P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Given trends, when will a terminator come for my job?

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Like most members of my nearly geriatric generation, I watched on TV and in movies the evolution of artificial intelligence. The robot that warned Will Robinson about impending danger on “Lost in Space.” The HAL 9000 computer that refused to open the pod bay doors in “2001: A Space Odyssey.” And, of course, the eponymous T-800 that wreaked so much havoc in “The Terminator.”

That was science fiction, though. Thoroughly entertaining. Even thought-provoking. But scarcely credible. I’ve since learned if you wait long enough, truth becomes stranger than science fiction. And sometimes more troubling. In particular, the latest, real life iterations of artificial intelligence and their implications for, well, real life.

Not to downplay the significance of existential threats on a global scale, but what about me? What about the use of AI to write news stories or, for God’s sake, fiction? Count me among the nervous newspaper editors wondering when an almost indestructible job-killing machine will come along to terminate us. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now I’ve also got to compete with computerized novelists penning mysteries? C’mon.

Like so many advances going all the way back to fire, technology offers the promise of both prosperity and destruction, of life-sustaining warmth as well as deadly conflagration. It all depends on how technology is used.

In the case of artificial intelligence and journalism, the Associated Press and other news organizations already use AI to report corporate earnings and sports scores — functions deemed important, but also formulaic enough to complete without humans. That’s one way to use the tool. To take on tedious tasks and devote precious time and resources to more useful purposes.

But AI also has been used to create other types of content. And here’s the concern. There’s an incentive for companies that make money to create content to use AI to cut costs and, therefore, make more money. One technology news site published stories written with the help of AI that contained errors and were subsequently discovered to have plagiarized other content. While AI might mimic human-created content, it also can produce what’s been described as pink slime journalism. Yuck. That’s another way to use the tool.

AI similarly has been used in various ways to produce fiction. Mostly in analyzing work and suggesting what could be helpful changes. But also in more profound ways. By one estimate, AI wrote 95 percent of a murder mystery with the ironic title “Death of an Author.”

I’m no Luddite. I have no desire to return to good old days that were anything but. Banging out news stories on typewriters and editing copy with a pencil. For that matter, I wouldn’t trade my trusty MacBook Pro for anything when it comes to the ease the computer affords in writing and researching. Technology has made my work far more efficient and my job far easier.  

Still, I’d argue journalism and fiction should remain human endeavors. 

A thoughtful process is required to not only report news stories, but also convey an understanding of what those stories are about. What’s important. Why it’s important. That’s not to mention the thought that should go into determining what stories to report in the first place.

I’d also like to believe I imbue every page of my fiction with the stuff of human experience in all its glory and shame. Triumph. Failure. Joy. Sorrow. Amazing grace. Despicable assholery.

Meanwhile, artificial intelligence continues to evolve in TV shows and movies to portend dystopian futures, including one in which AI turns humans into batteries. That’s still science fiction. But also a real-life prospect that’s raised growing concerns.

I’m concerned myself. There’s danger. And not just for Will Robinson.

Will technology warn us of our peril? Or be the cause of it?

Literally a problem that makes my head explode

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I loathe the imprecise use of words. My head literally explodes at the mere thought of it. 

I’m exaggerating, of course, to make a point. But no less so than the growing number of people who use literally when they mean figuratively.

I admit it. I’m a grammar curmudgeon whose knickers twist over matters important only to English teachers, newspaper editors and certain mystery novelists. Confusion over there, their and they’re. Subject-verb disagreement. Incorrect capitalization. Don’t even get me started on Oxford commas. I loathe them, too.

Lest my latest lament go unheeded as yet another screed from a supercilious word nerd, consider the impressions people make with words spoken and written. I’m not foolish enough to judge people by the ways in which they talk and write. I contend nonetheless there are benefits to precise communication. If nothing else, it increases the likelihood of getting what you ask for — whether that’s a raise, a bank loan or a date on a Friday night.

That brings me back to what’s literally the most misused word.

By strict definition, literally means in a literal manner or sense. But literally also has come to serve as a replacement for figuratively as well as an intensifier intended to add force to another word.

Given trends in popular culture, it’s understandable to believe the misuse of literally constitutes a recent compulsion. But literally has been used in a figurative sense for hundreds of years.

Even famous authors used literally when they meant figuratively. Take a scene from “Little Women” in which Louisa May Alcott described an outdoor supper in a land literally flowing with milk and honey. Really? Wouldn’t that make it difficult to eat, not to mention awfully sticky? Or a line from “The Great Gatsby” in which F. Scott Fitzgerald stated his eponymous protagonist was literally glowing. From what? Exposure to radiation on Long Island? Even Mark Twain had Tom Sawyer literally rolling in wealth after duping a group of boys to pay him for the privilege of whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence. Better wealth than something else, I suppose.

In comparison to such literary luminaries, who am I to question the uses of literally in some of the best novels ever written? A persnickety wordsmith. That’s who. One who remains unconvinced. I’m more like another famous author,  Ambrose Bierce, who decried: “It is bad enough to exaggerate, but to affirm the truth of the exaggeration is intolerable.”

I confess. I’ve given in on occasion to the temptation to use literally. I’m particularly fond of what I deem a well-turned phrase describing someone who literally wrote the book on the subject. But only if it’s true in a literal sense. The person actually wrote a book and wasn’t just an authority in an idiomatic sense.

What annoys me is the more widespread misuse of literally with such disregard as to render the word meaningless and those who do so almost comic.

Here’s the thing about English. If a word is used incorrectly often enough for long enough, it gains acceptance and new meaning. By some estimates, literally has entered the third or fourth stage of a five-stage scale. In the first stage, mistakes are widely rejected. By the time a word reaches the fifth stage, its misuse has become so ubiquitous only people derided as eccentrics reject it.

Count me among the eccentrics.

It’s impossible for people to claim their heads literally exploded. Even if they swallowed the dynamite that caused the blasts.

But it’s no exaggeration to complain I loathe the imprecise use of words.

I do. Literally.

If this is the new normal, I’d better sharpen my quill

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It’s time once again to reveal some of my trade secrets for writing a blog. Pull back the curtain. Spill the beans. Show how the sausage is made.

Today’s lesson: How to make fun of things that deserve to be made fun of because … well, because they’re easy targets and remarkably ridiculous.

In case my brand of irony isn’t obvious enough, I don’t use cringe-worthy idioms because I like them. I loathe them. I intend instead to demonstrate the absurdity of using words and phrases whose meaning and usefulness — if they ever had any to begin with — soon wears off.

Because of my day job as editor of a business journal, I’ll focus my efforts for now on phrases used at work.

Prebly, a company that provides a language learning application and e-learning platform, recently surveyed more than 1,000 people about their perceptions of office buzzwords. You know. Those phrases and terms that initially seem impressive, but on subsequent reflection mean little. In other and better words — thank you again William Shakespeare — full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Fully 42 percent of those who responded to the survey cited “new normal” as the most annoying new buzzword of all. If the new normal includes the use of the phrase new normal, who wouldn’t be sick of that? “Lean in” came in a distant second at 18 percent, followed close behind by “hop on a call,” “level up” and “out of pocket.”

Other phrases also garnered disdain, among them “circle back” and “boots on the ground.” That’s not to mention “work hard, play hard” and such other terms that remind people of the stress of their jobs as “fast-paced environment” and “hustle.”

For that matter, people weren’t particularly fond of the comparisons sometimes ascribed to expectations for their performance, including “rock star,” “guru” or “ninja.” Weren’t ninjas mercenaries in feudal Japan whose covert methods were deemed dishonorable? That’s a plus? Maybe if someone at work deserves to be stabbed in the back. With throwing stars.

According to the survey results, generational differences affect the use of buzzwords. Members of Generation Z — those born between 1996 and 2015 and the newest additions to the work force — prefer “vibe,” “lit” and “basic.”

As a member of the nearly fossilized Baby Boom generation, I’d need a translator to understand what they’re talking about. Of course, they’d probably feel the same way if I ever gave into the temptation to “sharpen my quill.”

I suppose my secrets about writing blogs really aren’t. They’re obvious. Choose a topic that’s easy to ridicule, exaggerate more than a little and throw in some irony for good measure.

As for using buzzwords, don’t.

I feel the need. The need for speed.

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I’m reluctant to quote lines from a movie because of the nearly ubiquitous convention of so many who do. I’m willing to make an exception, though, because these particular lines encapsulate the sense of urgency I so often confront.

I feel the need. The need for speed.

Not as a jet fighter pilot, obviously. But as a writer.

From my vantage point, everyone writes more quickly than I do. They churn out whole novels — entire series of novels — in the time it takes me to plod through a single chapter. If other writers proceed at what seems to me like the speed of light, I move at a geological scale. A few million years of character building here, a few million years of plot development there.

So it was with considerable envy I read a story by Thu-Huong Ha posted on Quartz.

She describes romance novelists as the true hustlers of the publishing industry. They’re busy not only writing books, but also marketing and interacting with fans. They must work quickly.

She quotes as a poster child of sorts H.M. Ward, a self-published author whose novels have sold more than 20 million copies. Ward says she writes two hours a day and averages about 2,500 words an hour. What? By comparison, this little lament is just 620 words. And I can assure you I spent far more than an hour writing it.

Then there’s Katherine Garbera, who writes four or five novels a year and has completed more than 100 novels over the course of her career.

I’m fortunate to know several romance novelists. I’m not familiar with how fast they write, but I’m impressed nonetheless with their prolific output. I’m thinking of you, Christina Hovland. She’s written more than a dozen romantic comedy and contemporary romance novels and has more scheduled for release this year. I recommend her work. It’s funny and compelling. And frequently steamy.

There’s an element of romance in my work, but none of the stereotypical bodice ripping found in historical romances. Or, for that matter, any rock hard abs. That’s what happens when your protagonist is a middle-aged newspaper editor whose once athletic physique long ago slid into disrepair. Besides, my characters remain pretty busy solving murders and finding treasure. That and avoiding getting killed in the process.

I suspect, though, the measure of romance in my work bears no relationship to the pace at which I write. I’m just slow. That’s all.

I attribute part of the problem to my approach as a pantser rather than plotter. Writing by the seat of my pants affords freedom and accommodates serendipity. But I waste a lot of time backtracking because I’m uncertain of which direction to head next.

I attribute another part of the problem to the habits I’ve developed in my day job as an editor and the incompatibility of two processes. I believe writing is a constructive process — assembling something out of bits and pieces. Editing is a deconstructive process — dismantling something to replace it with something better. What slows me down is trying to engage in both processes simultaneously. To deploy yet another analogy, I’m like a bricklayer who can’t move on to the next course until the one before is as perfect as I can make it.

I realize I’d be better off remembering Aesop’s fable of the tortoise and hare and the promise slow and steady ultimately wins the race. I can’t help thinking, though, of Chuck Jones’ more modern fable of the coyote and roadrunner.

I still feel the need. The need for speed. But I’m resigned to the likelihood I’ll never catch up to faster writers. Not even with Acme rocket-powered roller skates.

Can writing be hazardous to your health?

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Add to death and taxes another certainty in this world. At least in my world. Writing is difficult. Damned difficult.
As if any additional consternation were required, there’s evidence writing also can be dangerous. Deadly even.
I suspect one thing has everything to do with the other.
I like to complain to anyone willing to listen I’ve long suffered for my art. Of course, that depends on the definition of suffering. And especially, I suppose, on the definition of art.
I’ve stared at a blank computer screen unable to contrive even a single coherent sentence until my eyes burned in their sockets. I’ve smacked my forehead over stupid mistakes so often I’ve risked concussion. Worst of all, I’ve read through my flawed first drafts with sufficient disgust to make nausea a nearly chronic affliction and Pepto-Bismol a staple.
Still, I didn’t worry until recently that writing could be a dangerous occupation. Not dangerous as in bomb technician, mountain climber or tightrope walker dangerous. But potentially hazardous to your health. Enough so that perhaps word processing software should come with a surgeon general’s warning.
I came to this conclusion after reading a post by Emily Temple, managing editor at Literary Hub. She recounted with no small measure of gallows humor some of the famous fates that awaited famous authors as a result of their writing.
George Orwell, the author of “Animal Farm” and “1984,” compared writing a book to “a long bout of some painful illness.” Sure enough, Orwell grew increasingly sick as he wrote, coughing up blood and losing weight. He ultimately succumbed to tuberculosis.
Ayn Rand turned to amphetamines to help her meet deadlines. But drugs also left her emotional and paranoid. By the time she completed the manuscript for “The Fountainhead,” she was close to a nervous breakdown.
Then there’s my personal favorite — French novelist Honoré de Balzac. He ate coffee grounds on an empty stomach to stimulate his writing and reportedly died of caffeine poisoning. Try not to think about that the next time you gulp down your fourth cup of the day.
Cautionary tales of this sort give rise to a question: Why write? If it’s really so difficult and so bad for you, then why write?
In my experience, it doesn’t get you girls. And it doesn’t make you rich, although I’m still grasping onto hope for that prospect.
Here’s the paradox of writing: There’s nothing else I’ve encountered that’s half as rewarding.
The moments of delight that arise from a well-turned phrase, an unexpected plot twist and ultimately a good story well told more than make up for hours of frustration, doubt and even loathing.
Yet another famous writer — Ray Bradbury — put it in other and better words: “Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun at it.”
Is writing difficult? Unquestionably. Can it be dangerous? Apparently so.
But is writing also rewarding and even fun? I’d answer yes. With certainty.