I am Not a Robot!

Once upon a time I had to show proof of age to buy a drink in a pub. Back then, a driving licence didn't work because it only proved a person was over 17. (I'm talking about when a driving licence was a piece of pink paper that didn't show date of birth. You know, deep time.) Or I could just go to the pub with a friend. I had a special friend, Paul, who was tall,  5' 11", spoke with a deep voice, and looked mature. Kind of. A friend who didn't mind buying all the drinks.

Years later I still have proof of age problems, only now it's to get me into places that do special rates for pensioners. 

When I go abroad, on holiday, I have to prove my nationality so they'll allow me to leave the country. So I have a passport. Which is even more important if I want to come back home a few weeks later. 

So, proving who I am is nothing new, but in the 21st century, I have a new problem of identity. How do I prove I'm human? At least, how do I prove that the books and stories I write are written by me, and not by an AI? Yes, when I'm uploading a manuscript I tick the declaration box that states, "I did not use AI to write this book," but come on, an AI could do that. And ticking a box is going to be a damn site easier for an AI than, say, calling a friend and begging him to come out to the pub on a Saturday night to buy drinks for me, when he'd rather stay home and watch TV.

So here's the point. I've written a book. Or ten, to be exact. Meanwhile, AI has written a book, or several million to be less exact. I need some kind of proof of life — some evidence that my book was written by me.

Right. Here's my attempt at proving that I am a living, breathing, starving writer. I'll do it with a series of photographs. Yeah, and AI could do this, too, but their notebooks wouldn't be as scruffy, and their spelling would be better. (I pay an editor a lot of money to fix my spelling and grammar and plot holes, but sometimes these things can be useful evidence of a flawed but human brain)

This is a tiny sample I've selected, from three separate notebooks, and from a sprawling, floor-sized mind map.

I should have photographed my litter bin on a weekly basis—lot of stuff went in there— but who takes photos of their bin?

What else? Oh, I know. How about a photo of my office chair, where I've worn the back out? (The straight line is because I tried to patch it with stick-on tape, then wore out the stick-on tape and it fell off) The arm rest looks good because I only just reupholstered it. 

Note the box of tissues, for when the whole job gets too much. That's another thing with AIs, they don't break down in tears of despair.   

And the cover design. No AIs here, either. Here's my wife holding the cover painting just after she'd finished it. It's still attached to the board on which she stretches her paper.

Sarah's a successful botanical artist, so usually she paints flowers. Instead I asked for a cartoon picture of two people in spacesuits chasing a suitcase with legs. She got the idea. She knows how my warped brain works. And she's read the book.

So here's the final cover after I've added some text. I tell you, getting that word, SphereWide, to bend was hard. I admit, I asked AI how to do it. AI wasn't very helpful. AI made some suggestions. I replied with some rude words. AI didn't seem bothered.

Anyway, this isn't a promotional post to sell the book. I just wanted to prove that humans can still do the fun stuff: writing, painting etc. I'm not against robots and AI, but I'll be more open to their advances when they can cook my dinner, wash the dishes and do the housework. For now that's still down to me and Sarah. (My turn to cook tonight. Tuna pasta bake I think. I'd rather be writing. Damn you, AI)

If, despite all this human moaning, you'd like to get your hands on a copy of the human-written SphereWide:Adventures of a Deep Space Travel Agent. You know what to do. Just click the link.