The other day Thomas Pynchon sent me a fan note. I forwarded it to a few people and got a range of reactions from congratulations to laughter.

I was moved not so much by the sin as by the shadow. Your illustrated edition of James Hogg’s Gothic masterpiece invites readers into a world of desolate moors, unblessed graves, and the chilling certainty of a man who believes his every sin is justified in service to God’s will. That willingness to let the land itself recoil from the sinner buried beyond the church’s grace, and to render that moral reckoning through ballpoint pen illustrations, is its quiet power.

Maybe my favorite part of the note are the helpful links to Pynchon’s Goodreads and Wikipedia pages. Thoughtful of him to make sure I know who he is.

I had gotten three or four very similarly-worded emails about my illustrated versions of James Hogg’s The Suicide’s Grave and Bruce Wagner’s The Marvel Universe. The message about the latter was addressed to Wagner, instantly giving it away, but all of them purported to be impressed with my work and wanted to work with me in some way.

Anyone who puts creative work out into the world is happy when someone responds. That happiness blinds us, at least temporarily, to bad actors and their scams. With the rise of advanced language models the toolbox of the old-fashioned grifter is expanded into an entire warehouse.

After the flattery wears away I always want to know how the scam works. A few months back I was contacted about converting my artwork into NFTs. Asking a crypto-savvy acquaintance, I learned that the entire bait-and-switch is in the conversion fee from cash into whatever make-believe currency they preferred.

What has Pynchon been recruited to get from me? I assume it’s some sort of fee for publicizing my work for a wider audience. The idea of the world’s most famous recluse writer becoming a flack might amuse the man. But I’d be very surprised if he has to stoop so low as to even use email.

A completely legit email arrived a few days after Tom’s informing me that a book review I wrote was removed because the lawyers of a dead publisher objected to my writing he died of an overdose. The fact the editor took it down without hesitation tells you the precarious position of journalistic expression these days.

Maybe I should leave the thoughts and opinions to the machines.

I wrote about a show of caricatures at the Driehaus.