She Taught Me Everything
Wrote it. Now for the next part.
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Well that's a fine how-do-you-do. It's August already. It's been a looong summer of authoring. About which I am not complaining. It's all my choice: the missed summer laziness, the hours spent with butt-glue fully set, the wrestling over whether it should be this word or that word, or hell, what's a synonym for it? Now, at the far end of summer, I'm taking a moment to sip on an indulgent beverage in the middle of an afternoon because it's important, I think, to recognize the tiny milestones in my fierce inch-by-inch battle to finish this book. Which milestone? Why the one where I submit a chunk of the new book to an agent. Actually to three agents!  I know! Traditional publishing?! Maybe. Giving up a chunk of control and a chunk of possible revenue in exchange for distribution and promotion across the wider reading world? We'll see. I'm not planning to chase an agent very hard. But if it happens, that might be okay too. So please join me in a mid-afternoon salute to this story going out into the publishing world in search of a deal. Go get 'em, little buddy! 
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A writing colleague posted on social media that The Atlantic Monthly had done an in-depth story about Meta illegally uploading thousands of copyrighted works into their new Artificial Intelligence project, Llama. The Atlantic Monthly very kindly left their searchable database outside the site's paywall, meaning that non-subscribers can check listings. So I did.  And poof! just like that, I am now part of a class-action suit against Meta. But why? It's a little complicated, but first an overview of copyright. © Copyright, as we have defined it since the 1970's, is the innate right of any creator to control what happens with their creation (book, song, drawing, movie, sculpture, all the cool stuff) for the lifetime of the creator plus 70 years. The idea being that if you've gone to the effort to make something, you should be able to profit from and control (to some extent) what happens to it for long enough for you and your heirs to benefit. Which is why, if someone wants to make a movie of your novel, they need to obtain the movie rights from you. You can make a deal or not make one, depending if you like the cut of their jib. Or for example, the fellas in Aerosmith can say no (or send a cease-and-desist) to some rando using "Walk This Way" at a racist pep rally. If those jerks want a rally-song today, they should turn to something older, like, say, 1923's "Yes We Have No Bananas" by Forman and Nash, or better yet, find a likeminded collaborator and compensate the artist for the use of the work. © There are a few exceptions to copyright, but they are small and specific: anyone can quote a small part of of copyrighted work, for instance, for the purposes of review or scholarship. We all use copyrighted material, assuming we read books, buy artwork, listen to modern performances of music, watch K-drama, etc., etc. And we mostly pay fair value for the pleasure: buying a copy of a book, paying taxes that support libraries, purchasing an entry ticket, keeping up on subscription fees, or even renting our ears and eyes to advertisers by the 15-second-increment. The wicket grows sticky almost instantly when the user of the copyrighted material puts that original work to use for gain. Like when Vanilla Ice five-finger-discounted the "Under Pressure" rift from Queen and David Bowie for "Ice Ice Baby." Vanilla Ice, bless his goofy heart, ended up having to apologize, give credit to David Bowie and Queen, and pay for the use of the riff, btw. See also "cautionary tale." And that's copyright generally sorted. Now the Artificial Intelligence (AI) kerfuffle. Say Jane Doe, avid reader and would-be novelist, buys a copy of Novel X and reads it, later crediting the influence of that novel in her own success as a novelist. How is that different from Llama AI gobbling Novel X up in an effort to learn how to write and speak?  Such a good question. I have opinions! To start with, what would AI be doing with Novel X anyhow? Overly simple explanation: the way that these AIs like ChatGPT, Llama, and even Grammarly learn language is through examples. Give it Shakespeare, and you get Shakespearean English. Which is not helpful when you want to make your hastily written e-mail sound more businesslike. Alack! A pox on your deadline, sir! So in order to be really useful, AIs need an ocean of source material. Like, say, a library. Only thing is: copyright. © To get hold of Novel X, someone somewhere somehow in the AI world has to upload (which is to say made an electronic copy) the work. For instance, an impatient fan got the clever idea of having ChatGPT finish the last book in the Game of Thrones series in author George RR Martin's style. Except of course, George RR Martin holds the copyright to those books, and he never gave permission for the series to be electronically copied to ChatGPT. Cue the lawsuits. ©  From "Mother Goose's Melodies" Copyright 1833. So, back to Meta, Llama, and my very own brainchild novel, and why I am so dag-nabbed angry I have moved beyond actual swearwords. And it's not because I am concerned that someone will have ChatGPT write a fan-fiction of my novel. No, it's the unseemly and unscrupulous uses of my work that bug the stuffing out of me.  First, according to the research done by The Atlantic, it looks like Meta lifted literal millions of books from a pirate site. Let that sink in: instead of paying me the paltry $7.99 for an e-book, the scamps at Meta likely went to the black market. For shame! A company posting 1.64 BILLION dollars a year in revenue didn't even pay market value for source material? Second, they seem to have scrubbed the copyright notice (that page in the front that says where and when a work is published and also, not-so-ironically, who is the actual owner of the copyright) from these works. Which speaks to willful decisions being made—and an actual understanding that what they were doing was in violation of copyright law. ©  Third, and I suspect this will be the sticking point legally, Llama AI is not a human, working on creating an original work of her own; it's a for-profit business product that stands to make bajillions of dollars for Meta as well as for users of Llama, a list that currently includes Google, Goldman Sachs, etc etc. More than 170 million downloads, according to Meta's own website. Bajillions of dollars, let me reiterate, off the backs of many, many writers like me. And what do we get? Zip, and absolutely no creative control when someone wants to imitate us. A bad actor could easily say anything in imitation of my narrator's voice. Like, "Hey Google, write me a 30-second TV advertisement script in the tone of Margaret Atwood's The Testament for a new non-hormonal drug regimen for ED." Which is horrifying and exactly the opposite of creative control. The situation feels very genie-out-of-bottle-ish: it's not like Llama AI can magically and easily excise the stolen property it may be made of (can it?), but I sincerely doubt anyone is going to throw the project out. So, like so many thing, the issue goes to the courts to decide how/if to settle writers' complaints. And meanwhile, the situation extends beyond the US. Writers in France just filed a lawsuit, and I suspect it's going to avalanche from there. ©  REFERENCES
https://routenote.com/blog/all-the-songs-now-in-the-public-domain-2024/ https://www.copyright.gov/what-is-copyright/ https://abounaja.com/blog/copyright-infringement-cases https://www.txpatentattorney.com/blog/common-copyright-violations-you-probably-commit/ https://www.socialmediatoday.com/news/meta-court-trial-over-use-of-copyright-material-ai/741985/ https://authorsguild.org/news/meta-libgen-ai-training-book-heist-what-authors-need-to-know/ https://techcrunch.com/2025/03/21/meta-has-revenue-sharing-agreements-with-llama-ai-model-hosts-filing-reveals/ https://www.statista.com/statistics/277229/facebooks-annual-revenue-and-net-income/ https://about.fb.com/news/2024/05/how-companies-are-using-meta-llama/ https://originality.ai/blog/how-do-ai-writers-work#:~:text=Essentially%2C%20an%20AI%20content%20generator,content%20that%20matches%20the%20prompt. https://www.reddit.com/r/technicalwriting/comments/1ddr4tz/tech_writers_how_do_you_use_ai/ https://wjlta.com/2024/03/05/plot-twist-understanding-the-authors-guild-v-openai-inc-complaint/ https://screenrant.com/game-thrones-books-ai-completed-removed-lawsuit/  As with birdwatching, so it is with authors. Oh, I've seen Stephen King stepping into his big black SUV at the Publix, but most writers are drab birds, well camouflaged and not terribly showy in the wild. Until they gather in flocks.  When USF used to host the Suncoast Writers Conference, it was a bit of amusement for my sister and me to play "Spot the Oddity." For instance, the guy in the brown wool cloak and Gandalf staff? On a hot Florida afternoon, btw. Def a fantasy novelist. 10 points to Gryffindor! Oh, and that lady with the Crocodile Dundee hat who thrust a photo at Connie May Fowler in the signing line. Connie May, a charming and delicate woman, looking up at the Dundeehatter with a look of horror. "It's the trailer park where you grew up!" the woman said. Then she added, in case we had doubts, "I'm a writer too!" I went to a reading in maybe 2013 where the poet—lovely writing, by the way—was sporting a leather jacket and lace spats (like Madonna circa "Lucky Star"), but NOT ironically... We listen, and we DON——oh, I do so judge. Mostly, even as I judge, I'm curious about why. Perhaps the choice is driven by the panicked thought of so many watching eyes, when many writers spend their days deep, deep within the safe snail-shell of their skulls.  To be fair, I'm also living pretty deep in my own brain. Maybe the eccentricities of dress that strike me as an audience member are not as uncommon as I imagine. Perhaps these sartorial options are simply outside of my own area of observation. (Parallel to my favorite rock radio tagline, "WROK, If we're TOO loud, you're TOO OLD!") I mean, I built several circa 1910 walking skirts, which I wear, so who am I to judge?  And as I prepare to venture to the annual bird feeder, I mean book festival, I'm giving my closet the side-eye. What to wear, what to wear...  PS: If you're in Gainesville, swing by the Sunshine State Book Festival. It's excellent people-watching. I'll be there, trying to sell some books and meet up with my flock.
https://guides.fscj.edu/writers/ConnieMayFowler https://writersalliance.org/event/2025-sunshine-state-book-festival/ Ah, the feared and abhorred red ink. Yeah, no, not the accounting red ink. We are all pretty good at ignoring debt, I think. I refer instead to teacher ink. Correction ink. That big red check mark that screams:"WRONG!"  It's also those scarlet suggestions, notes, generalized messages that teachers and editors are prone to making. They often use red pencil, actually, which likewise does not erase from the page. When I am an editor working on someone's paper manuscript, I like to use green ink or purple, just to mix it up. Still, even if it's purple, it's red. And when you are a writer, red = love. Or in my world it is. Because when I have plunked down cash, it's nice to hear from my editor that they like a turn of phrase or the story is interesting. But far better is the attention, time, and—yes--love poured into a note that says something along the lines of, "I think this section could be tighter. Does this word convey the emotion you want? Why are we learning this right now?" The point of a critical editorial reading is to improve the work. In the immortal words of the original Soloflex ad, it's hard to make improvements.  So when the manuscript returns with lots and lots of red ink—and yes, the modern version is a Word or Google annotated file, which provides less emotional connection, as you aren't seeing the hasty checkmarks grooved deeply into the page —it's a joy.
Because it's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be better at the end. "Mathy Math, Math-Math." That's how one of my friends hears any discussion of numbers: "Mathy-mathetty-math-math." But even the most innumerate of us have landmark numbers. These are the numbers that maybe we learned to count by (5-10-15-20, for instance) or numbers that just feel less challenging to keep in mind (100 vs 97, or a dozen vs 13). I'm approaching a landmark number as an author—a fact that is truly of interest to nobody but me. Has that yet stopped me from writing about anything? No.  The babbling brook at Davy Crockett's birthplace. During my feverish rush last year to get current in my understanding of modern publishing, I gathered some depressing facts. About half of the US population does't read even a single book a year. Not a surprise, but oh! poor creatures! Also, most books will sell less than 300 copies in the US (1000 copies factoring in all formats across the world). Not just in the first year, btw, but ever. So if, let's say, you just so happened to be pouring your life-force into the creation of a book, this base truth is helpful for framing one's expectations. Joyfully for me, I have at least 300 friends kind enough to buy my book. I am grateful for each one. It's a deep thrill every time someone tells me they have read it. Which brings us to the wonderful-to-me landmark number: 1000. On Goodreads.com, a website helps 150 million readers track and rate books, She Taught Me Everything is inching closer and closer to the 1000 mark. Meaning that nearly 1000 readers on that site—mostly strangers! people who love to read and who judge by covers!—have either already read or plan to read the book.  They might be getting it from the library (ooh! If you use the library, consider requesting STME), or from a bookstore, iTunes or Kobo, Barnes & Noble or Amazon... But 1000. Whatever expectations I had six months ago, this number feels a lot bigger than 999.  Signing at the Sunfish Masters Regatta. Thanks Jim Koehler of the Dinghy Shop! A few sources on the numbers... bulletin.kenyon.edu/article/burning-question-math-illiteracy/ https://ideas.bkconnection.com/10-awful-truths-about-publishing#:~:text=Average%20book%20sales%20are%20shockingly%20small%E2%80%94and%20falling%20fast.&text=Even%20if%20e%2Dbook%20sales,all%20formats%20and%20all%20markets. https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/columns-and-blogs/soapbox/article/6153-a-bookselling-tail.html https://countercraft.substack.com/p/no-most-books-dont-sell-only-a-dozen https://jerichowriters.com/average-book-sales-figures/  I spent most of the school year when I was 10 hiding out at the school library. Not really hiding out: my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Jarosz and I had what my mom described as a "personality difference." It's happened several times since: I meet someone and, AbracaBADra: I'm unable to say anything without offense; my attempts to reverse course only make it worse, and--ugh. It's weird. It seems chemical. It's inexplicable and powerful. But the fifth grade, a person has fewer options.  Luckily, we had a library in the cool old elementary school. And inside the doors of the library—a couple of wonderfully kind librarians who helped me learn the card catalog and the shelves, and best yet, taught me how to follow my curiosity from book to book to book. After being "Present" for roll-call, I'd agree with Mrs. Jarosz that I might go to the library. Until lunch. After lunch, I'd get the nod again. I'm sure I missed learning something in class, but I couldn't tell you what it was. My seven-times table, maybe, I'm still foggy on 7x8 versus 6x8.  So my love for libraries runs deep. And part of my lifetime writing dream has been to see my own book on those shelves. I do understand, with the perspective of decades of library visits under my belt, that the shelves of a library are not immortal. Titles churn through and are lost to library fundraising sales. But then again: a book in the library...that's something. I dutifully submitted a copy of She Taught Me Everything to the local county public library system, but while awaiting the thumb up or down, I noticed this...  Looks like the system has already purchased an e-book copy, and THERE ARE SIX PEOPLE IN LINE to get it! Well, how about that? I wish I could share this joy with the librarians who helped me through 5th grade.  Meanwhile, should you be so inclined, ask your library to order a copy -- not only with it bring joy, it might bring you a useful gift card.
The first photo of She Taught Me Everything on your public library shelf gets a prize!  One of the funny things about publishing is that nearly everyone involved—from writers themselves, to editors, sales people, service providers, web designers, readers—has an interest in words. (I promise you, this statement is not reductive.) For example, I use an internet service that helps me keep track of where and when I send stories into the world. The service, duotrope.com, also tells me about sketchy markets to avoid, contests that might appeal to me, and publications that might match my story. It's a nifty tool, especially if you are submitting a lot of stories to a lot of publications. But to my wordy point: let me share this little gem from Duotrope:  This is a partial screen grab from a story submitted somewhere in 2020, and which I just recently updated as "Never Responded." This is a LOT less uncommon than you'd think. A roaming black hole in the publishing universe swallows many a hope, dream, and story.
But note, if you will, how the designer of the page labels that date when I say the publication "Never Responded." It's not the date Accepted or Rejected. It's the Capitulation date. I have capitulated, which means "to cease resisting" or "to give in." Someone behind the scenes at Duotrope is absolutely slaying it. According to the inter webs, one predictor of a book's success is the NUMBER of reviews it gets. High ratings are great, of course, but the odd 1- or 2-star review can actually be helpful in showing potential readers whether the book will be a good fit.  My readers have been remarkably generous, awarding stars and giving thumbs up (it's a whole other blog post on how a single "This was helpful" click works. Whoa!), and jotting down kind things about the book.  I am psyched to see reviews coming in, but honestly, I almost don't look at them myself. First, I have a generous dollop of self-confidence already––without any real external encouragement. (And I'm reluctant to burst that bubble on purpose.)  Second, as I was reminded recently, reviews are for READERS. So let me toss it out there: You don't need to write a review for me, but DO, please, jot a note on Goodreads, or Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Nook, or the bathroom wall. Say what you liked or didn't, say whether it's your usual cup of tea, but say. Your reaction and your opinion are in truth that rare gift that keeps on giving... Transom light over a door at the Roswell P. Flower Memorial Library. My first favorite library.
My brains are not quite oozing out of my ears, but it could happen. At any moment.
Did you know that when you search for something online, those descriptive words (fast-acting, best, organic) have a price tag?
It should not come as a surprise. Ours is a world of fully-fledged capitalism. Naturally the very words we use are monetized. It might look like a library, but it's not. Marketing on Amazon, the world's largest bookseller, goes a bit like this: say I've written a romantic romp involving a pair of collegiate hockey players. I've done my homework and am a canny marketeer. I know there are readers for my book and I am pretty sure Amazon can locate them. Ads on Amazon are not like the "Plop-Plop, Fizz-Fizz" 30-second video clip we know from broadcast television, it's actually a quite brilliant and fully automated system. 
YouTube gurus suggested letting Amazon to the research for the first month.
As a canny publisher, I've invested in Publisher Rocket, a software that helps me figure out what categories and keywords are likely to lead buyers to my product. I mean book. For this hockey romance, we're going to skip right to the part where we start an advertising campaign around keywords. One starts, naturally, with the phrase "hockey romance." Amazon might suggest that "hockey romance" is worth $1.87 per click. Which means that IF someone types in "hockey romance" AND clicks through to the longer description of the book, I'm out $1.87 WHETHER OR NOT they put the book into their cart. 
Given that I stand to clear $3.45 per copy of the book, I might want to lower that amount, say, $.87 per click for "hockey romance." Of course, a lower bid means I might be outbid by other books with the same keyword, and my hockey romance book will slide lower on the page.
You places yer bets, you hedges yer bets, and then you waits to see what Fate (or the Almighty Algorithm) will reveal.
Carefully selecting 40 or 50 keywords for the campaign, go ahead and set a price on each word (in broad, close, and exact match categories. This is not a quick process for the faint of heart.). 
Ideally, you pick a price that will outbid other vendors by a penny or two, to keep you near the top of the page without breaking the bank. You set a daily budget ($10/day is the recommended starting point), so after the clicks add up to $10, you're done. Sort of. Until the next day.
So much of the process is shrouded in secrecy, but it's freakin' brilliant: Amazon is a store where not only can you get everything, it's a store that charges for browsing. It doesn't charge the buyer, true, but someone has to pay. It's also a bit like a modern-day coal-mining company store: Who is tracking clicks? Who's writing paychecks? Who is setting the prices? Who is doing the accounting? All points awarded to the man in the brilliantly shrouded secrecy. 
But convenient. And someone in France bought a copy of my book last month. How cool!
I got chatting with a lady in line at the grocery store (yes, that's me, randomly striking up a convo), and I whipped out a postcard of She Taught Me Everything (again, me with the marketing material to hand). She swished her phone and Poof! my novel downloaded to her Kindle. 
What a world.
Nowadays, when looking for books online, I tend to mooch around in the stacks of Goodreads (owned by Amazon but not as monetized yet) or Libby/Overdrive. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to dip a toe into the marketty world of TikTok... If you're going to achieve a lifetime goal, you might as well pause for a moment and gather together some of your bestest peeps to celebrate. I'll admit, I spent a restful couple of hours perusing potential theme beverages... Oooh, a maple-beet shuberita? Given that I was borrowing a house for the party, and a beet-based drink MIGHT have indelible consequences... I chose a white Sangria-is-Thicker-than Blood, an icy Emily Dickenson (Because I Would Not Stop for Death/He Kindly Made Me Tea), and cheerful ole beer.  So, when you're planning a party around books, what's an appropriate party decor? How about that entire filing cabinet of revisions to the novel from writing workshops, my beloved writing group, and beta readers? Those dead tree carcasses transmogrified into table-runners, decorative garland. and decorative stars.  Because the main character, Nicola Jones, is an artist, we set up an artists' station, with paint and blank watercolor paper in the form of bookmarks and postcards. Bookmarks for reading, of course, but postcards because –– well, it's part of the novel to perhaps encourage you to pop a note in the mail, saunter back across that burning bridge, maybe reconnect with someone. And plus––obvie!––pretty colors.  Books arrived in time (Hurrah!).  At my cheerleader-in-chief, Jennifer Holmberg's, suggestion, I set up a Venmo for the "bookstore." And we established the pile of books next to the television, so Mr. Linton could both mind the store AND watch the game. The day was amazing. There was so much good food, and so many good friends! I signed books (okay, okay, confession time: I DID practice a formal "author's signature" different from my usual legal scrawl, a practice that felt both transgressive and exhilarating, like wearing someone else's steep, very glamorous shoes).  It was also my public reading debut. This is a red-letter-day event for any author: to project words into a public space? Lawsieday, that's a big dang deal. I'm not shy about speaking in public--one of my past jobs involved what the industry calls "stand-up training," where you have an audience of adults who are meant to learn something by corporate fiat. Imagine the enthusiasm. But this crowd--! Awesome. Made me feel like a million bucks.  Was I weepy? Did I feel my heartstrings plucked and twanged by the kindness of my people and family? Did I also laugh with immoderate mirth? I regret only that I did not take more photos.
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