Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 3
August 20, 2023
Questionably ARTIFICIAL - Dubious INTELLIGENCE
AI is a term that has been used for many years now, but what does it actually mean? In short, AI refers to the ability of machines to perform tasks that would normally require human intelligence.
— akreviews (@akreviewsblog) November 23, 2022
Pay your artists.
— Post Modern Art Podcast (@PostModArtPod) July 12, 2023
Pay your writers.
Pay your directors.
Pay your animators.
Pay your actors.
Pay your crew.
Pay your creatives.
Pay them.
Pay.
Them.
authors, please stop using ai 'art' for your covers
— Indie Book Spotlight (@BookSpotlight) July 10, 2023
please
please
please
please
please pic.twitter.com/vSe1awxG7l
#WritingCommunity WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT AI! It isn't that AI can write better books than a writer - it's that AI can produce a book we will be asked to "edit" for a fraction of an advance & don't own at the end. We need to stop this happening and we need to do that now. How? #AI pic.twitter.com/Z8YiLSL4AH
— Cesca Major (@CescaMajor) May 9, 2023
AI in music so far is neither artificial nor intelligent - it’s using programmed computers to mask the theft of intellectual property, lyrics, written works in a digital fog - snake oil salesmen feigning Artificial Intelligence to exploit human stupidity - yet again!
— Brian J. Byrne (@Brian_J_Byrne) August 17, 2023
ai is just complicated plagiarism
— erin ✿ (@yamnaus) August 14, 2023
I had no idea that the first Artificial Intelligence in art came about in the 1960s. @natashagural ponders the meaning of art at the intersection of technology and human experience. #AI #Arthttps://t.co/rfiI7U0ZuG
— Michael Maiello (@MichaelMaiello) August 16, 2023
First it was art theft, then NFTs — now it's an artificial "intelligence" taking bits of people's skills, soul and sacrifice to create a PNG of a victorian maid with an improbable chest or straight up child porn.
— maza (@mazamuno) October 28, 2022
Artists can't have a single day with some peace...
— Bruna Aléxia 🎨COMMISSIONS OPEN🎨 (@blex_arts) August 18, 2023
At first, we had a lot of problems with plagiarism, and then came the NFT Art idea, and now the AI.
I DON'T HAVE MENTAL HEALTH TO BE ARTIST ANYMORE
We should stop calling A/I artificial intelligence and should start calling it legalized plagiarism and theft software.
— The Nerdy Sasquatch 🇨🇦🏳️🌈🔞 (@NerdySasquatch) August 9, 2023
That all this "A/I" really is and all it can do.
I've written a piece on generative AI and how it is already affecting creative industries like commercial art and publishing, and the possible impact on children's books. This is a big one, because it's going to change . . . everything. #AI https://t.co/JswtZRD2fg pic.twitter.com/dTe6kuLLzI
— Oisín McGann (@OisinMcGann) July 7, 2023
NEW: On Sunday, @JaneFriedman discovered half a dozen books being sold under her name on Amazon that she never wrote. What happened next was any writer’s nightmare.https://t.co/dTo3sdP94I via @thedailybeast
— Pilar Melendez (@pbmelendez) August 8, 2023
Author Jane Friedman faced an unusual problem: Reverse plagiarism. However, it's becoming much more common and the industry is not ready.https://t.co/2PWirkwrHA
— Jonathan Bailey (@plagiarismtoday) August 9, 2023
H/T: @JaneFriedman @AuthorsGuild @Amazon @AmazonKDP#Plagiarism #Copyright #Amazon #ReversePlagiarism
A brief update: After going back a few times with Amazon on this issue, I was notified the books would not be removed based on the information I provided. Since I do not own copyright in these AI works and since my name is not trademarked, I'm not sure what can be done. https://t.co/F5KuK4F36X
— Jane Friedman (@JaneFriedman) August 7, 2023
More AI theft.
— 𝓵𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓫𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓼🍋 (@lem0nb0mbs) August 9, 2023
AI *can* be used to help people.
But why am I not surprised that the most popular uses are stealing people’s creative work, and eliminating paying jobs?
Greed. Greed. Greed. #AI #writing #reading #Amazon #publishing #theft #impersonation pic.twitter.com/ascDb5xoQs
A win for @JaneFriedman and a warning to the rest of us about the scamming potential enabled by AI "writing" programs. https://t.co/23DsCNCEOV
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) August 10, 2023
AI plagiarism! coming events …casting their shadows…! @AnushaSRao2 https://t.co/iFENwViFGG
— SunFire (@Srinathbki) August 16, 2023
#AI doesn’t “emulate” films. It’s a computer program. It has no brain, no creativity. It can do nothing without the input of our past work. And then it can only spit out an amalgamation. It spits out nothing new. It has no creativity, no ideas, nothing new to say. https://t.co/DF8oWHZryZ
— Justine Bateman (@JustineBateman) August 11, 2023
ChatGPT is not ‘artificial intelligence.’ It’s theft. | America Magazine
— Matt ‘Evidence-Based’ Jorgensen (@MattJorg4543446) May 17, 2023
—
Agreed https://t.co/qPKFiRMUAB
The rise of AI chatbots has sowed confusion and panic among educators who worry they are ill-equipped to incorporate the technology into their classes and fear a stark rise in plagiarism and reduced learning. https://t.co/Eu8eFDnECE
— The Washington Post (@washingtonpost) August 13, 2023
AI "isn't plagiarism", right? https://t.co/OJyZSxGsjm
— Article 3 BILL OF RIGHTS (@BorgoniaBorgy) August 14, 2023
I'm so disappointed, my college is using an AI program to help students improve their writing skills 🤓 and they have mentioned plagiarism prevention as one of its features 🤣
— Halo 👽 (@yohjipilled) August 16, 2023
I’m furious that, with all the amazing possibilities AI could have, the minds behind LLMs settled on mass plagiarism, destroying creative jobs, and filling the internet with so much falsified sludge that it’s now unusable as a source of news.
— Johanna Taylor ✍️👻 (UPDATES ONLY) (@johannamation) August 19, 2023
Support creators. Support humans.
Good read from...Joseph Gordon-Levitt!? Interesting to think of AI as a technology that basically specializes in IP theft at scale. Packaging insights that synthesize data that ought to have attribution, and, somehow, payment https://t.co/cTEaAa8EqB
— Van Jackson (@WonkVJ) August 15, 2023
As expected, plagiarism writ large.
— K. Z. Howell (@KZ_Howell) August 20, 2023
Artificial intelligence is neither artificial nor intelligent, it is theft on a scale even government is incapable of.
https://t.co/e40PH4hlUK
After Backlash, Zoom Now Says It Won't Use Any Customer Content to Train AI Systems https://t.co/p4ZmuCKMoX
— Variety (@Variety) August 11, 2023
AI-Created Art Isn't Copyrightable, Judge Says In Ruling That Could Give Hollywood Studios Pause https://t.co/CHb57ef2PK
— The Hollywood Reporter (@THR) August 18, 2023
“AI is sexist” part gajillion and one:
— Katherine Long (@ByKLong) August 18, 2023
Took a selfie with friends at the Getty Museum. Friend liked the photo, wanted it to be zoomed out more, so asked Photoshop’s new AI feature to generate more content on all sides of the frame.
It did that, but it also put me in a bikini. pic.twitter.com/p6Cz6H13nZ
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) August 20, 2023
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) August 20, 2023
July 4, 2023
Meet Marshall from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE
Matters of Convenience
Marshall’s legs were burning but he peddled no less strenuously. He welcomed the pain because it gave him something to dwell on besides his last conversation with Audrey. Tangible hurt was preferable to a metaphorical kick to the gut. Then again, it mattered little what his preferences were.
It was ridiculous for him to be jealous, especially since she had been kind enough to offer him a consolation prize as she was twisting the dagger of 94her indifference into his heart. Grudgingly he’d allowed himself to be introduced to Sarah, found her to be as attractive as promised, and had a lunch date scheduled with her for the next day. He had been on the look-out for a diversion from Audrey, not expecting that she’d be the person to provide one. She was a dear friend, love of his life, and pimp supreme all rolled into one. Was it any wonder that he was consumed by her?
Perhaps consumed was too strong a word. When Audrey told him she was not interested in him romantically six years earlier, he had been disappointed but not devastated. As they began spending time together as friends there was no ulterior motive on his part. He enjoyed her company for what it was. It took several months to realize that he was enjoying it a little too much, that he was harboring unreciprocated desire. He considered making his feelings known, and if rejected, the second time around he would have walked away for good, sacrificing friendship for the sake of his ego. But then Todd came along, rendering any professions of love moot. Eventually he grew accustomed to Todd’s presence without ever taking much of a liking to him. He was far from consumed by Audrey during those years, or so he concluded as he took an unnecessarily sharp turn on his bike, scarcely noticing as Brooklyn’s Prospect Park whizzed by.
Thoughts of courting her resurfaced when she and Todd broke up. He would give her sufficient time and then express his feelings. Or would he? After five years he would not be able to breezily abandon their friendship. Sleepless nights were 95spent wondering if he should keep quiet or go for broke. She was free, as was he, it was now or never. Yet he continued to procrastinate, to wait for a moment that was assuredly perfect.
He had become a maestro at the waiting game. That’s what he had been doing while she was meeting some guy named James, waiting for her to show up and crush him. She did everything short of sending him an engraved invitation which read -Enjoy your coffee and cookies until I finally show up to make you feel like shit once more for old time’s sake.
It was a stunning day, the sun at high beam as if to highlight his despair. But why should he feel badly, he asked himself for the hundredth time on his mindless bicycle race against invisible demons that could not be outpaced. He should have been used to the fact that they were not meant to be together. This James character had done him a huge favor by showing up when he did, sparing him the sting of rejection and the humiliation of standing by idly. Audrey had found someone new. She had moved on, would be giving happiness another go. As her friend he should have been glad for these things, especially since she was not the only one presented with an opportunity. Thanks to her intervention, he possessed one as well. Sarah was possibly the woman he had been waiting for. There was that cursed word again. Waiting.
Fuck waiting. Screw standing still. It was time for a new plan of action. And he had at last concocted one. For however long his legs and lungs could stand, there was a single clear cut mission for him to accomplish. He would peddle, 96and peddle, and peddle as if his life depended on it. If not his life, surely his sanity was at stake.
Meet James from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE
Excerpt from Matters of Convenience
James played back phone messages received while he was out. The first was from Sonya, confirming their date for later that evening. He had met her a week earlier at a friend’s party, drawn to her high cheekbones, black hair that nearly reached down to her waist, and large opal eyes. She came from a wealthy Indonesian family, worked in corporate law, and was not the most riveting conversationalist. Nor did he relish the fact that she was a vegan. An ex-girlfriend of his had been committed to avoiding meat and a number of other culinary categories at all costs. The instructions she gave wait staff to make certain her dish passed muster often took a full five minutes to issue. This detracted from James’ enjoyment of his own meal, which much to Aisha’s dismay he preferred red blooded.
Sonya had as many minuses going for her as pluses. Nevertheless, he elected to follow up on what had been started when he crossed the room to introduce himself to the exotic looking woman bathing in moon beams shining through the patio door.
Fantasizing about the best case scenario of his upcoming date with Sonya was interrupted by the second message. It was left by his brother Craig, brief as usual, reminding him that he would be dropping by at three o’clock. Glancing at his watch, James saw that the appointed hour was twenty minutes away. He knew why Craig had 16invited himself over, for he had done it oftenenough in the past, always with the same motivation - to hit his little brother up for cash.
Craig was older by three years and less responsible by as many decades. Refusing to suffer the indignity of settling down at a stable job, he opted to invest in one get rich quick scheme after another. Whenever he was short of the necessary capital, usually due to some team not covering the spread, James was the preferred bank from which he withdrew. Craig was good about paying him back once his finances were back in the black. He would promise that this would be the last time, for his latest plan was foolproof and guaranteed to set him up for life. When things failed to work out it was disappointing, but to him, the risks he took handily beat working nine to five for a living.
The final message was from his best friend who had relocated to Santa Barbara about a year ago. Their childhood was spent roaming the streets of the Bronx together, and for almost as far back as he could remember, Marcus had been talking about heading out to California someday. His master plan was to start his own hedge fund. Once it was up and running and raking in serious money, he hoped to bring James on board, reuniting the two Musketeers.
James decided to wait until after his brother’s visit to return the call. Shooting the breeze with Marcus would put him in a great mood entering his date with Sonya.
After pouring a snifter of brandy, he stood by the windows that wrapped around his apartment. His 17vantage point from the 30th floor placed a generous portion of the city within sight. Once the sun went down, countless lights transformed Manhattan into a gigantic Christmas tree.
James had done well for himself career wise, and his magazine layout worthy apartment with photogenic view was just one of the perks of success. He had always been dissatisfied with any grade less than an A, with any game that did not result in victory, with any goal, regardless of size and urgency that failed to be achieved. Lately his professional ascendancy felt stalled, frustration mounting due to others being rewarded for inferior results while his were overlooked. He was compelled to wonder if he had gone as far as a black man would be allowed to by his current employer. It wasn’t as if he was one of many African Americans who worked there. He stood out like a drop of ink floating in a bucket of milk.
He was not predisposed to cast blame on racism or any other ism for what failed to go his way. Instead of making excuses, he refused to come up short. This mindset had been instilled by strong willed parents. They planted the seed and then fostered his passion to excel by enrolling him in private schools rather than poorly funded public ones where it was easier to drift into bad habits. He grew accustomed at an early age to environments where his smooth brown complexion was darker than the vast majority of his peers. He did not feel uncomfortable in such settings, for he recognized them as the places he needed to be. Nevertheless, there was a part of him which could not help but feel like a stranger in a strange land. He managed 18to forget the differences between him and classmates and colleagues for long stretches of time, but inevitably, something or someone would remind him that they did exist.
May 22, 2023
A short story called Harry
HARRY
A Short Story by Roy L. Pickering Jr.
In the pre-dawn hours of a brisk December Day, Harry walked the streets of Brooklyn, New York. He traveled light, for he owned nothing but the tattered clothes he wore, the eight cents in his pocket, and a package carried in a plastic bag. Ordinarily he would have been snoring in Grand Central Station at this hour, or on the 2 train if insomnia necessitated that he be rocked to sleep. But not today. Though quite weary, Harry chose to put sweet dreams off for a while longer. He wanted to behold the world with clarity, see beyond the veil that keeps truth hidden from all but the wisest of men before the next time his eyes were closed.
Alley cats hollered songs of love from the confines of a vacant lot that served in alternating shifts as a playground, bathroom, and brothel. Harry was familiar with its utilitarian layout, for his footsteps had led him to the neighborhood of his childhood.
Those long ago days had been spent fighting a half dozen siblings over the insufficient room, nutrition and love provided for them. Their fathers were each different men who were just passing through. In exchange for either drugs or money to purchase drugs with, their mother gave what she had to give, a body she was poisoning one high at a time.
By the age of thirteen, Harry had developed a taste of his own for altered states of mind. He needed to escape the wretchedness of his surroundings and nothing got him further away than crack cocaine. It transported him to a world filled with light and beauty, devoid of suffering.
The last time Harry saw his mother she lay huddled on the kitchen floor. For once her eyes did not reflect longing for the pipe of crystals she clutched onto, but for help. There was not enough time to get her that help had he tried. But Harry didn't try. It was plain that the drugs were finally accomplishing what they were meant to do. His mother’s anguish was coming to a merciless end. Harry simply waited to collect his inheritance from the palm of her hand.
A year later he met Julie. She was a battered angel, sexually abused by her stepfather, as hooked on heroin as on oxygen. Yet in some impossible to put a finger on way, a part of her remained untouched by the evil that men do. When she learned she was pregnant, Julie decided to cleanse her body for the sake of the new life within her. She begged Harry to do the same, but he vigilantly remained a lost cause.
Rather than hanging around until he wreaked havoc in their lives, Julie vanished. Perhaps she said goodbye the last time he saw her, but Harry was in no condition to take notice. For a long while he expected her return, but eventually realized that she was gone for good. He had blown what was likely his last chance at love. He would never meet his child. As usual, he was able to smoke his blues away.
Not long after Julie's departure, Harry became an official resident of the streets. Too weak of body and mild of disposition to take money from others, he was left little choice but to beg for it. The purest scores of smack failed to ease the crushing weight of his degradation. For each coin placed in Harry's palm, a chunk of his pride was handed over. He was pawning his soul piece by piece at bargain basement rates.
Harry did not fare well as a beggar, for he sang no songs, told no jokes, nor had so much as a decent hard luck speech. Rather than attempting to entertain or to elicit sympathy, he would simply stand before subway passengers, hold out his coffee cup, and await donations. They came few and far between, barely sufficient to keep him alive, if not exactly living.
His current tour was not undertaken for nostalgia's sake, but to reaffirm that his decision was the right one. A single joyful memory may have shattered his resolution. None came. The years of his life blended in recall into a single interminable day spent wondering where his next high or meal, in that order of preference, would come from.
Harry picked up a piece of glass that was reflecting light from a nearby street lamp. He sat on a curb and held the makeshift dagger over his wrist. All was settled. He would dispatch of an existence no longer worth the effort to preserve. This was not the first time such a fatalistic decision had been reached by him. But unlike the other occasions when it was no more than a vague concept rolled around his mind like a pair of dice, Harry was now determined to act upon it.
Three months earlier his friend Rico was stabbed while negotiating a freebie from a prostitute on tainted acid. The murder gave Harry a permanent distaste for blood spill, and also for forming attachments. Other homeless people were three dimensional reflections of everything that had gone wrong. When his only companions were artificially enhanced thoughts, it was possible to imagine that his misfortunes were merely temporary. But the passage of time discarded rather than judiciously spent made this illusion increasingly difficult to conjure. Drugs could still elevate his consciousness, but no longer transported him high enough to reach the plane where hope resided.
Rather than hope, what Harry sought was an ultimate form of amnesia. He wanted to erase all knowledge of who he was, who he had been, and what would undoubtedly become of him.
He flung the glass away. Cutting his wrist would be painful, messy, and time consuming. He might be found and saved by someone who didn’t know better. There had to be a better way.
Harry rose and continued on his journey. He wanted to be dead before sunrise, for the birth of a new day would needlessly delay the execution of his decision. Daylight brought with it too many distractions. The instinct for survival overpowered self-pity when the sun’s rays were in effect. It was only natural that his desire for ultimate sleep bloomed under the cover of night.
A car roared past at well over the speed limit, inspiring a plan. The Brooklyn Bridge wasn't very far away. He would walk halfway across and jump in front of the first car to come by.
Pleased with this resolution, Harry picked up his pace and was at the bridge in ten minutes. He positioned himself and waited for the vehicle of his demise to arrive. The Subaru which came first left Harry safe and sound. It wasn't going fast enough, he reasoned. The same went for the Oldsmobile, wood paneled station wagon, and Volkswagen which drove by after. The Mercedes would certainly have done the job, but Harry missed out because he was tightening his shoelaces as it passed. Finally a truck came rumbling over the bridge like a stampede of elephants. There would be no valid excuse to let this one go. He waited until exactly the right moment, then jumped.
A second later, Harry landed in the same spot he had been standing. He couldn't do it. The thought of meeting a fender head on for a goodnight kiss gave him the creeps. His heart and mind were ready to go, but his body possessed its own opinion on the matter.
Harry beheld the twinkling Manhattan skyline and could not deny that the view was breathtakingly beautiful. But life was not nearly so pretty as it appeared from the Brooklyn Bridge at three in the morning. He peered at the jet black water beneath him and realized it could grant him a perfect suicide, almost an artistic way to go. Certainly more picturesque than being smashed to scattered pieces. Harry wanted his body in one place when he died. The bottom of the East River was as good a location as any.
He swung a leg over the railing. Hopefully the impact would at least knock him unconscious, if not kill him immediately. He had never learned to swim and couldn't think of a more horrifying way to perish than by drowning. The helplessness one must feel while sinking into murky depths had haunted him in nightmares since childhood. It still terrified him. This was the justification he gave himself for swinging his leg back to safe ground. The East River would have to do without him for a snack. It would not go completely unfed, for a nickel and three pennies fell from Harry's pants pocket and spiraled downwards like unanswered prayers.
Harry berated himself for his cowardice as he walked across the bridge. He hated the weakness of his body that made the allure of crack cocaine irresistible. He hated begging for survival. He hated the way he looked, and smelled, and felt. He abhorred when people viewed him with disgust, and even more when they looked through him as if he wasn't there. It infuriated Harry that so much of his misfortunes had been predestined, that he was given only one legitimate opportunity to change the fate allotted to him. Yet he knew that one chance is one more than some people get, so his anger was ultimately eclipsed by regret. He had begged for money and craved for drugs, but when the one thing which could have granted salvation was offered, Harry turned it down. Through the densest clouds of poisonous euphoria he had been able to see that he loved Julie. But love didn't seem all that important at the time. Now he knew better. He had learned that hate and anger could be enough to sustain someone, but regret did nothing but suck a person dry.
The temperature had dropped considerably since his venture got underway and a light snow now fell. By the time he reached the city it was howling about him, transforming the night from black to white. Harry didn't bother to head towards a subway station, for his legs felt as leaden as his spirits. Instead he entered the corpse of what had long ago been a small but lovingly maintained park, and lay in the first place not already claimed by a rat. He used the bag he had been lugging about as a pillow, its contents providing a fair cushion for his head.
Inside of the bag was a rag doll found in a dumpster about nine months earlier. One of her glass eyes was missing and nearly half of the stuffing had escaped from a rip that was now taped shut. The doll was intended as a present for his daughter, in case he managed to find her. His search had not been an active one, but one never knew who might be bumped into on the streets of New York City.
Earlier that day, he had scribbled Julie’s name onto a piece of paper and placed it in the bag along with the doll. In the event of the death he was resolved to bring about, Harry hoped his gift might somehow find the way to its intended recipient.
As he always did before going to sleep, Harry tried to envision Julie and their child. Once again he failed, for his daughter he had never seen and Julie's face he could scarcely remember.
Instead he saw his mother, her body and soul ravaged beyond repair, her eyes containing only a spark of humanity. But sometimes a mere spark can initiate a conflagration. After years of mercilessly pushing herself to a point inches away from death, in his mother’s last moments it was apparent that she wanted to redeem herself, to turn around and face the painful familiar rather than risk the unknown. But she didn't have the strength to turn around. More often than not, a spark ignites no more than a millisecond of illumination.
“I hate her, Julie,” Harry had once said, back during a time when he had not yet abandoned the desire to make something of his life. “We were nothing more to her than the amount of government assistance she got for each of us. She kept getting pregnant so she could keep getting high. She popped us out and then we had to fend for ourselves.”
“You’ve got to let your anger go, baby.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re going to be a parent yourself soon. If you don’t forgive your mother, you won’t be able to care for your child.”
“I won’t have any trouble taking care of our kid. I love our baby already, because the baby is coming from you.”
“I still say you have to clear the hate from your heart to make room for some love.”
“I love you and our baby plenty.”
“I know you do, Harry. But you must also love yourself. You got to at least try.”
“Shit, Julie. Ever since you quit getting high you been talking like a shrink. A shrink who keeps changing the subject. I was talking about my mother, and nothing can fix the way I feel about her.”
“But look at all she gave you, honey.”
“All she gave me? Are you out of your friggin’ mind? Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“I’ve heard you, Harry. But nothing you said, nothing she did changes the fact that she gave you life.”
“So?”
“So that means she gave you a chance.”
“So?”
“So use it.”
Harry had proven to be a failure at both living and dying. His sole consolation lay in the fact that at least there was always tomorrow. He would have to find either the courage to kill himself, or a reason not to. As long as the sun rose each morning, both remained distinct possibilities. This thought made his sleep a peaceful one as the snow lay a natural blanket over him and he dreamt of days stitched with promise, devoid of pain.
The sun did indeed rise that morning. Birds sang, cocks crew, alarm clocks sounded and rush hour officially began. None of this disturbed Harry's slumber, for the frost had made his dream come true. And though in life he wore the guise of a beggar, in death he was as stately as a king.
THE END
On a cheerier note, happy NBA retirement to Carmelo Anthony. It was a pleasure to watch you hoop brilliantly for my beloved New York Knicks.
April 26, 2023
Quite The Week
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author)
— 🎱XJ🎱 (@XJ_7379) April 27, 2023
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Hessss hereeeee pic.twitter.com/7n2Tvaxvbt
— Will Parkinson (@Willpa11) April 26, 2023
Tucker Carlson got dropped by Fox "News"? pic.twitter.com/k4bIbnKxyM
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 24, 2023
It's been a terrible run, Tucker.pic.twitter.com/7CCXFCUE1V
— The Lincoln Project (@ProjectLincoln) April 27, 2023
Egyptian lawyer sues Netflix for casting Black woman as Cleopatra https://t.co/h3yI3hPZbO
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 23, 2023
Anyone turned off by calls for social justice should go away and stay away. Who the hell rejects a sport they supposedly love because of some slogans on the baseline that can easily be ignored?
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 22, 2023
I can't believe that Phil Jackson refused to watch #NBA basketball any more just because Cleopatra is being played by a Black woman in a Netflix movie.
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 23, 2023
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 24, 2023
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author)
With Aaron Rodgers to the #Jets FINALLY made official, I will now check out some mock drafts.
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 25, 2023
@mudhousebooks Lookng for a book by an #indieauthor to read for #indieapril? Consider Patches of Grey. #booktok ♬ Creepin' - Metro Boomin & The Weeknd & 21 Savage
January 15, 2023
MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE: Audio book publication - Press Release
I decided that the time had come to make one of my books available in a format other than the written word displayed on paper or screen page. So I took the plunge, was fortunate enough to find a wonderful narrator to work with, and published Matters of Convenience: audio book edition. It is available for purchase from Amazon / Audible - and wherever else the fantastic ACX program allows consumers of audio books to find great books.
I'm hoping to hear from book listeners just as I love to get feedback from my readers. Let me know what you think of the story, the writing, and the reading performed by Mati H. Fuller. You can do so at Amazon or Audible or on GoodReads. Feel free to reach out to me directly by commenting on this blog post or dropping me a line on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or TikTok. I love to hear from people who have chosen to immerse themselves in one of my stories. A writer/book is nothing without you readers/listeners.
If you have a blog or web site of your own where book reviews are featured, regardless of the size of your audience, feel free to reach out because I have some promo codes for US as well as UK usage. They will allow you to download the audio edition of Matters of Convenience for free. Giving a copy away in exchange for an impartial review seems like a fair deal to me. My goal isn't to get rich, though I won't complain if that happens. It's to reach as many book lovers as possible.
@mudhousebooks #NowAvailable - If you review #audiobooks and would like a promo code for a free download - just holla at me. #booktok #MattersOfConvenience #Amazon #Audible #audibletok #audiobook #indieauthor #indieauthorsoftiktok #indieauthorsofbooktok ♬ CUFF IT - Beyoncé
December 19, 2022
DEAR GOOGLE - a short story
The day I met my father it snowed from early morning until sunset. I worried that my mother would change her mind if the snow made it difficult to drive. But the salt trucks enabled our trip to be taken despite the flurries, and she kept her word. She always keeps her word.
People had begun putting up lights and a wide variety of decorations on their front lawns to celebrate the Christmas season. I was particularly fond of the giant inflatable characters recognizable from my favorite holiday cartoons. Two years earlier when my mother was temporarily out of work and could not afford the presents I had asked Santa Claus to bring, she confessed that he was only make believe. There was no man from the North Pole who gave well behaved children whatever they desired. The gifts I received were purchased with the money my mother worked hard to earn. I could tell she would have preferred for me to believe in Santa Claus a little longer, but there was no way to avoid disappointing me in one way or another. I was not too young to understand that she often sacrificed in order to provide for me. It was obvious that she loved me very much, enough for two people, the mother who took care of my needs and the father who was little more than a rumor. That is, until the day I finally met him.
I was nervous and excited and frightened and thrilled about the idea of my first encounter with my father. My mother rarely spoke of him, other than when I raised the subject. On those occasions she would pause for a few seconds before responding to my queries, unless they were the kind that could be answered without judgment, such as how tall was he, or did he wear glasses like I did. There were no photographs of him in our house, so I would imagine what I thought he might look like, then run to my mother for confirmation. She said I most strongly resembled my father when throwing a temper tantrum, but I did not do that very often.
When replying to questions of personal opinion, I could tell that my mother was being selective with her words. She did not have many nice things to say, but did her best not to speak poorly of him either. Sometimes I saw anger in her eyes, other times sadness, but she was usually able to keep these feelings from her voice.
It did not take long to sum up all that I knew of my father up until the day I set eyes on him at last. I had been told that he was usually out of work and low on cash. My mother did not receive money from him for my well being. In my nine years she had given me four gifts that were said to be from him – a football, a basketball, a baseball bat, and a Playstation video game. I cherished each one of these items because they were seen as proof that he loved me, and that one day we would be together like a father and son are supposed to be. When I did not receive a Playstation game system for my birthday, rendering the last of my father’s gifts of little practical use, my mother was treated to one of my infrequent tantrums. The sports stuff caused less trouble, although I much preferred to draw superheroes or watch dinosaur movies than play sports. This is something my father would have known if he was around, or at least bothered to ask about my interests. Despite such evidence that he did not bother to find out much about me, I continued to inquire about him, adding to my collection of information bit by bit.
I knew that he and my mother dated for six months, a period during which she was unknowingly pregnant for half that time. Her announcement of my pending arrival hastened the end of their frail relationship. His various other girlfriends had been unhappily tolerated by my mother, but the news that he would soon become a father was unacceptable to him. I like to pretend that the vegetables on my dinner plate are pieces of chocolate in order to make my way through them. It almost works sometimes. Perhaps my father pretended that my mother and I belonged to a vivid dream that he could put behind him when the sun was out.
Some men are not comfortable around babies, according to my mother. This was a notion I could sort of understand. Babies frequently cry and they’re pretty much helpless. They can’t walk or talk very well, they need to be fed and dressed and cleaned up after. Babies are a great deal of work, especially to someone who prefers to avoid having a job. As I grew older and my curiosity about the ways of the world grew stronger, I wondered with increasing frequency why my father did not visit me now that I was big. My mother was either unwilling or unable to answer this question for me, and although I prayed like I was taught to in Sunday school, I did not learn what I wanted to know that way either. As a last resort I took the inadvertent suggestion of my best friend Pedro, who happens to be the smartest kid in our class. He told me that whenever he was trying to figure something out that nobody he asked knew, he would go online and enter the appropriate search words into Google. Since he lives with both of his parents plus three older brothers and four older sisters, Pedro has plenty of resources to go through before heading to the internet. My own set of circumstances being far different, at first opportunity I went on my mother’s computer and tried to discover why my father continued to remain at a distance from me. I received a number of hits that appeared promising and printed out several web pages. Sadly, reading through them led to nothing fruitful. Or so I thought. Three day later my mother sprung an enormous surprise on me. We would be taking a trip to Connecticutthe following weekend to pay my father a visit.
I eventually learned that my mother spotted the pages I had printed out, reviewed, and tossed in a waste paper basket with much frustration. She realized what it was I had been trying to find out through my Google search. It was not the Santa Claus I once wrote letters to, the God I routinely prayed to, or the internet I had desperately surfed that came through for me in the end. Years later I would ask my mother if my impatient desire to meet my father had hurt her feelings. She told me not to be foolish, that of course she understood my longing. It was for that reason that she went against her instincts and took me on a long car ride as whiteness descended around us. I would come to learn that this was the most difficult decision my mother ever made. I would also understand one day that innocence is precious first and foremost because it can only be lost once.
He took his time answering the doorbell. I feared he had changed his mind about meeting me. Each second passed slower than the one to precede it. I stared so hard at the door that it was a wonder I did not succeed in looking straight through it. Then suddenly it opened and there he stood before me.
I have nearly every word my father spoke to me that day committed to memory, which is not really saying much, because as it would turn out, he did not have a great deal to say.
“Your mother says you wanted to meet me. Well here I am, in the flesh. What do you want to know, boy?”
I wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. There was too much information for me to take in all at once. Instead of launching an immediate interrogation, I scanned the small studio apartment for clues. I thought that his home might tell me a little about who he was.
His furniture consisted of a shabby sofa with stuffing spilling out of it and a coffee table that tilted to the right side. On the coffee table lay a scattered collection of porn magazines, three long needles like you might find in a doctor’s office, and an overflowing ashtray. His television was playing with the sound barely audible and the picture obscured by bars of static. The show being broadcast appeared to be an old episode of Friends. Next to the sofa, which I assumed doubled as his bed, an aquarium stood on a rusty stand. I had a goldfish bowl at home on my nightstand. Our first common interest seemed to have been found, but it did not strike me as being a worthy conversation starter. That was because my father’s ten gallon tank was half filled with greenish brown water, and four dead fish floated on top of the muck.
Several half eaten Happy Meals from McDonalds were littered about in every direction there was to turn, some of the remnants being dined on by cockroaches. The room stunk like I imagined Hell must smell like in the summer when the air conditioning wasn’t working.
“You gonna say anything or what?”
I had envision that he would have an athletic build on account of the sports related gifts he had sent me, but he was exceptionally skinny. He wore a snug fitting tank top and loose pair of jeans. His arms were tracked with markings that I correctly guessed to have come from the carelessly placed needles. My mother would later explain that he regularly poisoned himself with heroin. Apparently the drug made him incapable of staying hungry long enough to finish a Happy Meal.
“You momma has gotten her act cleaned up,” he said. “But ooh boy, back in the day she sure knew how to have a good time. How about giving me some sugar for old time sake, Natalie?”
“You will not kiss, or touch, or hit me ever again, Jarvis. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah, I got it. Can’t blame me for trying though.”
With his attention focused on my mother for the moment, I allowed himself a long hard look at his face. The shape of his mouth reminded me of my own when I stared in a mirror. As far as I could tell, this was all I owed him. It seemed unnecessary to be grateful for such an arbitrary trait, and with this realization, my curiosity evaporated. I now knew everything I needed to know. He was responsible for my existence, but this had become irrelevant to me.
“Merry Christmas, sir. Can we go home now, Mom?”
“Yes, we certainly can.”
After waiting nine years to take a road trip of over two hours, we left my father after a mere five minutes spent in his presence, returning to the blanket of white that would accompany us home. I have not seen him since, nor have I had any desire to. Just as I understood that the seemingly unending snowfall would eventually cease and melt away completely in time, I also realized as I stared out the car window that the things a boy chooses to believe will not all become what he accepts to be true as a man.
I am sixteen now, and in three weeks I will become a father. It does not take much to become a father, as I have learned. Considerably more effort has been required on my part to handle the stress of the situation. Yet Jasmine and I have managed to remain together and grow closer. When I first laid eyes on her sitting at a window booth in Burger King, my father having permanently turned me off of McDonalds, I sensed she would change my life. My mother has always told me to trust my instincts, and on that day they were dead on.
Perhaps Jasmine and I will get married someday, but we’re taking one hurdle at a time, with diaper changing about to become the next one. I have not made the future any easier for myself, but nonetheless, I do believe that I’m prepared for whatever lies ahead. My mother has educated me well about what it takes to be a decent and responsible man, and that should take me pretty far in this world. As much as I have learned from her up until now, I know there is still much she has to teach me. I will absorb her lessons faithfully and pass them down to my son. This strikes me as being a solid plan.
I learned a great deal from my father as well, and it took hardly any time at all. He showed me during his brief presence in my life what not to become, even though it was what I came from. For the remainder of my life I will have no trouble remembering in perfect detail the day I met my father, for it was also the day that I decided to let him go.
@mudhousebooks #ComingSoon #MattersOfConvenience #AudioBook #Amazon #booktok ♬ Listen to the Music - The Doobie Brothers
October 24, 2022
Shepherd.com
I was approached by the fine folks at Shepherd.com to put together a list of books exemplifying a theme of my choosing. Honored to be asked, I gave it my best shot. Understood was that my list would be in excellent company, since as you'll see if you peruse this fantastic web site, there are many excellent book compilations at Shepherd to examine. For example, there's this collection put together by Shannon Gibney on The best YA and MG books about the Black experience. After a good deal of contemplation I decided on a subject that I am frequently drawn to read as well as write about, and then I selected a group of novels that explore it in a most compelling fashion. It was not my intention to select only books by women, but just happened to work out that way. Now you can read my thoughts on five novels I categorized as:
Have you read The Mothers (Brit Bennett) or Silver Sparrow (Tayari Jones) or The Star Side of Bird Hill (Naomi Jackson) or The Girl Who Fell from the Sky (Heidi W. Durrow) or Breath, Eyes, Memory (Edwidge Danticat) yet? Do you agree with my take that they are among The best novels about Black family dynamics? Perhaps you have some alternate/additional suggestions? If so I'd love to hear your thoughts either here or at Shepherd.com.
Be sure to stop by Shepherd.com, check out some of the wonderful book lists, and perhaps you'll be inspired to make lists of your own.
p.s - Below you will find not just any old video from my booktube channel Roy's Book Reviews, but my 100th video!!!
As always, Happy Reading!
September 9, 2022
Farewell Summer - Hello Autumn
@mudhousebooks Matters of Convenience will be #Free in #Kindle format at #Amazon for 1 week in mid-September. Consider it a #backtoschool #giveaway ♬ Give It Away - Red Hot Chili Peppers
@mudhousebooksThanks for everything, Serena! Including your form of graciousness.The Absolutely Amazing Adventures of Ava Appelsawse - available at Amazon
♬ original sound - Roy
A Line A Day: DOUBLE FAULT - a short story
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 3, 2022
https://t.co/SgTVHgbiZu pic.twitter.com/FTmcdnuecq
1 of 1 https://t.co/41WMierFWN
— AlexisOhanian7️⃣7️⃣6️⃣ (@alexisohanian) September 3, 2022
I was pretty disappointed after this loss. But my coach told me to save this photo because “one day that girl will win a lot of Grand Slams.”
— Rhiannon Potkey (@RPotkey) September 3, 2022
I am glad I listened. Thank you #Serena for a lifetime of inspiration. 🐐 pic.twitter.com/uU1QSf8OQ9
Took long enough but happy to see arrival of this day.Margaret Court: “Serena Williams has never admired me”
— 💔 (@kvitovaserena) September 6, 2022
Explain this then… pic.twitter.com/9SOG9xNx2l
Barack and Michelle Obama receive a standing ovation upon returning to the White House for their official portrait unveiling.
— The Recount (@therecount) September 7, 2022
Donald Trump refused to hold the ceremony for the Obamas while he was president. pic.twitter.com/wNBoG2rlgH
Portraits unveiled pic.twitter.com/I1WzvWxIui
— Acyn (@Acyn) September 7, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 4, 2022
A Line A Day: J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets https://t.co/7KYLK4npcL pic.twitter.com/C7ZHuNphkw
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 7, 2022
😆😂😂🤣🤣🤣 https://t.co/m3IqdOgF6U
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 7, 2022
https://t.co/TYyXk8IG7o
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 8, 2022
R.I P.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 8, 2022
choose your fighter pic.twitter.com/lnWehaPVAW
— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar) September 9, 2022
Irish and Black Twitter roasting Queen Elizabeth: pic.twitter.com/dVrT6AhfYi
— Jack Russell (@JolietJack) September 8, 2022
How to be a writer:
— Elizabeth C. Wagner (@ElizCWagner) September 9, 2022
1. Write
Follow me for more free tips!
Writer: I'm actually pretty good at this writing thing
— Alexander Pennington (@Authoralexp) September 4, 2022
*Reads someone else's writing*
Writer: I am garbage
Art
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 9, 2022
A Line A Day: Ode to the Library https://t.co/452WtJDSIv pic.twitter.com/NGclbiiMqq
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 4, 2022
Writing, because no one listens.
— 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦. (@boundlesshopes) September 4, 2022
Amazon offered my wife a book they thought she 'might be interested in'
— John Cleese (@JohnCleese) September 5, 2022
It was my autobiography
My favorite thing about the book is that it feels like a book. It feels like a real, you know, go to the bookstore novel, book. You know the reason why you go, to read a book from a bookstore.
— Jen (@mouthyjen) September 6, 2022
I just saw a TikTok video where a reader was debating if she should rate a book less because a character had a THOUGHT that offended the reader.
— Zoje Stage (@zooshka) September 5, 2022
For those of us in the business of writing about the ugly parts of human behavior, this is what we're up against.
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
In this vein, I’d like to remind you guys that (per the recent figures from the Penguin/DoJ case) many indie authors are outselling their trad pub counterparts. It’s not a competition, but the idea that indie/self-pub books are somehow ‘lesser’ is just unfounded snobbery ❤️ https://t.co/DsKnduhGYH
— Zola (@jadechurch_) September 5, 2022
whatever you tell creatives will be largely ignored by them. After all, what's the point of being a creator if the art you make must be dictated by the silly whims of others?I don't know if it's goofier to tell writers they can't write characters who aren't identical to them (you're a CIS white dude so better not write that Black lesbian character) or to tell makers of fantasy worlds that no made up creatures can have melanin. What I do know is that https://t.co/GMcuCtch2H
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) September 7, 2022
MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE
Kindle edition will be FREE at Amazon from 9/12 to 9/16 https://t.co/QpQm8XNNxL
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) August 21, 2022
View this profile on InstagramErin Rogers Pickering 🎨 Illustrator/Watercolorist (@eringopaint) • Instagram photos and videos
June 22, 2022
BookTok
https://t.co/byA2pRJBZ0 I #booktok therefore I am
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 20, 2022
https://t.co/dPZt7MkQtb #booktok #bookquotes
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 22, 2022
Unfortunately some bad often comes along with the good. If you thought nothing negative could result from BookTok, you thought wrong.https://t.co/gQ3kzt6k1v
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 23, 2022
I can't stop making these. #booktok
Hey #booktok ! Returning Kindle eBooks after reading them so you can get them for free HURTS INDIE AUTHORS, NOT AMAZON. Please, stop doing it. This is our living and Amazon will ban us for too many returns. You're hurting us. #TikTok https://t.co/05DEQVaoX0
— Lana Amore (@LanaAmoreTweets) June 21, 2022
Supposedly there was a TikTok trend on Booktok that explained ebook returns as a 'money saving hack'. Maybe someone should do a TikTok about how they are hurting indie authors, many whom depend on this money to live on, many who are women, POC and disabled.
— Lana Amore (@LanaAmoreTweets) June 20, 2022
To those returning ebooks AFTER reading them (and fuck the booktok/booktubers promoting this) - you are hurting real people. Authors LOSE money when you do this. Go to the library or buy the damn book.
— Sarah is spooky 🦇 (they/them) (@sarahisspooky) April 28, 2022
For people who think this sucks, please sign the petition or contact Amazon. https://t.co/9uByjW91f2
This is a trending hashtag because apparently it's a thing that needs to be said. So I'll say it too. #StopStealingFromAuthors
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
If you want to help, there is a petition you can sign.https://t.co/vJx3LYbtw2#StopStealingFromAuthors
— C.B. Powell (@CBPowell95) June 20, 2022
Books are among the least expensive forms of entertainment, by far the one that gives you the most bang for your buck. Plus they are easy to get for no cost at all. There's this place I know of that's just handing them out, though they do want them returned after you've read them pic.twitter.com/XTyaZB3TA1
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
A Line A Day: Ode to the Library https://t.co/452WtJDSIv
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
One extremely simple way to do this is to #StopStealingFromAuthors https://t.co/Os7Rza8PmS
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
A Line A Day: Bookish Tweets and Book Reviews https://t.co/DmbpcRVZkl #StopStealingFromAuthors
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
A Line A Day: BUY BOOKS or else BYE BOOKS https://t.co/2mUzkeVzJA
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
And #StopStealingFromAuthors
A Line A Day: THE CASE FOR BOOK REVIEWS https://t.co/9CpUmNyf9u
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
p s. #StopStealingFromAuthors
A Line A Day: Read Endlessly...Review Mercifully...Read Some More & #StopStealingFromAuthors https://t.co/rtqLCGmP89
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 21, 2022
In light of everything that’s happening with the return policy, I made a meme! #WritingCommunity #author #BookTwitter #AuthorsOfTwitter #StopStealingFromAuthors pic.twitter.com/bROTEstzKO
— Alex Arch (@AlexArch_author) June 22, 2022
One of my favorite things about being an avid reader is from time to time learning brand new words. https://t.co/yA0b0jCV6l
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) June 22, 2022
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