Human Meme

Three seconds. That is all it takes. Three seconds of your voice, captured from a public meeting, a conference call, a video posted to social media, and a machine can learn to speak as you. It can produce your cadence, your rhythm, the way you pause before a name, the way your pitch drops when you are certain. It can say things you have never said, in rooms you have never entered, to people you have never met. And the people who hear it will believe it is you, because the only test the human ear can perform is recognition, and recognition is no longer proof of origin. This is the condition that The Likeness, the ninth novel in the Fractional Fiction series, examines from the inside.

Twenty-one violinists walked into a hotel room in Indianapolis in 2010. They were experienced soloists, people who had spent decades training their ears. The room was dimly lit. They wore modified welding goggles so they could not see the instruments. And they were handed violins, some worth twelve million dollars, some worth a few thousand, and asked to play them, compare them, and choose the one they would take home. Two-thirds chose a modern violin. The most-selected instrument in the entire test was new. The least-selected was a Stradivarius. That experiment opens my new book, The Counterfeit Bargain, and it opens the book for a reason that has nothing to do with violins. When the apparatus of prestige was removed, when the name, the provenance, the three centuries of accumulated myth were stripped away and only the sound remained, the superiority vanished. Same object. Same listeners. Different frame.

There are forty-one Broadway theatres. That number has been effectively frozen for nearly a century. The oldest of them opened in 1903. The newest was assembled in 1998 from the demolished remains of two older houses. Between those dates, the city tore down theatres, condemned theatres, converted theatres into parking garages and television studios and conference venues. What remains is forty-one buildings, most of them constructed before 1930, clustered in a rectangle of midtown Manhattan roughly thirteen blocks long and three avenues wide. On a Wednesday evening, all of them are running. Forty thousand people sit in the dark simultaneously, watching live performances delivered under more than a dozen separate union contracts, in rooms designed for gas lighting and audiences who arrived by streetcar. That district generated $1.89 billion in gross receipts in the 2024-25 season. Fourteen point seven million admissions. Ninety-one percent of all seats filled. The highest-grossing season in recorded history.

I want to talk about a face. Specifically, I want to talk about the face you see when you look in the mirror and the face other people see when they look at you, and whether those two faces have ever been the same face, and what happens to a person who discovers, at the age of five, that the answer is no, and that the distance between the two can be closed by reaching out and copying someone else's bone structure onto your own skull. That is the premise of my new novel, The Borrowed Saint: A Horror in Five Skins. A boy named Asa Greer stands in a bathroom in Decker, Ohio, and watches his reflection change. His cheekbones soften. His jaw loses its angles. The space between his eyes widens. For three seconds, maybe four, he is looking at the face of the boy next door on his own head. Then it collapses. His own features rush back. And the bathroom is loud again.

I want you to think about the last time you encountered an achievement that seemed too large for the person who produced it. Something that made you pause, narrow your eyes, and reach for the comfortable explanation. Maybe it was a historical figure whose story sounded exaggerated. Maybe it was a living person whose accomplishment struck you as implausible given what you thought you knew about their background, their body, their circumstances. You felt a flicker. A small, quiet impulse that said: that cannot be right.