Damsel in Distress
Riley Moore manages to be the center of attention and yet not steal the show. She wears the concentrated face of a brain surgeon
as Lake describes the blocking she and her husband do to ensure her sex scenes are true to life.
“Of the many things I’m blessed with, flexibility is at the tippy top,” Lake says. “If I can’t do it, my readers can’t do
it, so damn straight my characters won’t do it.”
“Ooh, the things we artists get to call research !” Riley winks, inciting raucous applause. She waits for it to die down before turning serious. “I truly love that. Authenticity
is the foundation of all extraordinary art.”
Riley doesn’t direct this to the packed auditorium. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the screen. She leaves the statement hanging. So far, Hartley has answered each question she’s been asked with brevity, like she can’t wait for this to be over. There’s been no mention of #WildeWestShowdown or AI or anything that might incite a shootout. My nerves had begun to settle, thinking we might actually pull this off. Now, with the way Riley’s fixated on the screen, it’s like I’m three car lengths back, watching as the brake lights flash up ahead, with no time to stop what’s coming.
“Hartley?” Riley’s tone is soft but commanding. “Would you care to weigh in?”
Hartley’s eyes drift, presumably to Fiona or Grace or Cooper-Brad who are likely wielding a pair of scissors. Hartley wipes
her nose with a crumpled tissue. “I’m sorry. My ears are clogged. I’m not sure I heard the question?”
Riley takes this as a challenge, one she greedily accepts. “What do you think is the key to creating extraordinary art?”
Hartley tugs on the folded cuff of the beanie on her head. “A lot of time and hard work and attention to detail.”
The response is not just short but tragically trite. Maybe this is more than just Hartley being under duress. At both Harbor
Books and the meet-and-greet panel, Hartley maintained control over the questions. She’d had time to prepare. She’d had time
to ask AI to write her responses. Here, she’s on her own, and it shows.
I sit up straighter, already feeling the heat of her crashing and burning.
Riley presses, “Certainly, but is it actually your attention to detail or Sofie Wilde’s? Stealing itself has been called an art form, but do we really consider the thieves
who pilfered pieces valued at more than five hundred million dollars from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum to be artists?
You’ll be able to decide for yourselves when Netflix drops my new series next month.” Self-promotion ingrained in us all.
“I play a Harvard art professor. Emphasis on play . I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.” Riley looks at Hartley expectantly.
“Is there a question?” Hartley says. “Because if not, I have one. I was wondering how Tara Kara decided to make their vampires
goth instead of punk rock or emo or—”
Tara or Kara clears their throat, but neither speaks. We are all waiting for Riley’s next move.
She crosses her long legs, revealing the red soles of her expensive heels, which she changed into before the audience flooded
through the doors. “We’ll get there,” Riley says, “but let’s live here a little longer. I find it fascinating.” She spins
her head to the audience. “We all do. I mean, this is a first.”
“That we know of,” Hartley says under her breath as if it just slipped out, but I’ve seen Hartley in action before. My hackles
rise.
“Excellent point,” Riley says. “Half the books at this convention might have been written by AI.”
Murmurs from the audience.
“One hundred percent might be next year,” Riley continues, and the murmuring grows into whispers and a few “noes” and a couple
of variations on “ridiculous.”
Riley glides off her stool and saunters to the edge of the stage. “I’m sorry, are we taking issue with that?”
“Of course!” someone shouts.
A few woots in support. Several wave aquamarine scarves above their heads.
Riley places her palm on her chest. “Excuse me if I’m a little confused. I only just arrived at the convention, but my understanding
is that Ms. West’s books have been flying off the shelves. Her signing lines are as long as anyone’s. Am I mistaken?” An eyebrow
ticks up as she looks to a terrified Clarice, who shakes her head off-stage.
I’ve never met Riley Moore before. She’s never chosen one of my books for her book club. And yet, she’s defending me. I need
to believe it’s because of Max. So I do.
Riley’s heels click as she casually strolls across the stage. “It appears as though I’m not mistaken. Hartley West is being embraced by readers inside and outside this convention center. For something to take hold, it requires a tipping point. This is it.” She points the microphone at the audience. “You, lovies, are it.”
A woman in the front row stands. “Ms. Moore?”
“Well, yes, hey, hey, lovie.”
The woman blushes. “First, I adored you in that movie where you played the first female dentist! My goodness, how you made
cavities sexy.”
Riley nods appreciatively. “Real-life inspiration is a gold mine. Lucy Hobbs Taylor made it easy.”
“Plus, all that leaning over your patients.” The woman curves her bosom forward. “Anyway, with all this, I’ve been following
online, but I’m honestly wondering what all the fuss is about. I read books for the books they are, generally not for the
authors. Half the time, I don’t know who wrote what and a month later, if I knew, I certainly don’t anymore. Isn’t this what
we’re supposed to be doing these days? Being more inclusive?”
Rosie draws her microphone closer. “A concept we should be discussing, but inclusivity refers to those who have not had equal
access to resources or opportunities. Those being humans.”
The woman shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Rosie says firmly. “It does.”
From off-stage, Clarice whispers, “Goth vampires, Ms. Moore.”
Riley hears Clarice, holding up a single finger in acknowledgment. “Let’s run with this a sec. Does it matter? Does it matter
where your art comes from? Does it matter if, say, I play Lucy Hobbs Taylor or if an animated version of me plays her?”
Tara clears her throat. “Like when they mapped your body so you could play Rapunzel?”
“Motion capture, yes,” Riley says. “That’s how we did the animated version of Rapunzel. Even though it wasn’t live -action, they wanted to be able to say starring Riley Moore. But what if they didn’t care about having my name attached? Right now, actors are being paid to have their likenesses
captured. They’re signing away the rights to how those likenesses will be used. They become AI, able to be adjusted and distorted
to play any character that can be dreamed up. Why, someday, you’ll be able to munch away on kale chips, call up Titanic , and plonk your face where Leo’s or Kate’s once were. Is it still Titanic then? Does it matter?”
“So this is it?” Hartley’s voice descends from above. “You’re afraid of losing your job? For the first time, white-collar
workers are in danger of being replaced, and the world is going to stop and take the time to engage in an intellectual debate?”
Tara Kara remain still, Lake seems completely out of her comfort zone, and I cannot engage.
Rosie is the one to say in a measured tone, “This is a varied and complex issue with tentacles that extend from copyright
and financial compensation to the very real dangers of bias and disinformation to what it means to be a member of our society.
But I believe it starts here. With us. Because if humanity is exhibited anywhere, it is here. In art.”
Riley plants her hands on her hips. “Sofie Wilde is on the front lines, but we can’t let her stand there alone.”
I’m fascinated by Riley, the whole room is. It’s almost like we’ve forgotten Hartley’s face is even on that big screen above
us. Until a thump echoes through the audio system, and I look up to see Hartley’s hand flat on the table in front of her.
She drags her chair forward.
“Seems we’re still without an actual question from our moderator,” Hartley says. “If the panel is over, then—”
“You want a question?” Riley says. “Don’t you care about art?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“But you’re only here because of Sofie Wilde.”
“And Sofie Wilde is only here because of Lake Nolan and Diana Gabaldon and Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele and Charlotte
Bronte and Jane Austen and all the way back to Shakespeare and Homer.”
“It’s not the same.”
“But it is. We’re all building on what’s come before. The only thing that’s changed is the technology.”
“The technology that allows you to actually not create anything.”
“Bullshit.” Hartley rips off the red beanie, and the audience gasps. She’s no longer scared. She’s pissed.
I power through to maintain my polite half smile despite the confetti cannons exploding behind my eyes.
Hartley steadies herself with a deep breath. “I apologize. My current situation has me on edge.” Her eyes float to the side—surely
to Fiona or Grace or Cooper-Brad—and she says, “The Wi-Fi here is dicey.” Hartley fluffs her hair and reclaims her measured
tone. “Riley, is it all right if I call you ‘Riley’?”
She flutters her fingers. “Certainly, lovie.”
“Perfect. I’m happy to respond, Riley, but I realize I’m not the only creator on this panel. I don’t want to have this result
in any Hartley Hog hashtags.” She covers her face with her hands. “Oops, well, now that’s out there. Consider it a gift.”
The audience titters, unsure if it’s okay to actually laugh.
Hartley continues. “If you use that hashtag, at least make it clear that I tried to defer to my fellow authors, but that I
also couldn’t risk offending Riley Moore. I mean, it’s Riley Moore .”
Now the audience is in it. They clap and hoot and someone shouts, “You got this, Hartley!”
A prickling goes up my spine watching how it lifts her.
She physically grows in the chair. “I’ve already explained this.” She looks pointedly at Riley. “I am the creator of Love and Lawlessness . It is simply the words I did not create.”
“I’m sorry, Hartley, but that sounds like double-talk.”
“And I’m sorry, Riley, but that’s only because you don’t actually know what you’re talking about.”
The audience “oohs,” and I’m really glad the #WildeWestShowdown is being run by Riley and not me.
Hartley adds, “I don’t mean that as a slight. But it’s not like you hit the generate button and out pops a book. It’s not a toaster.”
Lake slides her chair back for a better angle. “Then what is it? Since you all refused to let me keep my head all warm and
cozy beneath the sand, explain to me how it’s not a toaster.”
Hartley seems to focus directly on me, as if asking permission. I don’t know if Hartley saying more will help or hurt me.
I give a noncommittal shrug, which she takes as a yes.
“This AI can do tremendous things,” she says, “but as everyone has repeatedly reiterated, it isn’t human. If I just let the
AI churn out a book, it wouldn’t be a book anyone would want to read. There’d be inconsistencies with characters introduced
and forgotten, plot points repeated, and conversations that go nowhere. And twists or surprises? Either none or ones that
make no sense. For this to work, I had to be in control.”
Lake snorts. “Then why use it at all? If you’re in control, be in control. Just do the thing.”
Silence. Then, Tara says, “Easy for you to say, Lake, you’ve been doing the thing—”
“Since dinosaurs roamed the earth,” Kara quips.
Lake ignores them both. “Hartley? Go on. Curiosity officially piqued.”
Somehow, this is becoming exactly what we were trying to prevent: Hartley getting a platform. I feel Rosie’s eyes on me and turn to face her. But I can’t shut this down. Not if I want to keep my #SweetSofie. Maybe she could pick up the goddamn sword? Oh, wait, was that too grotesquely judgmental?
Hartley’s smile exudes humbleness. I’ve seen this before. She’s exactly where she wants to be. “I didn’t know I wanted to
do the thing. All I wanted was more Sofie Wilde in my life. So I asked for the same light that is Vance, the tragic loss of
a best friend like Triana, a love that would endure like Callum and Torrence. But it grew into more. And soon I wasn’t alone.”
She takes a long breath, and her eyes well with tears. “It became a partnership, but still, I coaxed every scene. I’m the
one who understood when we needed to dial up the tension, when to slow it down, when the pacing lagged. Sentences came out
fully formed, but I massaged each line into its final form. I created the rhythm, shorter and longer sentences, pushing the
style to be a little more Jocelyn here, a little less Tucana there, to be my version of Sofie Wilde.”
The audience is silent. Hartley’s eloquence combined with her display of emotion is winning them over. Riley has the patience
of a kindergarten teacher as she waits out Hartley, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with one of the crumpled tissues.
Riley then seeks out Max Donner, who gives her a subtle nod of encouragement. In a softer tone, Riley says, “At the end of
the day, it’s still not the same effort, amount of time, or skill.”
“And yet, it is still effort, time, and skill. Just applied in a new way.” Hartley’s jaw clenches. “Painters once had to grind
pigment and mix it with oil to make their own paints. To make a tapestry, you had to spin your own fibers into yarn. Art is
not stagnant, and its definition cannot be either.”
Riley’s lips part, but no sound comes out.
It is Rosie who engages. “What do we become, then? If we no longer write? If we are no longer authors?”
“You are still an author,” Hartley says. “Just with a new tool. The same way new software and electronic readers and tablets were the tools that brought about self-publishing. Evolution, that’s all this is.”
“One that makes us simply idea factories. That’s what we become.”
“And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.”
“You want me to be a puppeteer?” Rosie balks.
“I want you to recognize that for every con, there is a pro. Just because something is new, doesn’t mean it’s bad. But I get
it. Change is difficult because change is loss. We mourn, but we must move on. A shift in mindset, that’s all this is.”
Rosie shakes her head, vehemently. “I do not believe that. Our books are our hearts on a page. The ink may as well be our
blood. We write to process the world and our place in it, and readers read for the same reason.”
Rosie is well past resting bitch face. She’s angry and she’s not bothering to hide it.
Hartley presses closer to the camera. “That doesn’t have to change.”
“No disrespect,” Rosie says, “but that’s naive, Hartley. Emotions are what make us human. Sympathy and empathy and the lack
of both.”
We’ve lost the Jocelyn thread, what this means for me—my keynote, my tour, my future books. Rosie better find a way to bring
it back. That is why we’re doing this.
She continues, “A machine cannot imbue words with the experience of being human, with my experience, no matter how much data it draws from. It will never truly echo life because it is not alive. Readers will not
see themselves in it.”
“You’re purposely ignoring what I said—that I had a role to play in crafting the end result, the same way your editor does. But I can do it much faster than your editor and than you. Think of it: we are a binge culture. AI means we authors can do what we do and give our readers more of what they want in weeks, not years.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Rosie pushes her gold-tipped hair behind her ear. “Quantity isn’t the issue. I don’t know a single reader who has conquered
their Tbr list, do you? Let alone watched everything they favorite on their zillions of streaming apps. We’re inundated with
entertainment options. We don’t need or want mass production in art. This isn’t a bag of Doritos.”
“But it is a product,” Hartley says. “One AI might even make better, if we give it a chance. Let’s be honest, a lot of our
entertainment right now, created solely by humans, is mediocre. AI will evolve, the same way I know your very first book wasn’t
the masterpiece that your current one is. We all learn, we all improve. One day, AI will strengthen all art—and do it faster
and cheaper.”
“Cheap is the only part you’re getting correct. AI will cheapen all art. AI does cheapen it. You can’t teach taste.”
Hartley grows more animated, gesturing with her hands as she speaks. “But that’s your subjective opinion, isn’t it? Of what
is or feels cheap ? Most people will never see the Mona Lisa or Monet’s Water Lilies . But they can hang a poster of both on their wall. Is that wrong?” Rosie starts to protest, and Hartley holds up her hand.
“If a story is well written and well told, so much so that we can’t tell if it’s created by a human or AI, does it truly matter
how it was generated? Or is this simply a case of not wanting to believe the thing you spent your life learning to do is so
easily done by a computer. Is this ego?”
Rosie sits back in her chair. She looks down the line of authors. “Maybe,” she says. “But AI can only do what it does because it’s able to process massive amounts of data—data that is made up of the stories we’ve created and the words we’ve used to do it. Years, lifetimes’ worth of the work of human beings boiled down to algorithms. Insert commercial success here . Is it ego? Some. It’s also a fear that in amalgamating everything art becomes generic. We lose creativity. We lose experimentation.
I don’t want art that is all trope.”
Lake taps her mic. “And I don’t want it all owned by a conglomerate.”
Hartley pushes herself higher in her chair. “But it already is. Books are products, paid for in all the same ways as Sofie
so eagerly pointed out. This would at least level the playing field.”
Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not dragging #SweetSofie into this. You’re all doing fine on your own.
Harley’s eyes brighten. “All of you so intent on hating on AI shouldn’t do it until you try it. Because then you’d see that
apart from all of this, using it is fun. It just is.”
Rosie stares at me intently. When I don’t say anything, she lets out a heavy sigh. “Fun? Maybe. In the way it’s fun to teach
a toddler how to slide open a barn door until she slams the thing back and forth so many times it comes off its hinges. But
let’s say that it doesn’t become as destructive as my niece. For me, this is about awe. Life has so little. We know how every
sausage is made. Art might be the only source of wonder left in the world. It allows us to live in another person’s mind,
for just a little while. Even if the quality is the same, even if the work is indistinguishable, I will forever marvel at
the depth of another human being’s creative soul. I read the works of these authors beside me and dozens like them and am inspired. I am in awe. I will never
be in awe of a machine.”
I am a great author. Rosie is better.
“You’re the one who buys a sixty-dollar candle,” Hartley murmurs.
Riley cocks her head. “I’m sorry, I think I missed that.”
Hartley freezes. “Oh, nothing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Rosie says bluntly, “You didn’t.”
Silence shrouds the stage. Hartley shifts in her seat. Finally, she says, “Spending sixty dollars for a candle from Target
seems ridiculous. Even if it’s by Joanna Gaines. But at a pop-up market, sold by the woman who poured the wax and mixed the
essential oils to create her own salt-of-the-sea scent? Wallets open like the mouth of a baby bird.”
“So you agree,” Rosie says, warily, as if fearing she’s being led into a trap. “We value artisanship.”
Hartley’s jaw clenches. “Exactly. And that is what Love and Lawlessness is for those with less restrictive perspectives, which includes the thousands of readers who have found me and are finding
me still.” Hartley’s chair jerks back, and the surprise in her eyes indicates it wasn’t of her own volition. She covers with
a cough, rolling it into a full-on coughing fit. “If you’ll excuse me—”
The screen goes black as the laptop clicks shut.