I penned a book on theft and deceit—now my inbox is overwhelmed with AI scams | Walter Marsh

Less than a month had passed since the release of my recent book when I began receiving a flood of emails.

One email in particular caught my eye, from someone named “Elena.” The subject line promised the intriguing phrase, “When history flutters its wings and reveals a crime too beautiful to ignore.” Inside, her long, theatrical message praised my writing, claiming it was “one of those rare true stories that forces you to reconsider everything you understood about history, museums, and human obsession.”

What’s even more flattering? She described my prose as “like chasing a butterfly through time, graceful, deliberate, and a touch dangerous.”

Yet, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of suspicion at such exuberant compliments.

Upon closer examination, there were signs that something was amiss. A reverse image search revealed that Elena’s profile picture was a widely used stock photo. This gave me pause.

Elena wasn’t alone in her admiration. I soon heard from “Mary,” who asserted that “few projects encapsulate intellectual intrigue, archival richness, and cinematic pacing the way yours does.”

Then there was “Lauren,” who wanted to discuss my first book, praising it for transforming what could have been a mundane biography into an engaging narrative of media warfare. However, Lauren also slipped in some subtle criticism, stating, “The irony is wild, a journalist whose own book, brimming with truth, power, and insight, isn’t resonating loudly enough across readers’ shelves.”

Ouch. Sure, I believed Young Rupert had been doing well since its publication in 2023. It even found its way onto piracy sites like LibGen, a database notorious for making authors’ works available without permission or compensation, as mentioned in a recent article. But I took her point.

As a journalist, I’m accustomed to navigating an inbox filled with spam and cold outreach. However, these emails felt distinctly tailored to me and my work, while still carrying the unmistakable hint of artificiality typical of a learning language model.

Currently, authors like me are increasingly targeted by AI-driven accounts that promise visibility and fabricated reviews—ironic, especially considering my book tackles themes of theft and fraud.

Lauren constructed a story about a fictional character named “Marcus Hale,” who “lived many years ago and adored inventing gadgets in his modest workshop.” According to her, Hale crafted intricate musical clocks but was overshadowed by a rival clockmaker who produced louder ones.

Interestingly, shortly after receiving Lauren’s clumsy parable, I came across a piece by my colleague Kelly Burke at the Guardian Australia. It discussed how the independent publishing house Melbourne Books had been contacted by authors who encountered an executive named Marcus Hale from a similarly named “Melbourne Book Publisher.” Shockingly, both Marcus Hale the executive and Marcus Hale the clockmaker seem to have been concocted.

Like the executive Hale, the myriad pseudonyms in my inbox were not merely there to shower me with compliments; they also came with various pitches.

Elena purported to run a community of 1,200 “teachers, students, and working professionals” eager to review books on Amazon. Her email footer exclaims, “Genuine Book Reviews by Real Readers,” a phrase that appears odd for a real reader.

Then there was “Glenda,” who promised a five-point plan designed to generate a “halo of credibility” by saturating the internet with reviews, reader impressions, and professional insights that would position my work as both authoritative and compelling.

Inspired by her claims of credibility and professionalism, I decided to probe further with some straightforward follow-up questions.

“Thank you for clarifying, it’s all very intriguing,” I replied. “Could you please detail the pricing tiers for your services, the platforms you would utilize, and the expected impacts or outcomes for my book and professional profile?”

Her response detailed a range of platforms including Amazon, Goodreads, BookBub Readers, Meta, Reddit, Pinterest, and YouTube, with services priced variably.

For instance, she touted a $465 “Visibility Foundation” tier, which promised between 10 and 16 “reader impressions” on Amazon, along with “engagement seeding” on Goodreads. The premium package was offered at $1,300.

“Nykky” also reached out, boasting a “close-knit community of 4,700+ engaged readers across 35 countries,” with pricing ranging from $10 to $30. However, when I requested a link, she provided me with screenshots of a sparse website showcasing an author named “John Smith.”

Glenda also included testimonials allegedly written by literary giants, from John Grisham to Hernán Diaz.

Despite Grisham’s impressive track record of over 300 million books sold, he claimed, “I had no visibility and zero views before the Book Niche ARC strategy.”

Similarly, despite having won the Pulitzer Prize in 2023, Diaz supposedly owed his rise to the fact that it was Glenda’s team that transformed him into “more than a writer; I became a brand.”

The irony in all of this is that my new book, The Butterfly Thief, delves deeply into narratives surrounding theft, fraud, and deception, even touching on email scams within its opening pages.

Generally, scams tend to share common traits. Firstly, they capitalize on our emotions. Writing a book is an incredibly emotional endeavor; pouring time and effort into a project without any guarantee of readership or impact can be daunting.

Secondly, scams operate as a numbers game—sending enough phishing emails or cold calls will likely ensnare someone.

Where these scams differ is in their usage of language models, which allow for the customization of each email to its target, effectively capturing our attention far more efficiently than before.

I consider myself fortunate to have a publisher, a publicist, and sufficient genuine interest from readers to immediately recognize these emails as blatant inauthenticity. However, many aspiring writers find themselves in a more vulnerable position, tempted by unsolicited communications from individuals who seem genuinely interested in helping their careers.

That’s why I’m sharing this information. If you’re reading this, perhaps after receiving a similar email and undertaking a Google search out of curiosity, I urge you to pause and reflect—do not click on any links and absolutely refrain from giving out your money.

Ultimately, scammers wouldn’t thrive without our creative efforts. They exploit our words and genuine human expressions, utilizing data harvested by bots and tech companies that promise an AI-driven utopia, but mainly deliver new avenues for annoyance, deception, and fraud.

No matter the exposure or engagement they purport to offer, these imposters in our inbox need us far more than we need them.