To footnote 7... My understanding is that the recent release about AI training on our works was specific to Meta's AI. I'm not sure what the one before that was (Lightning Flowers wasn't cannibalized for that one, so I didn't pay quite as much attention to the specifics).
I had not considered asking an LLM to write a paragraph in my style, so, of course, I did after reading this. Slightly horrifying:
The scent of warm tortillas drifted from the kitchen like a memory you could almost hold, wrapping itself around the corners of the house where sunlight filtered in through threadbare curtains. Abuela’s voice hummed along with the radio, soft and off-key, a lullaby for the living. I sat cross-legged on the floor, tracing the faded flowers on the linoleum, the weight of stories unspoken pressing against my chest. Everything here—the chipped coffee mugs, the Virgin candle flickering on the counter—felt stitched together by a history too vast to name, yet somehow nestled in the rhythm of each ordinary morning.
To footnote 7... My understanding is that the recent release about AI training on our works was specific to Meta's AI. I'm not sure what the one before that was (Lightning Flowers wasn't cannibalized for that one, so I didn't pay quite as much attention to the specifics).
That makes sense. And welcome to the club, I guess?
Ugh, right?! In the first round I felt... weirdly not special or in "the club." WHICH IS DUMB
I had not considered asking an LLM to write a paragraph in my style, so, of course, I did after reading this. Slightly horrifying:
The scent of warm tortillas drifted from the kitchen like a memory you could almost hold, wrapping itself around the corners of the house where sunlight filtered in through threadbare curtains. Abuela’s voice hummed along with the radio, soft and off-key, a lullaby for the living. I sat cross-legged on the floor, tracing the faded flowers on the linoleum, the weight of stories unspoken pressing against my chest. Everything here—the chipped coffee mugs, the Virgin candle flickering on the counter—felt stitched together by a history too vast to name, yet somehow nestled in the rhythm of each ordinary morning.
I can't believe it has really been 20 years.