It has finally happened. That thing you read or hear about that doesn’t apply to you. It’s for the old folk. The unsophisticated. The naive.
The Catfish job.
As I am typing this very essay, I received a little blue alert in the top right corner of my screen: Try out the new experimental AI feature
Get bent. No thanks.
Last week, I signed up for a digital writer’s retreat, as shared by one of my favorite writer’s official Facebook page. Anne Lamott. She is damn near holy to me. Her book ‘Traveling Mercies’ single-handedly taught me how to write truthfully. Naturally, I’m in on anything she advocates for.
I went through all the steps, received my confirmation email, and went on about my business. This was all completely onboard. A few days later, I went back to the original post about the retreat to inquire if it would be recorded, as the email didn’t specify - and I work for a living. Here’s where it gets wonky.
I ended up in a conversation with Anne Lamott’s ‘official chat’. As did other writers. Seems legit, right? Makes sense that one would be in valid communication with the writer’s actual legitimate page. To be clear, I expected a simple link or response from her social media manager. I was beside myself when I received a response later asking me how long I had been writing. From the Truthful Queen, herself.
I answered. While I was a bit stunned, it was also the most Anne Lamott thing that I could imagine. An authentic connection to her readers. I guess I just got lucky. We chatted back and forth about my writing and hers - a good long 30 minute conversation. Extremely Anne Lamott-y, complete with the kindness and brilliance and openness that she surely possesses. She knew all the details of the very real digital retreat that I had registered for, in addition to her private mentoring program that she only accepts three mentees per month for. It felt almost like a subtle interview, quite frankly. A passive attempt at seeing if my motivation for writing was true enough and if my commitment to seeing it through was worth her time.
I could hardly contain my elation when I received and email from her team a couple of days later to tell me that I was in. ME! Anne freaking Lamott chose me for her private mentor program. I mean, my friends love my writing; they know I’m special. Why wouldn’t Anne Lamott? Also, I’m an American. All Americans are special. Just ask them. Could it possibly be that the fairy tale stuff you hear of is actually happening to moi? My writer friends thought so. I did too. What a thrill.
I got the official email welcoming me to the program, along with all the bullet points of everything she offered. I got the registration form and filled it out. This is really actually happening to me, I thought!
But then I noticed something that seemed a little odd. The email came from an Outlook account. The email back and forth was signed by two different people. You could only use PayPal to cover the cost of the mentorship. The price was the skin in the game deal. Something felt gross.
I started digging. Nothing really. Other than a NY Times writer who had Venmo’d the Anne Lamott mentoring program and came back later to say that this was an imposter. Artificial Intelligence. Hijacked right in broad daylight, and carried to really ballsy extremes. Sophisticated and elaborate, this was not the standard third world hack job.
I screenshotted what I had found and sent it to ‘Anne Lamott’. I’m out now, of course, but how exactly does this stuff work? How far do these con jobs go?
Quite far, it would seem.
She was willing to offer me a quick Zoom call the next day to confirm her identity. She was adept enough to fool a NY Times writer. That’s a bait & switch marathon, I’d say. The Zoom call never happened. I asked her how she chose me, little ole unknown writer me, to be her mentee.
Blocked.
Almost scammy enough. Almost. Close, but no cigar. I suspect the charade will get fine-tuned and suck in some more dreamy-eyed, adoring writers who idolize the great Anne Lamott, as I do. I did all the things - all the reporting, all the flagging, all the digital hollering down every digital alley I could find.
But there’s no humans to actually talk to.
And this is ultimately the problem, isn’t it? Where are the humans? I can tell you where they’re not:
They’re not in the laser light show, offering up the work of the brilliant and broken Vincent Van Gogh, and charging $50 per ticket. A ticket that doesn’t include the texture and depth and color that he offered the world. The phony lights or lasers, or whatever they are, do nothing to express the pain and suffering of a man who would cut off his own ear.
There are no humans involved in that robot that brings my food at my favorite Indian restaurant.
There’s hardly a living breathing soul at my bank anymore.
There are certainly no palpable humans behind the scenes of where we turn for community these days: social media apps.
We are not well.
Myself included. But surely we are better than this. Surely? Don’t we want more? Don’t we want poets and paintings and songs born of heartache? Are we, collectively speaking, ok with the loss of that which sustains us - the rapidly deteriorating human touch?
This piece is my prayer. An offering to all the walking, talking, feeling people alive today. This is my plea to grow an edible plant, study the lyrics of a song, look up close at the work of a master - study the strokes of their brush, read a verse of a poem - and let it marinate, touch the damn grass.
Keep your socials, utilize the convenience, enrich Bezos - it’s convenient.
But please….
Let’s get back to human.