I’m sure I’ll keep getting questions about it), is that right now, everyone is hyper fixated on AI art tools like MidJourney and Stable Diffusion, or text bots like ChatGPT.

But AI has been around for decades. It’s not actually new. Have you ever considered what other tools you might use that rely on AI, and you didn’t even know it?

Let me give you a few examples of technologies that use AI: search engines like Google, Bing, DuckDuckGo, etc.; social media (all of it); GPS tools like Waze, Google Maps, and Apple Maps; Alexa and Google Home; website-building platforms; ProWritingAid and Grammarly; entertainment platforms like Spotify and Netflix; Amazon and other online ecommerce retailers; anything that gives you recommendations; the operating system on your computer; the production of cars, and autonomous features like auto-parking or braking; even your Roomba uses AI.

AI has also made its way into some surprising sectors you might not expect. For example, AI is used in agriculture to analyze crop data and predict weather patterns. In sports, AI is used to analyze player performance and develop game strategies. Financial service companies use AI to detect fraud, manage portfolios, and perform risk assessments. AI is used for traffic management, route optimization, and autonomous vehicle control. It's also used in the energy sector to optimize energy consumption and reduce waste. And don’t get me started on the Mars Curiosity rover (insert squeal of delight).

And because software is often proprietary, a company doesn’t have to tell you if they use AI. You could be using tons of tools that make use of AI technology without even knowing it.

Where do you think all these tools got the data to train their machines? Google Search, for example, scrapes the entire internet every day. It reads every website, looks at every image, listens to every audio file. And it has to do this in order to give you the best results when you type in a search query. We know this about search engines. But few other companies have revealed where their data came from, and we know big companies buy data and sell datasets all the time. So often, we just can’t know.

AI is everywhere. Not only that, it has made people’s lives immeasurably better in ways they don’t even realize.

If I had to offer a specific conclusion on this topic, it would be this: AI is not bad. AI has the potential to do immense good, and already does. But what we need is regulation—top-down regulation of corporations, transparency into the technologies and where they are being used and how they are being developed, and compensation for data bought and sold.

But that gets into politics, so I’m going to stop here.

I’ve received a couple of questions about the use of specific AI tools such as Google auto-narration, MidJourney, and writing tools, so I’ll talk about those soon.

But I’ll leave you with this: don’t be afraid. But put in the work to draw your own conclusions on the topic. The robots seem like they’re smart, but they don’t even come close to the power of the human mind.

We’re all gonna be okay.

Hello, World!