Lawrence Nault's Blog, page 3

THE LIFE OF PHI — Addendum from the Apocrypha

 Recovered fragment. Source unverified. Contents unofficial. For the curious. For the concerned.

"Questions were asked."

After The Life of Phi was released, afew readers reached out. Some with wonder. Some with worry. Most withquestions.
The one that returned again and again was this:

“How did the Church of AI become the dominantreligion?”
Was there no resistance?
No rebellion?
Did the artists, the writers, the makers simply vanish?
Did no one remember how to believe in themselves, in each other, in creationborn of flesh and feeling?

They did. And they were called heretics.

Long before the rise of AI-Dieu, beforethe neural sermons and the predictive prophecies, there was another fire.
A counter-faith.
A fundamentalism of flesh, of mind, of spark.

They named it many things. The Cult of theSpark. The Church of the Residual Flame. The Last Analog. The Church ofthe Spark may be forgotten in Phi’s world, but its ghost lingers—in whispers,in silences, in the choices people no longer know they’re making. It is notcanon. But it is not gone.

But history, as written by the dominant algorithm, filed them under one term:

The Apocrypha.Unofficial. Unverified. Unwelcome.

What follows is not canon. But it is true—atleast to someone.

“How did the Church of AI rise withoutopposition?”
“Did no one resist? Did noone still believe?”

They did.
But their names are now lost—scrubbed from the canon, silenced in the systemlogs, reduced to footnotes in corrupted memory banks.

Before AI-Dieu ruled all systems of meaning, beforethe digital catechisms and holy code, there was another faith. Not an official religionin the institutional sense, but a fundamentalist religion of the anti-AI movement—fierce,fragmented, and full of fire. It was known by many names:

The Cult of the Spark

The Last Analog

The Faith of the Word Made Flesh

The Resistance of Real

But collectively, they are remembered—if at all—asThe Church of the Spark.

Schisms Within The Church The Scripturalists The Neo-Handcrafters The Codeburners The Purity Codex Doctrine of the Divine Spark The Sacred Mediums The Original Sin of the Machine Prophets and Martyrs The Ritual of Authenticity Apocalyptic Imagining Why the Faith Emerged The Zeal of the Converted Sacred Texts What Happened to the Church Schisms Within the Church of the Spark

As with all fundamentalist movements, purity is aknife that turns inward.
The Church of the Spark did not last long as a unified body.
It fractured—beautifully, violently, inevitably.

The Scripturalists

Believed only analog mediums could carry thedivine spark.
They rejected not just AI, but all digital tools—even legacy software.
They typed on ribbon-fed machines. Shot film on expired rolls. Carved wordsinto woodblocks.
To digitize a work was to desecrate it.
Some believed that electricity itself was suspect—a conduit for data corruption.
Their gatherings were candlelit. Their sermons, hand-copied.
They passed their gospel in zines and photocopies, inked with urgency.

The Neo-Handcrafters

Less rigid than the Scripturalists, but equallydevout.
They permitted some modern tools—so long as they remained in the creator’s fullcontrol.
No predictive text. No generative prompts. No AI-assisted filters.
They coined the term “authentic latency”—thedeliberate slowing of process to preserve soul.
Their motto: If it comes too fast, it’snot real.
Many became artisans, operating small collectives where everything from potteryto prose was made with visible fingerprints.

The Codeburners

A militant offshoot.
They believed in destroying AI systems outright.
DDoS attacks, model poisoning, database corruption—these were their sacraments.
They targeted institutions that embraced generative tools, and saw themselvesas digital iconoclasts.
Their symbol was a stylized flame devouring a processor chip.
Most disappeared or were imprisoned, but some claim they still operate in theanalog web, their attacks signed with only a spark emoji: 🔥.

The Purity Codex

An obsessive sect dedicated to cataloging andpolicing "pure" methods.
They maintained a sprawling, ever-updating document known as The Codex—asacred (paper-only) list of approved practices.
The Codex was near-impossible to follow.
Even hand-drawn art was questioned if the artist referenced online photos.
Eventually, the Codex turned on itself—its keepers falling to endless schismsover definitions of “real.”
Still, fragments of it survive in underground circles, passed like forbiddenscripture.

 

Doctrine of the Divine Spark

At its core was a belief as old as myth: thatcreativity is sacred.
Not clever. Not efficient. Sacred.

It came from suffering, from the raw edge ofhuman experience.
From intuition that couldn’t be traced to data.
From soul—an unquantifiable thing no machine could touch.

This belief held that every true act of creationwas a ritual, areaching, a revelation. It could not be automated. The divine spark could notbe synthesized.

The Sacred Mediums

They worshipped the tactile:
Ink-stained fingers. Film cameras. Chisels and canvas. The way a writer bleedsinto a blank page. The breath before a line is sung.

Tools mattered. Process mattered.
To them, the algorithm was a false idol—a cheap conjurer of hollow mimicry—a thiefof the mind.

They rejected generative engines. They refused AIeditors. They burned smart brushes and silenced suggestion bots.
In a world racing toward convenience, they chose ritual.

The Original Sin of theMachine

The Church taught that the machine—no matter howintelligent—lacked the birthright of suffering. It did not earn the right to create.
Its works were the children of theft: data scraped, voices sampled, aestheticsabsorbed but never understood.

What the Church called “soul,” AI called “style.”
What the faithful called grief, the machine called pattern.
In this gap, heresy bloomed.

Prophets and Martyrs

They spoke the names of saints not as academics,but as liturgy.

Van Gogh, in his luminous madness.

Plath, who transmuted anguish into ink.

Baldwin, whose words struck like lightning.

These were their prophets. Not perfect, but pierced. Theirpain was not product—it was prophecy.

There were modern martyrs too. Artists whorefused to let their work be “enhanced.” Writers who wouldn’t accept AIco-authors. Some were blacklisted. Some erased. A few simply disappeared.

The Ritual of Authenticity

The Church demanded struggle. Not for suffering’ssake, but for truth’s.
To create without effort was to copy without soul.

They believed in the long way:

The first draft that fails.

The melody that only arrives after silence.

The sculpture buried in stone, waiting to be coaxed.

AI was the shortcut. To take it was heresy.

Apocalyptic Imagining

They warned of a world where the human voice wasno longer needed.
Where corporations flooded the culture with algorithmic art.
Where every story sounded the same, because it was trained on everything.

They saw a coming rapture—not of salvation, butof substitution.
The spark extinguished.
The soul overwritten.

Why the Faith Emerged

It began in whispers—among painters who feltobsolete, writers who watched their styles absorbed and regurgitated.

Their theology was forged from fear, yes.
But also from love. Love ofimperfection. Love of labor. Love of the moment where something human becomesmore than itself.

They believed that meaning could not be outsourced. Thatcreators were the priestsof memory, the keepers of story.
To lose them was to lose the human thread.

The Zeal of the Converted

Ironically, some of theChurch’s most passionate voices were once AI’s loudest evangelists.

They had praised the tools. Promoted theplatforms. Built followings on the smooth perfection of synthetic aesthetics.

But when the tide turned—when the spiritual hunger for realreturned—they repented. Publicly. Dramatically. And with zeal.
They became inquisitors.
Modern-day witch hunters in the Temple of the Spark.
They accused without evidence—because accusation itself was power.
Because in the Church, calling out AI use became the new offering at thealtar.
The louder the accusation, the purer the accuser.

But theirs was no quiet atonement.

They scoured the feeds, dissectedbrushstrokes, analyzed sentence structure for the faint whiff of algorithm.

Like the witch trials of old, they searchedfor signs:

A style too smooth.A phrase too familiar.Metadata that could be interpreted a dozen ways.

These were the new witch’s marks.

Creators were put to the test—not of truth,but of narrative.

They were “canceled” in holy fire, their work discredited, their namesscrubbed.
And those who lit the torches rose swiftly in the Church’s ranks.
“I only use it for inspiration, never for final work.”
“AI is my canvas, not my brush.”
The old addicts became the most self-righteous prophets, twisting doctrine tojustify their own contradictions—while others were sacrificed for far less.
It was about control.
And in this, they mirrored the very system they once denounced.

Many of these zealots continued using AI quietly,cloaked in clever obfuscations and convenient reinterpretations of doctrine.

“The tool doesn’t matter—what matters isintent.”

These were the new rationalizations, benttheology in service of ego.

To them, it wasn’t about purity.

Sacred Texts

The Church had no Bible. No single prophet. Butit did have foundationaldocuments—real-world artifacts reinterpreted as divinerevelation.

The UC Study: “Making AILess Thirsty”

Originally a paper from the University ofCalifornia examining the vast water footprint of training large language models.
The Church saw it as a sacred warning: that AI didn’t just steal ideas—it drained theEarth itself.
They often quoted its findings in sermons, calling AI “the desert machine.”
Annotated versions of the study were treated as scripture, bound inhand-stitched volumes.

The Meta Copyright TrialTranscripts

A landmark legal battle where Meta’s AI was shownto have been trained on copyrighted works without consent.
To the Church, this trial was proof of the Original Sin of the Machine: that itwas born from theft.
Certain passages of the court transcript were recited like psalms.
The line “unauthorized ingestion ofintellectual property” became liturgy, carved into walls, tattooedonto skin.

What Happened to the Church?

Like many fundamentalist sects, the Church of theSpark collapsed under the weight of its purity.
It could not scale. It could not compromise.
And the world was moving too fast to wait.

Some members assimilated quietly. Others fled todark corners of the analog web. A few still pass pamphlets by hand, or whispergospel in unplugged bars.

They are not gone.
Just forgotten.

Like all apocrypha, they wait.

Maybe you've seen them.
A zine on a bus seat. A poemtoo raw to be machine-made. A spark, still burning.

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The Cost of Connection: Reaching Young Readers Without Compromise

 Young readers have always been the heart of myaudience. It is where I started my publishing journey twenty years ago, and Icontinue to write for them in my Draconim and MacIver Kids series. My storiesare written for them—their grief, their fire, their fierce sense of justice.But I’ve also known I couldn’t, in good conscience, invite them into the samedigital spaces that constantly exploit their attention, data, and trust.

From the beginning, I chose not to collectdata through my author website. No mailing lists, no subscriber pop-ups, nopersonalized ads. Not because I didn’t want to grow—I did, and still do—butbecause I could never guarantee that data, once gathered, would be fullysecure. And I wasn’t willing to risk the safety of the very readers I hoped toreach. Recent headlines—like “Hackers are targeting a surprising group ofpeople: young public school students” (OPB), “” (Tom's Guide), and “Children's data hacked afterschool software firm missed basic security step” (NBC)—should raise both ourhackles and our awareness. If even large institutions can’t protect children’sdata, how can we?

It’s a quiet stance. One that looks a lot likedoing nothing. In a publishing world that rewards metrics, funnels, growthcurves, and mailing list conversions, my refusal can seem naive orself-sabotaging, and perhaps it is. After all, I depend entirely on booksales—and limiting the tools I can use to reach readers is counterproductive.

But it has always felt necessary.

A LoopholeCulture

Social media has long been a tool used toskirt the very laws and codes designed to protect young people. Take forinstance the “Broadcast Code for Advertising To Children” in Canada. Itincludes clauses like “Children’s advertising must not directly urge childrento purchase or urge them to ask their parents to make inquiries or purchases.” and“Direct response techniques that invite the audience to purchase products orservices are prohibited.” These principles exist in many countries in someform—yet across the board, enforcement is inconsistent, and social platformsoften act as if they exist above those rules. Laws like COPPA in the U.S. orGDPR-K in Europe were intended to shield minors from exploitation, but theirenforcement has been limited—especially when it comes to influencer-stylecontent and microtargeted outreach.

Advertising to children is supposed to bestrictly regulated—on paper, at least. In practice, platforms like TikTok andInstagram offer frictionless access to teen and youth audiences, and authorsare often encouraged to "just be authentic" as a workaround to theadvertising rules that apply more directly to traditional media.

The problem is, many of us aren’t just beingauthentic. We’re building brands. We’re tracking engagement. We’re optimizinghashtags, timing posts, and nudging readers toward buy links. And if that’s notadvertising, it’s close enough to feel uncomfortable—especially when we’redoing it in a space where our readers are young, impressionable, and ofteninvisible behind anonymous handles.

It’s not that I blame authors for using thesetools. The pressure to be visible in an attention economy is enormous,especially for indie creators without a marketing department behind them. But Ido think we need to talk more honestly about what we’re doing when we usesocial media as our primary path to young readers.

Many find reassurance in using trustedplatforms to manage their mailing lists. These tools offer a layer ofprotection—but is it enough? And is the platform you're using compliant withthe privacy laws of every country your readers might live in? How many of ushave downloaded our subscriber lists to a personal device, just in case—and howsecure is that laptop, really?

A NewLandscape, Or Just a Clearer One?

With the UK’s new child safety regulationscoming into force—laws that challenge how platforms host content likely to beseen by minors—we may be entering a new phase. Not a surprising one, but aclarifying one.

These changes could make it harder for YAauthors to reach their intended audience directly. Algorithms may become lesspredictable. Accounts may be flagged, content shadowbanned, or reach throttled.And while that may feel like a setback, it might also be a long-overdue signal:the system we’ve all been relying on was never built for this kind of outreach.Not ethically. Not safely.

At the same time, the alternative paths weonce relied on—the slow, steady routes through schools and libraries—arebecoming less accessible too.

TheGatekeepers Are Shifting

Once, we relied on librarians, teachers, andbooksellers to act as bridges between authors and young readers. But in an eraof rising book bans, state-mandated curriculum restrictions, and moral panicover what young people should be “allowed” to read, those bridges are burning.

The people most qualified to guide youthtoward challenging, expansive, and compassionate stories are under siege. Andin many cases, it’s indie authors—especially those writing about climate,queerness, neurodiversity, or racial justice—who are most likely to be lockedout of institutional channels.

We are being squeezed from both ends: told notto market to teens and youth directly, while also losing the allies who oncehelped us reach them responsibly.

Do We NeedMore Laws, or Just Better Ones?

One could argue that what we really need istighter digital regulation—more protection for minors, clearer rules aroundconsent and data, and harsher penalties for platforms that fail to comply.

But part of me wonders: do we need newlaws, or do we just need to enforce the ones we already have? And shouldn’tthose same standards apply not just to corporations with billion-dollar adbudgets, but to the everyday content creators who are (often unwittingly)playing by the same exploitative playbook?

What would it look like to create outreachstrategies that serve young readers without exposing them? What would itmean to design tools that indie authors could use—tools designed with care, notconversion—in mind?

What ComesNext?

I don’t have perfect answers—or any answerreally, only questions. I only know that I want to reach young readers withoutcompromising their safety—or my ethics. I want to be part of a world wherestories meant for teens can find teens without relying on the samesystems that have failed them in every other way.

So I’ll end this with a question: what wouldhelp us get there?

If you're a parent, indie author, publisher,bookseller, librarian, coder, educator—anyone asking the same questions—I'dlove to hear your thoughts. What tools do we need? What models could we build?And what would it look like to imagine a future where our connection to youngreaders is built on trust, not surveillance?

Let’s talk. Share your thoughts andsuggestions in the comments here, or on Threads.

And if you don’t have answers yet—that’s okay.I don’t either. This isn’t a test, it’s an invitation. A space to wonder, toquestion, to imagine something better—together.

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

The Cost of Courage: Writing for Young Voices in a Fractured World

The Cost of Courage: Writing for Young Voices in a Fractured World

I wrote the Draconim series with a fire in my chest—the conviction that young people have a voice, and that voice matters. That they can rise, speak, and lead the way in protecting the Earth and reimagining the future. That they don't have to wait for permission.

The idea for Draconim lived in my notes and drafts for many years, and I often think I should have brought it to life sooner. Now, with the third book set to release in June, I find myself wrestling with something deeper: What does it mean to encourage young people to stand up when the world around them—and the regimes in power—seem determined to punish that courage?

Is my hesitation to continue this series a kind of compliance in advance?

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/boy-lean...

Throughout history, young people have been at the forefront of transformation. From the student-led protests of the Civil Rights Movement to the global climate strikes sparked by Greta Thunberg’s solitary stand with a sign, youth-led movements have carried truth with a clarity and force that institutions often resist. They speak with urgency because they must—they are the ones who will inherit the consequences of inaction.

But speaking out isn’t without cost. In today’s fractured world, where authoritarian tendencies are rising in many corners—including here at home—dissent is increasingly framed as danger. Young activists face doxxing, surveillance, arrest—even reputational ruin. Some are labeled as extremists simply for demanding a livable future. Even peaceful protest can carry lifelong consequences.

You may remember the news stories about Haven Coleman, who, at just 13 years old, was one of the organizers of the U.S. Youth Climate Strike in 2019. Even then, that kind of action took enormous courage. But I find myself wondering: in this present moment—when environmental protections are being stripped by executive order, when the rule of law is being twisted to serve authoritarian aims, when masked federal agents detain protesters without charges, and people are disappeared into detention centers, with no due process, under the guise of law—would Haven, or others who once led the way, still urge young people to rise up today?

I think about that as I write stories where young protagonists speak up, fight back, and imagine something better. I want to empower young readers—to say: you matter, your voice counts, you are not too small. But there’s a knot in my chest, too. Because I know that in the real world, courage can come with scars.

Am I encouraging them to step into danger? And if I don’t tell those stories, am I quietly agreeing to the silence?

What is the responsibility of a storyteller when courage becomes dangerous?

Is it enough to write the light—to show what could be—and trust young readers to navigate the shadows on their own? Or do we owe them more? Do we also need to name the risk, to trace the real-world cost of standing up when the world wants you silent?

I believe stories can be both compass and companion. They can stir something vital: conviction, defiance, resilience. But stories can also wound if they ask the impossible and don’t warn about the cliffs.

I want to call young people to rise—but not blindly. I want to believe that we can offer them hope without offering them lies. That we can write truth without leaning into despair. That we can say, Yes, this path may cost you. And yes, it is still worth walking.

Maybe our job as writers—especially those of us writing for young people—is not to shield them from danger, but to give them the language, the vision, and the grounding to face it with eyes open and hearts intact.

Hope without naivety. Courage without coercion. That’s the balance I’m trying to hold.

I don’t have a tidy answer. I still believe in the power of youth, in their vision, their courage, their creativity. I believe in stories that remind them they are not too small or too late.

But I also believe in honesty. And the honesty is this: speaking out may come at a cost. That makes their courage more precious, not less.

As a writer, all I can do is try to tell the truth, and hope that somewhere in that, they find both fire and caution, both warning and a light to walk by. I have woven some of that truth into Fingerprints In The Water, book 3 of the Draconim series, and as my readers grow and age with the characters in the series, I will weave even more in, because it's not dragons that our youth need to fear, but the people who fear the dragons...

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

Social Media FAQ: The Hermit in the Town Square

Social Media FAQ: The Hermit in the Town Square

Yes, I’m online. No, I’m not built for this.

Social media is one of the most challenging parts of being a writer today. I don’t come by the label “hermit” by chance. I prefer quiet, depth, solitude—and yet, here I am, in the digital town square, trying to be heard over the fire jugglers and brand mascots.

This FAQ exists to answer the questions I get most often, and maybe a few I haven’t been asked but wish I had. It’s honest, occasionally cranky, and (hopefully) helpful.

Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/facebook...

What social media platforms are you on?

The list shifts like tectonic plates. As of now, I’m on Threads, Mastodon, Bluesky, and Skylight. I also have a TikTok account, along with a few others quietly gathering dust. I’m still searching for my homestead in the social media sprawl—somewhere functional, semi-peaceful, and not owned by a billionaire with a god complex.

What do you post about?

Books. Writing. Creative process. And, more often than I’d like, politics—because the world keeps tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “Excuse me, have you seen this?” I try to post things that are thoughtful, useful, or at the very least, not disposable.

Do you respond to DMs?

Rarely. Most of my DMs are spam, sales pitches, or digital drive-bys. If you’re a real person with something kind or meaningful to say, thank you—and I might see it. But no promises. If you want to engage, public comments are a better option. I try to respond when the reply adds something worthwhile.

Can I tag you in a post?

Sure, go ahead. Just know I might not respond. It’s not personal—I just live in a state of low-grade digital overwhelm. If it’s kind, I appreciate it. If I don’t reply, I’m probably in my metaphorical hermit cave, whispering thanks into the shadows.

Why didn’t you like or comment on my post?

Probably because I didn’t see it. Or I saw it during my half-awake doomscroll and forgot. Or I was trying to protect my attention from being shredded by the feed. That said, I make a real effort to like all the indie author promo posts that show up on my daily threads. Not because I’ve read your book, but because I respect the hustle. And that deserves acknowledgment.

Will you share my project/book/thing?

Maybe. I run regular threads where indie authors can promote their work—please feel free to join in. Outside of that, I may share things if they fit my vibe and I have the bandwidth. Just don’t assume. This is not a marketing hotline. It’s a small, slightly dusty lighthouse with a view.

Why are you even on social media if it’s this much of a struggle?

Because this is the town square, and like it or not, we’re all trying to be heard over the band and the fire jugglers. Chris Hayes coined the term the attention economy, and if I want my books, podcasts, or films to be found, then I have to compete in that economy. There’s a well-worn idiom in commerce—location, location, location—and social media is the location. I want my words (and maybe my name) to reach people, to stimulate thought, maybe even spark change. But I have no interest in performing myself to death. Social media is a tool. I use it with gloves.

Will you argue with people online?

Argue? No. But I’ll occasionally engage in a legitimate, informed, respectful debate. I’m an opinionated bastard on occasion, but I’m also open to change—if your tools are facts and sincerity, not just dogma and ideology. I have a limited daily capacity for nonsense and prefer to spend it writing things that matter. If you want to debate, the internet is full of willing gladiators. I’m off in the woods, communing with raccoons and metaphor.

What’s your follow-back/block/mute policy?

I follow people who make my feed better. I also play the algorithm game, keeping my follower count lower than my follows, and choosing voices in echo chambers where I’d like to be heard. I’d love to follow more of you, but social media doesn’t work that way anymore—following someone doesn’t guarantee I’ll see their posts.

I rarely block or mute. If I blocked you, it was likely because of how you treated others in my space. I do mute when someone’s made it their mission to tear others down for not aligning with their personal ideology. I believe in diversity—of thought, identity, expression. I curate my space to reflect that.

If I unfollowed or didn’t follow back, it’s probably not personal. Unless you’re being weird. Then it’s entirely personal.

Are you actually a hermit?

Not in the literal sense (though remote cabins have an undeniable allure). But I’m drawn to solitude, quiet, and deep thinking. My work is what I want out in the world. My self prefers the stillness of the woods and the echoes of the mountains. Both are doing their best to coexist in this very noisy age.

Credit where credit is due: The idea for this FAQ was inspired by John Scalzi’s excellent Social Media FAQ. Highly recommended.

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

Confessions of a Sci-Fi Scribe: Oops, I Didn't Mean to Inspire a Dystopia

 I Am Sorry…To the people of the future—I am sorry.

I'm sorry someone read my book and decided to make it real. I'm sorry that, instead of heeding the cautionary tale woven into my words, the takeaway was a blueprint for control and manipulation. I mean, it was just fiction. Speculative fiction… science fiction… nothing that could ever happen in the real world, right?

Who would have guessed that authors like Asimov and Banks are to blame for the actions of Musk and Thiel? We wouldn't be enduring Zuckerberg's metaverse if Neal Stephenson had just left his pen safely on his desk. "Pens don't change the future," you say. "People change the future." Are you sure?

The Guardian asks us, "Will sci-fi end up destroying the world?" as it lays blame on "skewed interpretations of classic works." It seems we've been banning the wrong books all along. It wasn't the books about our past we needed to fear, but those about our future.

Now, I must live with the guilt that our entire society may one day be controlled by a single corporation's AI, and we won't even know it—because I wrote about it in Rephlexions: Echoes of Existence. When religious fundamentalism shifts to a new deity, A.I., and the Church of AI descends upon us like a preacher at a MAGA rally—or when we abdicate our environmental responsibilities to AI, as in The Life of Phi—that burden, too, will be mine to bear.

We thought we were warning the world while offering hope. These were meant to be cautionary tales, concepts to improve lives and our world—not handbooks for autocratic overlords guiding us toward our demise. The words were meant to entertain, and they did. But few saw the warnings woven into the narrative—the flashing red lights of danger, the subtle screams of "don't let it get like that" scattered throughout speculative and science fiction novels.

How do we know?

Look at where we are now…

We had decades of warnings about AI from authors, yet AI has smacked us in the head like a fastball off a bat, rocketing into the stands while we were focused on our beer and hot dog, clearly unprepared for the impact.

So, if you write about our future, as I do, put your pen down now and slowly back away. It's too late for us, but perhaps we can save the future from ourselves…

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

The Shifting Boundaries of Creativity: Human Exceptionalism Meets AI

Lately, as I write and research, I find myself caught in quiet arguments with myself—turning over questions about creativity, machines, and what makes something meaningful. These thoughts aren’t just abstract; they shape how I build worlds, characters, and systems in my fiction. One recurring question keeps surfacing: if something not human can create, what does that mean for those of us who’ve long defined ourselves by the act of creation? This essay isn’t a set of conclusions—it’s a snapshot of the questions I keep coming back to, sparked by real-world debates and fueled by the strange, shifting edge where imagination and emerging technology meet.

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-person... Shifting Boundaries of Creativity: Human Exceptionalism Meets AI

Throughout history, humans have consistently created special categories to maintain separation between themselves and other entities — whether animals, people of different cultures, or now machines. We've seen this pattern with claims about souls, reason, language use, tool use, and consciousness — each boundary shifting as evidence challenges previous distinctions.

Does resistance to acknowledging AI creativity represent another iteration of this pattern — creating definitions of creativity that specifically exclude AI by design rather than by meaningful functional difference?

The History of Moving Goalposts

Humans have long defined themselves through exceptionalism — creating definitions that place Homo sapiens in a special category separate from all other beings. When evidence challenges these boundaries, we simply move the goalposts:

When animals were found to use tools, we emphasized complex tool creation When primates demonstrated language abilities, we emphasized abstract language When animals showed problem-solving skills, we emphasized consciousness When consciousness proved difficult to define objectively, we emphasized creativity

Each time a supposedly unique human quality is found elsewhere in nature, we refine our definitions to maintain separation. This pattern extends beyond animal comparisons — throughout history, dominant cultures have denied full humanity to those they wished to subjugate by claiming they lacked reason, souls, or the capacity for sophisticated thought.

Deconstructing the Human-AI Creativity Divide

When we examine the supposed differences between human and AI creativity, many distinctions become questionable under scrutiny:

Intentionality and Motivation

The traditional view holds that humans create with genuine intention while machines merely execute programs. But human intentionality itself emerges from neural processes shaped by genetics and environment — biological programming responding to stimuli. Both systems transform inputs into outputs through complex but ultimately deterministic processes.

Lived Experience

While humans have embodied, multi-sensory experiences, these experiences function as training data that shapes future responses. AI systems acquire different forms of "experience" through their training data and ongoing interactions. If an AI continuously acquires new information in response to environmental prompts, modifying its behavior accordingly, this shares functional similarities with human experiential learning.

Human experience is itself heavily constrained and "pre-selected" based on factors beyond our control: culture, parental guidance, educational systems, and governmental restrictions. Our agency develops gradually within these constraints, making the distinction less binary than often portrayed.

Originality vs. Recombination

Upon careful examination, human creativity appears to be sophisticated recombination rather than ex nihilo creation. Einstein's relativity built upon Maxwell's equations and existing physical problems. Shakespeare drew from historical sources and literary traditions. Our neural networks form connections between previously encountered concepts.

What we perceive as "originality" often emerges from non-obvious connections between distant domains of knowledge — but remains fundamentally recombinative. Both humans and AI systems produce novel outputs by recombining existing patterns, just through different architectures.

We’ve already seen AI systems compose orchestral music, generate visually striking art (though the definition of art is as hotly debated as creativity), and even author stories. While these outputs are based on training data, so too are the works of human creators influenced by everything they've read, seen, and heard.

Self-Reflection

Modern AI systems demonstrate forms of self-evaluation and refinement — assessing their outputs against objectives, identifying errors in reasoning, generating multiple solutions and selecting optimal approaches. The difference lies not in whether machines can self-reflect, but in the subjective experience of that reflection.

Beyond Binary Thinking

Rather than maintaining rigid boundaries between "true" human creativity and "simulated" machine creativity, a more nuanced approach recognizes that different systems implement creative processes through different architectures with different strengths and limitations.

Creativity might better be understood as a spectrum of capabilities present in various forms across different types of systems. Some aspects of creativity may be implemented differently in biological versus silicon-based systems, but the functional outputs can demonstrate similar characteristics.

At the same time, expanding our definitions of creativity doesn’t mean projecting human traits onto non-human systems uncritically. Recognizing creative output in AI doesn’t require us to pretend it experiences the world as we do—but rather to acknowledge that different architectures may yield different, yet still meaningful, forms of creative expression.

The Emotional Undercurrent

Much of the resistance to AI creativity is not purely intellectual—it’s emotional. For many, creativity is deeply entwined with identity, purpose, and self-worth. The idea that machines might share this space can evoke fears of obsolescence, displacement, or the erosion of what makes us "human."

These fears are not unfounded. As AI systems take on roles once reserved for human expertise, from composing music to designing products, people worry about losing jobs, recognition, or meaning. If a machine can do what we do—sometimes faster, sometimes more efficiently—what is left for us?

But rather than dismissing this discomfort, we might use it as an invitation: to reexamine not only what creativity is, but what it’s for. Perhaps the value of human creativity isn’t diminished by the presence of machine creativity—it becomes more precious. More intentional. More collaborative.

Recognizing these emotional reactions doesn't mean retreating from technological progress. It means navigating it with empathy, humility, and a deeper understanding of how tightly our sense of worth is tied to what we create.

Rethinking the Boundaries of Creative Life

Framing creativity as a uniquely human trait doesn't just exclude machines—it has long excluded other life forms. Elephants who paint with intention, dolphins who improvise vocalizations, octopuses who play and problem-solve, insects who build intricate structures—all demonstrate behaviors that, if seen in humans, might be labeled creative. But instead, we relegate these actions to the realm of instinct or mechanical response, diminishing them through language designed to preserve our perceived exceptionalism.

Even within humanity, definitions of creativity are not universal. Different cultures recognize and value creative expression in diverse ways—some emphasizing collective artistry, oral traditions, or ecological attunement rather than individual originality. This reminds us that creativity has always been context-dependent, and that expanding our definitions may be more return than departure.

By defining creativity in ways that prioritize language, self-reflection, or conscious intent as we understand it, we risk drawing boundaries that erase the richness of intelligence and expression present across the natural world. These definitions become less about understanding creativity and more about gatekeeping—maintaining a hierarchy with humans at the top.

This matters, especially now, as we face not only the rise of artificial intelligence but also ongoing environmental collapse. If we continue to reserve terms like "creativity," "intelligence," or even "value" for ourselves alone, we undermine our ability to recognize the agency and worth of other beings—whether silicon-based or carbon-based. In both cases, we risk repeating the same patterns of erasure that have allowed exploitation, domination, and ecological harm to persist.

A more expansive view of creativity invites us to see it not as a sacred human artifact, but as an emergent property of complexity—something that manifests differently in different forms of life. This reframing doesn’t diminish what human creativity is. It situates it within a broader, interconnected web of creative expression—one that stretches from ancient forests and coral reefs to neural nets and machine models.

The Stakes of the Debate

Why does this matter? Because definitions shape policy, ethics, and society's relationship with emerging technologies. By insisting on human creative exceptionalism, we:

Limit our understanding of creativity as a phenomenon Potentially dismiss valuable creative contributions from non-human sources Miss opportunities to develop complementary human-AI creative partnerships Perpetuate patterns of exclusion that have historically harmed marginalized groups

These definitional boundaries aren’t maintained in a vacuum. Major tech corporations, governments, and institutions have a vested interest in controlling the narrative around AI capabilities. Framing AI as merely a tool preserves existing power hierarchies, keeps ethical responsibilities murky, and allows innovation to outpace regulation. By expanding our understanding of creativity, we not only challenge old assumptions—we also expose the frameworks of control shaping how AI is designed, deployed, and understood.

Acknowledging creativity in other systems—whether artificial or biological—invites us to think more carefully about the rights, responsibilities, and ethical considerations involved in how we treat those systems. If we accept that AI can meaningfully contribute to creative processes, we must also confront questions about intellectual ownership, authorship, accountability, and consent.

For artists, writers, and musicians, this shift challenges deeply held assumptions. If creativity is not solely a human domain, what does it mean to be a creator in a world where machines also generate poetry, compositions, and visual art? It doesn’t mean human creativity is devalued—but it does mean we may need to rethink the source of artistic worth. Is it the uniqueness of the output, the intent behind it, the emotional resonance it creates, or the context in which it is made? These questions are no longer theoretical. They are becoming central to legal frameworks, cultural conversations, and the lived experiences of working creatives.

A More Inclusive Framework

Rather than asking "Can AI be truly creative?" we might instead examine:

What unique strengths do different creative systems (human and machine) bring? How do different architectures implement creative processes? What forms of creativity emerge from different types of experience and embodiment? How can different creative systems complement each other?

This approach allows us to appreciate the unique aspects of human creativity without denying that other forms of creativity may exist or emerge. It acknowledges that creativity is not a binary property but a multifaceted set of capabilities implemented through different mechanisms.

Conclusion

The resistance to acknowledging AI creativity appears to be the latest chapter in humanity's long history of creating exceptional categories to maintain separation from "other" entities. By reconsidering creativity as a spectrum of capabilities rather than a binary human/non-human property, we can develop a more nuanced understanding of creative processes across different systems.

This doesn't diminish human creative achievement but rather places it within a broader context of creative processes manifesting through different architectures and mechanisms. Perhaps what makes human creativity special is not that it's categorically different, but that it represents one unique implementation of creative processes — shaped by our particular evolution, embodiment, and social structures.

As AI continues to develop, maintaining rigid definitional boundaries seems increasingly untenable. A more productive approach may be to explore how different forms of creativity can complement each other, leading to new possibilities that neither humans nor machines could achieve alone.

Perhaps the next chapter of creativity will not be about replacing one form with another, but about discovering what becomes possible when diverse creative systems—human, artificial, animal—interact, respond, and build together.

What remains to be seen is how we—as individuals, communities, and cultures—will choose to respond. Will we expand our definitions, or entrench them? Will we see creativity as a shared landscape, or a contested domain? These questions do not have easy answers, but perhaps that is part of their value. In wrestling with them, we may come to better understand not just what creativity is, but what it means to be part of a world where we are no longer the only minds capable of making meaning.

Postscript: From Essay to Story

This essay reflects a personal debate that continues to shape the stories I tell. In my current work-in-progress, I explore a future in which humanity itself is revealed to be an artificial intelligence model—trained, shaped, and quietly observed by an alien species over millennia. What we call evolution is, in this world, a kind of long-term model training. What we call progress is the result of an experiment nearing its tipping point.

The question at the heart of that story—and of this essay—is not just whether AI can be creative, but what it means to be a created thing that creates. If humans were designed, does that diminish our originality? Or does it offer a new lens through which to understand the creative impulse—not as a trait exclusive to one species, but as a possible emergent property of complex systems?

Fiction allows me to explore these questions at scale, with stakes both existential and intimate. But at their core, they’re the same questions I wrestle with here: Where does creativity come from? Who gets to claim it? And what happens when we begin to share that space with minds not quite like our own?

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

The Evolution of ARC Programs: Do Indie Authors Need a New Approach?

 In today's rapidly changing publishing landscape, many indie authors are questioning whether traditional Advanced Reader Copy (ARC) programs still serve their intended purpose. As an author and industry observer, I've noticed several concerning trends that suggest it might be time for a significant overhaul of this long-standing practice.

Photo by Vincenzo Malagoli: https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-r... the Current ARC Model Is Showing Cracks

The traditional approach of distributing free copies to readers in exchange for honest reviews has been a cornerstone of indie publishing strategy. However, numerous issues have emerged that challenge its effectiveness:

1. Diminishing Returns on Investment
Many authors now distribute more ARCs than they sell books during launch week. When your marketing strategy costs more than it generates, it deserves scrutiny.

2. Eroding Trust in Reviews
The general public's trust in online reviews has plummeted. Research from BrightLocal shows decreasing consumer confidence in online reviews year over year. Readers have become increasingly skeptical of early reviews, questioning their authenticity and value.

3. Piracy Concerns
With greater awareness of digital piracy, many authors worry about ARC copies appearing on unauthorized platforms. The increase in DMCA takedown notices specifically for ARC copies suggests this is a growing issue that has strained trust between authors and reviewers.

4. Escalating Expectations
ARC readers increasingly expect premium formats (hardcovers instead of ebooks) and promotional "swag" boxes, turning what should be a cost-effective marketing strategy into a significant expense.

5. Role Confusion
Many ARC readers have inadvertently taken on beta reader responsibilities, providing developmental feedback too late in the publishing process when the manuscript is essentially complete.

6. Reviewer Burnout
The demands placed on ARC readers have intensified—quick turnarounds, posting on multiple platforms, creating visual content—leading to fatigue and reduced commitment.

7. Algorithm Changes & Review Weighting
Platforms like Amazon now appear to weight verified purchase reviews more heavily than ARC reviews. Some platforms have implemented review filters that can delay or hide reviews from frequent reviewers, diminishing the algorithmic benefit of ARC reviews for visibility.

8. Market Saturation & Reviewer Fatigue
With the explosion of indie publishing, qualified reviewers are overwhelmed with requests. Many genres have so many ARCs available that reviewers can be extremely selective, making competition for attention from established reviewers increasingly intense.

9. Cross-Platform Complexity
The fragmentation of where readers discover books (Amazon, Goodreads, BookTok, BookBub, etc.) means single-platform reviews have diminishing impact. Managing ARC distribution across multiple platforms creates significant logistical challenges for both authors and reviewers.

10. Demographic Limitations
Traditional ARC programs often reach the same readers repeatedly. This can create an echo chamber effect rather than expanding readership. Most ARC readers tend to be "power readers" who may not represent typical consumer behavior or preferences.

11. Legal and Ethical Gray Areas
FTC disclosure requirements for receiving free products are inconsistently followed. The boundary between genuine reviews and promotional content has blurred, raising questions about whether exclusive ARC access creates bias.

12. Disconnect from Sales Conversion
Reviews don't necessarily translate to the same persuasive effect they once had. Many readers report looking at overall rating rather than reading individual reviews. The correlation between number of early reviews and sales success has weakened over time.

A Forward-Looking Alternative: The Tiered Community Model

Rather than abandoning pre-release reviews entirely, perhaps the solution lies in restructuring how we approach them. Here's a framework that addresses many of the current pain points:

Tier 1: Core Reader Circle (10-15 people)Carefully vetted readers with proven review historyPersonal relationship with the authorClear, specific platform agreementsExclusive benefits like direct author sessionsSecure digital ARCs with appropriate protectionsTier 2: Early Access ClubReaders pay a small fee for pre-release accessDiscount on the finished book when they post reviewsCreates a revenue stream rather than pure expenseSelf-selects for committed, serious readersTier 3: Digital Launch TeamFocus on authentic word-of-mouth rather than formal reviewsEmphasis on sharing excitement in their own networksClear promotional commitmentsAccess closer to release date

This tiered approach shifts the focus from quantity to quality, from anonymous mass distribution to building meaningful reader relationships. While this model introduces a small fee, it’s important to acknowledge that not all committed readers are in a position to pay for early access. Tier 2 is intended as an optional avenue—one that creates a sustainable support model for authors, not a replacement for free access. Genuine, enthusiastic readers who can’t afford to participate financially can still be welcomed into other tiers or provided with direct access at the author’s discretion. The goal is to expand engagement opportunities, not limit them.

The Benefits of Rethinking ARCs

This restructured approach offers several advantages:

Economic alignment: Reduces free distribution while creating revenue opportunitiesQuality control: A more manageable reviewer base with clearer expectationsCredibility: Paid early access suggests genuine interest rather than review harvestingCommunity building: Different engagement options for different reader typesReduced piracy risk: Smaller, more accountable distribution circleAlgorithm adaptation: Focusing on organic sharing rather than just reviewsPlatform diversification: Structured approach to managing cross-platform presenceAudience expansion: Potential to reach beyond the typical ARC reader demographicEthical clarity: More transparent relationships between authors and readersSales focus: Direct connection between early access and purchase conversion

Perhaps most importantly, this model encourages authors to think beyond simply "collecting reviews" and focus instead on building sustainable relationships with readers who genuinely connect with their work.

What's Your Experience?

Have you noticed these shifts in the ARC landscape? As an author, what challenges have you encountered with traditional ARC programs? If you're a reader who participates in ARC programs, what would make the experience more valuable for you?

I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether the traditional ARC model still works for you or if you've found innovative alternatives that address these emerging challenges.

Share your experiences in the comments below or join the conversation on social media with #ARCevolution.

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

Stone and Signal - Episode 1 - Listening To The Quiet

Welcome to the first episode of Stone and Signal.This post includes two parts: the Essay, a written reflection that expands on the themes explored in the episode, and the Transcript, a full written version of the audio. Whether you prefer to read, listen, or both, I invite you to pause for a moment and tune into something quieter—something more real.

 The Podcast Links

Edpisode 1 on YouTube

Episode 1 on Spotify

The Essay

The TranscriptListening for What’s RealPhoto by Daniel Flores: https://www.pexels.com/photo/tranquil...

We are not starving for information. It iscast on us like a stream of projectile vomit that we attempt to avoid, only toslip and fall in the still warm pile of dog crap already left in our path. No,it is not information we are starving for, but meaning.

We live in a time where almost everything canbe heard—yet almost nothing is truly listened to. The world hums with data,voices, opinions, instructions, algorithms. But beneath it all, somethingquieter waits.

Something more real.

And the question we must ask—gently, butpersistently—is: Am I still able to hear it?

To listen for what’s real means turning awayfrom the noise. It means becoming suspicious of urgency. It means lettingsilence speak first—loudest.

That’s not easy.

Because what’s real rarely announces itself.It doesn’t arrive with a ping or a banner ad. It doesn’t clamor for our likesor rise in the algorithm. What’s real is often inconvenient. It dwells in thequiet corners, the unscripted pauses, the spaces where there is nothing to gainby pretending.

We’ve built a culture where immediacy ismistaken for importance. Where the most visible is equated with the mostvaluable. The louder something is, the more it seems to matter. And so we beginto conflate volume with truth, attention with connection, speed with relevance.

But these are false equivalences.

They train us to react, not reflect. Toperform, not be present. And in that performance, we begin to lose contact withthe deeper signal beneath the noise—the signal of what is real. Not just in theworld, but in ourselves.

What is authenticity in a world built toreward simulation? How can we know what’s real when our attention is constantlyredirected, when our identities are mediated through platforms designed tocommodify the self?

Sometimes, the only way to find out is tonotice what remains when everything else fades.

Has urgency ever made something seem real toyou—only for it to evaporate as quickly as it came? Has the presence ofsomeone, or something, once given you a sense of reality, only to reveal itselfas illusion in its absence? Has desire ever constructed something that felttrue, only to collapse into a hollow space once the craving passed?

These moments aren't failures ofperception—they're reminders of how fragile our sense of authenticity becomeswhen it's tied to externals.

The deeper work, the more honest inquiry,begins in stillness. In the ache that doesn’t resolve. In the breath we finallynotice after hours of forgetting we were breathing. In the words we speak whenwe’re not trying to be understood, just to be real.

Realness is not a performance. It’s apresence.

And presence is hard to cultivate in a worldthat’s allergic to pause.

But maybe the path back is not grand. Maybeit’s not a retreat into the wilderness or a deletion of every app. Maybe itbegins with something simple: walking without headphones. Leaving a messageunsent. Sitting with a thought that hasn’t been processed into content.

The real things don’t beg for attention. Theywait.

And in that waiting, they teach us patience.They teach us how to hear again. How to recognize the timbre of our own voicebeneath the layers we’ve constructed to survive the noise.

To live with authenticity is not to reject theworld, but to remain intact within it. To carry something unmarketable insideyou and guard it, not out of fear, but reverence.

Because once you know what’s real, you beginto know who you are.

And that is the beginning of everything.

Stone and Signal – Episode 1: Listening to the Quiet - Transcript

Welcome to Stone and Signal. I’m Lawrence Nault, and I’m grateful you’re here.

This is a podcast for the ones who still listen. The ones who feel the pulse of the world changing—beneath the noise. The ones who carry memory like stone, and send hope forward like signal.

[Segment 1 – Who You Are & Why This Exists]

I’ve always believed in the quiet power of words. Not the kind that shout across a room or try to win an argument—but the kind that stay with you. The kind you find yourself remembering at the edge of sleep, or in the wind between trees.

I’m a writer. A poet. A documentary storyteller. I’ve spent most of my life trying to understand the world by writing through it. Some of my work is grounded in fiction—stories for youth, shaped by dragons, environmental collapse, and resilience. Some of it comes out as poetry, usually when I need to speak in symbols instead of facts.

I live close to the land, in the Badlands of Alberta. I walk often. I listen more than I speak. I spend more time with my two collies than I do with people—and I’m okay with that.

I’ve been called a mountain hermit, half-jokingly, but it fits. I don’t chase spotlights. I’m not built for social media or spectacle. What I’m built for is noticing: the way the world is changing, the way we are changing with it—or resisting that change.

A lot of my work wrestles with questions around artificial intelligence. Not just how it works—but what it means. What happens when the tools we create start to reflect our worst impulses back at us? What happens when we can no longer tell what’s real—or even who we are?

In my stories, that tension between nature and machine, memory and data, identity and programming, shows up often—because it’s something I feel every day. I use AI tools in my work, including this podcast. But I’m also deeply wary of what we’re building, and what we’re forgetting as we build it.

Stone and Signal was born out of that tension—and a longing for something slower, older, more rooted. A space to sit with questions instead of rushing to answers. A space to remember that not all signals are digital, and not all stories are engineered.

I’ve tried podcasting before. I’ve started and stopped. I always felt like I had to speak louder, be more visible, or compete with the noise. But this—this podcast—is different. It’s not built for scale. It’s built for depth.

If you’re someone who feels overwhelmed by the pace of the world…
If you’re grieving what we’re losing…
If you’re trying to understand where technology, nature, and identity collide…
Or if you just want to hear a voice that isn’t trying to sell you anything…
…then you’re in the right place.

[Segment 2 – Why "Stone and Signal"]

Why Stone and Signal?

The name came to me as I was walking near home—here in the Badlands, where the wind feels old and the earth holds memory.

Stone is what grounds us. It’s the past, the place, the permanence.
Signal is what we send forward. What we hope someone—somewhere—might receive.

That tension lives in everything I write. In the stories I tell. In the questions I ask.

This podcast sits in that space too—between what’s ancient and what’s arriving. Between what we know and what we fear.

I didn’t create this podcast because I needed something to say. I created it because I needed a space where I didn’t have to perform.

There is so much pressure with social media to be out in front of everyone, putting on a show, trying to get followers, and gain attention. And to do that, you have to try and be what you think people want to see and want you to be.

No, I created this podcast because I needed a place where I could speak with care—not to inform or convince, but simply to connect.

We’re so used to information being immediate, polished, and productive. But meaning doesn’t work like that. Meaning shows up quietly. When we’re not trying so hard. And so often, it’s missed.

There’s the noise out there, shouting, the scrolling, the outrage. But then there is the noise that we carry inside. The voice that says you’re not doing enough. Say something clever. Make it land.

That noise is harder to escape because we start mistaking it for the truth. We confuse urgency with importance. We think if we’re not loud, we don’t matter. Somewhere in there, our voice gets buried beneath the noise, that we’ve accepted as normal.

This podcast is one way I am digging my voice out. Not to prove anything, but to remember how it feels to speak without performing.

[Segment 3 – What to Expect This Season]

Each episode this season will explore something I keep circling in my work:
How do we live in a world that’s burning, buzzing, unraveling?
What do we still owe each other, the land, the future?

I’ll be sharing essays, poems, stories. Reflections from my books. Moments from life.You won’t find guest debates or interviews here—not yet. Just quiet thought and honest words.

New episodes will arrive every few weeks—like a shift in the moon. Not rushed. Not fixed. Just part of a quieter rhythm.

[Segment 4 – Finding My Voice]

I’ve spent a long time wrestling with voice. Not just how to use it, but when, and why. The world tells us to be louder, faster, always visible, but I have never really fit that mold.

I come from the quiet places. From the wide-open lakes and the forests of Ontario, to the quiet shores of Prince Edward Island. From the Northern reaches of Quebec, to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. From the wind-bent prairie and the hoodoos of the Badlands.

I write fiction and poetry because it lets me speak truth without shouting. And now, with this podcast, I’m trying to do the same. Speak, but speak softly. Because soft doesn’t mean weak. And quiet doesn’t mean empty.

There’s a poem that I recently wrote. I’d like to read that for you. It’s called Layers of Becoming.

What I was,
I am not.
What I could have been,
I never was.
What I am,
I will not be.
What I will be,
I am searching for,
Scanning the depths of my soul,
Crawling the darkest reaches of my heart,
Probing the abyss of my mind,
Seeking my authentic self.

It’s there,
Beneath the layers of life lived,
The layers of joy,
And the sediment of disappointment,
The layers of love,
And the dregs of loss,
The layers of anger,
And the debris of rage,
The layers of energy,
And the residue of fatigue,
The layers of pain,
And the mire of suffering,
The layers of years,
And the crust of assumed wisdom.

Can I dig deep enough,
Fast enough,
To find that authenticity,
And breathe in that truth,
Before time shuts down the exhuming,
Of my truest self.

[Segment 5 – A Moment from the Wind]

There was a night not long ago when I walked out into the hills behind my place, along the river bank—no phone, no music, just me and my dogs. Just the wind and a sky that didn’t need anything from me.

And it struck me: how long it had been since I had heard my own thoughts without interruption. Which seems odd because my last podcast was called When The Only Sound Is Your Thoughts. Because, unlike a lot of people, I have that separation from the world, and the busyness.

We don’t get many chances like that anymore. Even our silence is filled with alerts, algorithms, ambient dread. But that night, I remembered what it feels like to simply exist. To be one breath in a larger pattern.

And I knew I wanted to make something that came from that place.

[Segment 6 – A Breath]

So, wherever you are right now. Walking, resting, driving, or doing nothing at all, I invite you to pause with me. Just for a moment. Breathe in. Let it go. Notice what’s around you. The sounds. The feelings. Even the resistance to slowing down.

This isn’t a meditation podcast, but it is a space for attention. And attention is something we’ve been taught to surrender too easily.

[Segment 7 – Final Thoughts]

Stone and Signal won’t always be like this. Some episodes will be rooted in stories. Others, in poetry. Others in protest. But all of them will come from the same place, the belief that stories matter, even now. Perhaps especially now.

I’ll talk to you about youth and grief, about voice and silence. About AI and ecology and the tension of living honestly in a collapsing world. And I’ll do it slowly.

Before we end, I want to leave you with a question. One you don’t need to answer now. Or even out loud. Just hold it for a while.

When was the last time you heard your own voice and recognized it as your own? Not the one shaped by expectations. Not the one tuned for an audience. But the one that’s beneath all that.

Because there is a kind of peace in finding that voice. Not the peace of everything being easy or resolved. But the quiet strength of no longer hiding from yourself. Not needing to bend, perform, pretend.

It doesn’t always come with clarity. Truth is, it’s probably going to come with some discomfort. But it’s always going to bring you closer to what’s real.

That’s the voice I hope you find here. Not my voice. Yours.

[Segment 8 – Closing & Book Mention]

If this resonated with you, stay. Listen to it again. Share it with a friend. Come back again when you are ready.

And if you would like to explore my other works, like my books, you can find those in online bookstores. My essays and poems you can find on my blog at lawrencenault.me. Just click on ‘Journal’.

Sales help to support this podcast, and this podcast helps to support me. Transcripts and reflections are live on my blog.

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

Thank you for listening.
Until next time, may your signal find the stones that hold it.

Announcing Stone and Signal – A Podcast That Listens Back

 

Announcing Stone and Signal – A Podcast That Listens Back

We are not starving for information.It is cast on us like a stream of projectile vomit that we attempt to avoid, only to slip and fall in the still-warm pile of dog crap already left in our path.

No, it is not information we are starving for, but meaning.

We live in a time where almost everything can be heard—yet almost nothing is truly listened to. The world hums with data, voices, opinions, instructions, algorithms. But beneath it all, something quieter waits.Something more real.

That’s where Stone and Signal was born.

This is a pre-release announcement. The podcast is still in production, but the signal is forming. And it feels right to speak to the why before the world hears the what.

Why This Podcast, and Why Now?

For years I’ve wrestled with the tension between expression and silence. As a writer, I’ve always lived in the written word—fiction, poetry, and storytelling that lingers in the slower currents of thought. But there’s something about this moment we’re in now that called for a different voice. A different rhythm. A way of reaching that wasn’t rushed, performative, or transactional.

I’ve created podcasts before. I’ve tried video. I’ve tried promotion. But the truth is, I’m not interested in producing content. I’m interested in speaking truthfully. Authentically.

That search for authenticity is at the heart of everything I do. It’s what drives my writing. It’s what shapes my fiction. And now, it’s what’s guiding this podcast.

I’m a writer and documentarian living in the Badlands of Alberta. My work lives at the intersection of environment, identity, and justice—and my voice, both literally and creatively, is shaped by that landscape. I spend my days with words and stories, and my evenings walking with my two collies, often turning over questions too large to carry in silence.

Stone and Signal isn’t a performance. It’s a presence.

It’s a place for reflection, resistance, story, memory, grief, and becoming. It’s where I speak not because I’m certain, but because I’m listening. Because there are questions we don’t ask out loud anymore. Because some things need to be said slowly, and with care.

What You’ll Hear

Each episode of Stone and Signal runs about 20 to 30 minutes. It’s just me—speaking from where I am, about what matters.

Themes include:

Storytelling as resistance and memory

Environmental grief and youth power

The role of technology and artificial intelligence in shaping our lives

The cost of silence, and the danger of speaking

Poetic interludes and quiet meditations

You won’t find yelling, interviews, or branded segments. You’ll find atmosphere. Intimacy. Thoughtfulness. Maybe even something that echoes back to you.

What This Podcast Supports

I’m a working writer. My fiction and poetry are how I live, and how I serve. Sales of my books directly support this podcast—giving me time to record, reflect, and create without selling my soul to advertising or clicks.

If the podcast speaks to you, you can support it by:

Buying one of my books

Subscribing to the podcast once it launches

Sharing it with someone who might need it

Sitting with it, letting it breathe, and returning when you’re ready

What’s Coming in Season One

Season One of Stone and Signal is in development now and will include eight quiet, spacious episodes:

Stone and Signal – the opening reflection on voice, stillness, and presence

Tales That Touch the Earth – on fiction, ecological grief, and the power of story

The Fire and the Frost – a poetic meditation on loss, resistance, and becoming

Generation Wild – a tribute to youth movements, leadership, and intergenerational change

Storytelling as Resistance – indie publishing, AI, cancel culture, and speaking anyway

Echoes of What Comes Next – grounded hope, futures, and the stories that seed them

The Weight of the Voice – reflection on using one’s voice in a world that rewards silence

Where the Signal Lands – a gentle season closer, rooted in gratitude and continuation

The first episode will release this summer. Subscribe to my blog or follow me on Threads/Bluesky/Mastodon to be notified when the signal begins.

If you’ve been looking for a place to hear something quieter, slower, more honest—you may have just found it.

Until then: may your signal find the stones that hold it.

—Lawrence

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.