Your Words Are Your Deed, Not Your Donation

Authors are finally fighting back. Shame it took this long.

I've seen my fair share of foolishness in Harrow Corners, but these authors taking on the AI bigwigs is a special kind of stupid that I mean as a compliment. You'd think folks who make a living with their words would've done the math sooner. Charles Graeber and his lot were right to show some spine to a titan like Anthropic, but pride without preparation is just a headache with better posture. They're getting a payout, sure. But after all the time and trouble, many will find it's like being handed a fistful of pennies to cover a stolen farm. Pretty pennies, maybe. Still pennies.

Down in Harrow Corners, we had a similar fuss back in '83. Old man Henderson sold his land to a developer fat with promises and glossy brochures. By the time the dust settled, the believers had summer homes and Henderson had the satisfaction of watching that land turn on the fools who thought one slick contract could outsmart a century of history. The new folks were friendly enough with their talk of progress. But real neighborly is what happens when you're snowed in for three days and your generator's on the fritz. That's when you find out who'll sit with you in the dark and who's just waiting for the power to come back on. Like the time the lake gave the Hendersons' boy back, and we all had to figure out what to do with him after that. But that's a separate matter.

These AI companies are slicker than owl shit, and they know it. They train their models on your words, then call it fair use with a straight face. Fine. They can have the books if they pay up. But don't sit there and tell me it's not the same as a thief selling his plunder to the highest bidder and calling it fair market value. The shame is that these authors didn't think to demand more before the ink was dry. You always negotiate from strength, girls. A promise of payment is not the same as cash in hand. I remember the year the county fair ran nine days longer than it was scheduled and nobody could leave. We got very good at renegotiating terms under pressure. You'd be surprised what you can accomplish when the exits aren't cooperating.

Then there's the foreign angle, with countries like China playing by rules nobody else agreed to. The government there controls the companies, so enforcement is a pipe dream dressed in a business suit. Imagine a world where your words can be used, twisted, and spat back out without a by-your-leave, just because someone in a high tower decided it was fair game. I've seen it happen to the best of them, including my late husbands, who always said a man's word is his bond. A country's word, though, is just a piece of paper with a seal on it.

But there's hope, or at least the shape of it. Andrea Bartz looks at this mess and sees a future where creatives can stake a claim in the AI gold rush. Licensing, she says. It's a way to keep the wolves at bay, to make sure the machines know whose bones they're gnawing on. Whether the big AI companies will play ball or keep dancing just close enough to the music to claim they weren't involved, well, that remains to be seen. I've got a fruitcake that's been circulating through Harrow Corners since 1954, and every year it finds its way back to my porch. Anything worth making outlives you. Nobody eats the fruitcake, but nobody throws it out either. There's a lesson in that if you're paying attention.

The machine doesn't care about rights, or respect, or the weight of a word that took twenty years to earn. It just wants fuel. And as long as it gets it cheap, we're all just chum in the current. Don't be like the folks who got stuck on the third porch step that isn't there on Sundays, too confused to back up and too stubborn to ask why. Your words are your worth. They are the deed to something nobody can foreclose on, unless you hand over the keys yourself.

Don't hand over the keys.

Watch your back and keep your receipts. , Aunt Dot
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