So you want to be an influencer

There's something about the name of the major in the department in which I teach - "Creative Media" - that, for many first-year students, brings to mind the career of an influencer. So as to disabuse them of the notion that our major will teach them how to be an influencer, I outline the differences between the career of a media professional - a broad category encompassing screenwriters, directors, producers, editors, camera-people, newscasters, sound engineers, etc. - and the career of an influencer. In searching for a metaphor or parallel to describe the career of an influencer, I typically refer to pop star musicians (though the following is likely applicable to any genre of popular music - rap, country, etc.). 

On the up side, the barrier to entry is low - anyone can start playing music, post that music online, promote it on social media, develop a following, become famous and earn plenty of money. This is in contrast to many media professional positions that require access to expensive equipment, social and/or geographic proximity to connections in the business, competitive apprenticeships, and a track record of proven success. On the down side, there is a lot more competition when the barrier is low. There's always someone younger, hotter, funnier, edgier, and more novel than you, and they're so eager and hungry for attention that they'll be happy to take that sponsorship deal you turn up your nose at. There's no incentive for platforms like YouTube, TikTok or Spotify to share much revenue with creators because there's a never-ending talent pipeline, and so they tend to pay creators very little.

Generally, pop star careers are shorter than those of many media professionals, again because of the low barrier to entry, their replaceability, and the audience's desire for novelty. Of the small percent of influencers who achieve success, it's hard to find ones who maintain it for more than a few years. This is in contrast to all of the aforementioned media professional careers that typically last decades, with salaries and job security typically increasing over time. 

There's also the challenge of maintaining a pace of output that being an influencer demands. Whereas audiences are trained to expect a new song from a musician maybe once a year, 13 new episodes of a TV show every year, and a new film from a well-known director every several years, influencers are expected to generate new content at least once a month. Maintaining that pace for years can be taxing. Looking at the Wikipedia entries of several popular influencers from the 2010's, the word "hiatus" frequently appears - an understandable response to the non-stop production schedule. This is to say nothing of the effects of public scrutiny on one's mental health, the blurring of personal and professional identities, the loss of privacy - none of which are issues for the average editor, screenwriter, or audio engineer. 

Other influencers try to make the jump to the mainstream, collaborating with established media professionals, making movies or TV shows, parlaying their success on the web into something more lasting. Some succeed while most do not. Gradually, I think influencers and the entertainment industry will get better at intuiting which personalities will transfer to the big screen and which are better suited to TikTok, YouTube, podcasts, etc. 

Another antecedent to the influencer is the career of reality TV star, though they seem to rely more heavily on personal appearance or sponsorship gigs than influencers, who seem to more effectively monetize their content and exert more control over their image from the start. Maybe the similarity is less related to their career trajectory and more to their relationship to audiences - more intimate and ordinary than the average actor or director.

This all sounds like I'm trying to dissuade students from pursuing the life of an influencer, which I'm not. The fact is that tens (or maybe hundreds?) of thousands of influencers (broadly defined) make enough money to live on. I'd guess that this is more than the number of people who make a living at being a pop star, but maybe less than those who make a living as a musician. 

Being an influencer, like being a pop star, seems to require "natural talent." There's only so much you can be taught about how to succeed in those realms, and a college classroom certainly isn't the place to learn it. Better to just watch some tutorial videos, go out there, and do it. And if you got it, you got it, and if you don't, you don't. I can't think of a reason not to pursue both paths - the path of the influencer and the path of the media professional - simultaneously, though the time demands of either path will eventually force you to decide. 

As the influencer phenomenon continues to age, we'll get better at answer these questions about that career: Do influencers get enough revenue coming in from their videos that were popular years before to make a living? Do sponsorship deals persist or do they dry up? What does the second (or third) act of the career of an influencer look like?

Do people care who (or what) wrote this?

Generative A.I. as a writing tool has limitations. But what I've discovered over the past week is that my perceptions of those limitations can drastically change when I learn about a new way to use it. Before, I'd been giving ChatGPT fairly vague prompts: "Describe the town of Cottondale Alabama as a news article." Listening to a copy.ai prompt engineer on Freakonomics helped me understand that being more specific in your prompts about the length of the output ("500-1000 words") and the audience ("highly-educated audience") makes all the difference. 

The other key lesson is to think of writing with A.I. as an iterative collaboration: ask the program to generate five options, use your gold ol' fashioned human judgment to select the best one, then ask it to further refine or develop that option. If you find it to be boring, ask it to vary the sentence structure or generate five new metaphors for something and then pick the best one. I sensed that writing with generative A.I. could be more like a collaboration with a co-author than an enhanced version of auto-correct; this helped me to see what, exactly, that collaboration looks like, and how to effectively collaborate with the program. 

As the output got better and better, I wondered, "has anyone done a blind test of readers' ability to discern A.I.-assisted writing from purely human writing?" I'd heard of a few misleading journalistic stunts where writers trick readers into thinking that they're reading human writing when, in fact, they are not. But I'm looking for something more rigorous, something that compares readers' abilities to discern that difference across genres of writing: short news articles, poetry, short stories, long-form journalism, short documentary scripts, etc. It seems likely that readers will prefer the A.I.-assisted version in some cases, but it's important to know what types of cases those will be. 

I also wondered what our reactions - as readers and writers - to all of this. I can think of three metaphors for possible reactions to A.I.-assisted writing:

1) the word processor. It's use changed how writers write. It changed the output. Like most disruptive technologies, it was met with skepticism and hostility. But eventually, it was widely adopted. Young writers who hadn't grown up writing free-hand had an easier time adapting to this new way of writing. The technology became "domesticated" - normal to the point of being invisible, embedded in pre-existing structures of economy and society. 

2) machine generated art. Machines have been generating visual art for decades. Some of that art is indiscernible from human generated visual art. Some of it embodies the kinds of aesthetic characteristics that people value. And yet machine generated art has never risen beyond a small niche. The market for visual art largely rejects it, in part because those who enjoy art care about how it is created. Something about the person who created it and the process by which it was created is part of what they value about art. 

3) performance enhancing drugs. Output from A.I.-assisted writing is superior - in some cases far superior - to unaided human writing, and there is market demand for it - the public sets aside its qualms and embraces good writing regardless of how it came about. This situation is perceived by writers, some industries, and some governments as unfair or possibly dangerous, maybe in terms of what bad actors could do with such a tool or how profoundly disruptive its widespread use would be for economies and society. Therefore, they regulate it, discourage its use through public shaming, or, in some cases, explicitly forbid its use. 

The quality of A.I.-assisted writing's output is only part of what will determine its eventual place in our lives. The general public's reaction to it is another part worth paying attention to.