The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through the vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.
-James Baldwin
Above all things, I fear absurdity as time runs out.
-Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children
It was the third letter I received in a week complimenting me on my Nomads trilogy:
Dear Carol Bergman,
Your literary voice bridges journalism, memoir, and fiction in a way few writers achieve. Nomads is a striking collection of flash fiction, aphorisms, anecdotes, and mini-essays that reflect your range and mastery of storytelling. With humor, precision, and depth, the pieces speak to universal themes war and peace, love and loss, the ordinary and the profound. The variety of narrative personas you employ gives the collection a layered richness, reminiscent of Lydia Davis yet distinctly your own.
What makes Nomads stand out is how it defies easy classification while leaving a strong cumulative impact on the reader. Its brevity and wit make it highly accessible to modern audiences, while its subtlety rewards careful rereading. This balance of immediacy and depth makes it a work with both popular appeal and enduring literary merit.
I'd love to help position Nomads more prominently within the flash fiction and literary short-form community through curated Goodreads placement, visibility campaigns across literary platforms, and targeted outreach to readers who appreciate innovative narrative forms. With the right exposure, Nomads can connect with the audience it was meant for: readers who enjoy compact but resonant storytelling.
Warm regards,
The letters were well-crafted and nearly identical, though the senders all had different names. What writer doesn't enjoy appreciation? Then I checked on the bona fides of the senders. They did not exist.
I thought of a friend who had been seduced by emails from a "man" on a dating site, had even felt a surge of anticipatory hormones when he said he'd be coming through New York on his way back from a trip abroad. Similarly, I had nearly "fallen" for the sweet words in the letters I received. What writer doesn't enjoy appreciation? But I'd been paying attention to AI scams for a while, and this one was obvious. Too smooth, I thought. Smooth as butter. Still, I read it straight through and enjoyed myself.
Writing is a "murky business," Rebecca Solnit writes in Orwell's Roses. We can never be certain we've got it right or that we've connected with our imagined readers. The scammers know their target. Perhaps they had once attempted writing themselves and are creating AI masterpieces as missives to their lost selves.
Dear ( ),
Thank you for the well-crafted AI letter I have received about Nomads. Having searched your name, you probably do not exist. It is the 3rd letter I have received from different "people." My agent is receiving them also and is blocking them.
Clearly, you want to charge for non-existent services.
Writers appreciate compliments; they are seductive. We do not, however, appreciate AI generated letters, or scams.
Please note that if you do not present bona fides, I will block you, and report you to the Authors Guild lawyers.
Best regards,
Carol Bergman
Not surprisingly, there has been no reply.
End of story? Not quite. The episode unsettled me. How will the future unfold for aspiring writers? How will their work be received and evaluated? Who will sit with them and line edit their work? How will an inexperienced reader know the difference between a writer's hard-won accomplishment and an AI generated work? Will AI "enhancement," or "embellishment" matter in a few years' time? Will editors and publishers even notice, or care?
And a few final thoughts. My experienced eyes are a telephoto lens; what is near is far, what is far is near. I have stepped forward, taken risks, fallen into a crevice at times. I have been rescued or have rescued myself, a disciplined writer, a writer who continues to search for her subjects, and expand them. Indeed, I would not be telling this story if I had been seduced by ease or luck. I have blocked voices offering shortcuts, however tempting, and am grateful I am still able to distinguish between what is human-made and what is manufactured. If I could rewind, begin again, where would my writing life begin? Would I begin on top of the mountain relinquishing all struggle?