On Feedback from C.S. Lewis

[Of C.S. Lewis's comments on The Lord of the Rings]

When he would say "You can do better than that. Better, Tolkien, please!" I would try. I'd sit down and write the section over and over. That happened with the scene I think is the best in the book, the confrontation between Gandalf and his rival wizard, Saruman, in the ravaged city of Isengard.

I do not think the Saruman passage is the best in the book. It is much better than the first draft, that is all. I mentioned the passage becase it is in fact one of the very few places where in the event I found [Lewis's] detailed criticisms useful and just. I cut out some passages of light-hearted hobbit conservation which he found tiresome, thinking that if he did most of the readers (if any) would feel the same. I do not think the event has proved him right. To tell the truth he never really liked hobbits very much, least of all Merry and Pippin. But a great number of readers do, and would like more than they have got.

(From the Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter No. 294, 1967)

Important stuff here:

1. Get feedback and take it seriously. Keep on writing, but keep on getting feedback too.

2. Know when to ignore the feedback you get.

I know this is basic stuff, but it's good to hear it from a writer of Tolkien's caliber.

When the Muse Strikes . . .

Back in 2016, this happened:

“Of course. Of course they want Framderick. What group of mud-streaked, smelly peasants does NOT want Framderick?” Patrick thought. “There is not enough wine in this inn to convince me to sing it. There is not enough wine in the KINGDOM. But, alas . . .”

Patrick strummed his lute. As the familiar chords shrivered his spine, the crowd shouted until debris and a few cats fell out of the overhanging thatch. He strummed a bit longer and watched as mothers of young children, aghast, pulled them from the crowd and out the door, while the men – oh, the familiar men, all old and wrinkled before their time so it was impossible to tell one of thirty from one of seventy – pushed to the fore, leering and elbowing each other in the ribs.

Patrick began to sing.

The floods of spring came early,

That dark and loathsome year.

The Klof bore mud and branches

Bringing yon Kenputeris near.

The rain, clouds shed, the mountains fled

The villagers soaked their hats

When on the mats of floating wood

Came Mount Kenputeris’ fearful rats!

Framderick! Framderick! To you the nation calls!

Horribly, Patrick could see the crowd getting ready. Swelling to a man, filling their lungs with air, sucking in the stinking fug of the inn, ready to belch out their contribution. He scanned the room for sympathizers – and saw them. A pack of frowning women, arms folded sternly across their breasts. They would help. By the steely looks in their eyes, they would help. Frantically, he tried to remember the order – and then sang, without missing a note:

Framderick! Framderick! While the kings’ men lick

THE WALLS!

He breathed a sigh of relief. Though the men poked each other, laughing terribly at their wit, Patrick and the women knew they’d won. Putting the heavier strings on his lute had helped, Patrick thought. They make a heavier sound.

But the battle was not over yet. Some of the men jeered at him as the sound of what had won penetrated the alcohol. Others turned to their women-folk and half-heartedly barked at them to leave.

Patrick continued:

The rats were black and ravenous,

They ate crop and home

Then they ate the fish of the River Klop,

Spreading blood among the foam.

The kings’ men came a-hunting,

With sword and pike and spear

But they all got drunk and with a hunk

The rats bit them in the rear!

The men, Patrick knew, were ready this time. Fewer had sung the refrain, sucking in what air was left in the room, swelling for the chorus:

Framderick! Framderick! To you the nation calls!

Framderick! Framderick! While the kings’ men lick

COW STALLS!

Oh, the men shrieked at their misfortune as they knew once again they had lost the battle, while the weaker ones passed out from the exertion of shouting. A few began to throw bits of fallen thatch and empty mugs at Patrick, but the innkeeper came with more beer, clinking the change the women had collected.

“Come on, bard, sing it right! Sing it right or we’ll toss you in the well!”

The shouter looked capable of performing that feat. Built like a brick outhouse, but swaying slightly out of tune with the music. If Patrick were lucky, he’d be on the floor before the next chorus. And he knew even though he and the bulwark of women fought common cause, they would not intervene, having enough to handle when their drunk husbands and fathers began to sober.

But the pups of the famed Framderick

Framderick, Whelper of a Thousand Pups!

They caught the rats and chewed them up

As Framderick birthed a dozen more!

The doodles then chased the kings’ men

Out of the village, out of the fen

Leaving a trail of reddened pats

Stained in the blood of a thousand rats!

Framderick! Framderick! To you the nation calls!

Framderick! Framderick! While the kings’ men lick

SEAGULLS!

Tin plates sailed through the air as the crowd vomited displeasure and warm beer. The women in the back of the room, arms still folded, smiled smugly, and shouted at Patrick to stop. But they made no move when the men churlishly turned their backs on them and urged Patrick to continue. The rhythm of the song led him to the final verse.

When at last the food was gone,

The rats stole in to the babies’ cribs

But the pups of famed Framderick

Crushed the rats’ curved ribs.

Then the plague set in, with terrible din

The women of the Klop did pray

But the pups of famed Framderick

Remained in the terrible fray.

Framderick! Framderick! To you the nation calls!

Framderick! Framderick! While the kings’ men lick

KINGS’ HALLS!

Oh, with the howling, Patrick thought the plague had returned, as lamentations threatened to lift the thatch clear off the rafters. Men were smashing chairs into the floor and climbing on tables, rending their clothes and dancing naked, filling their mouths with beer and spraying it at the women and at Patrick. But for every one man able to climb on the table and sloppily spit half a mouthful of beer in the direction of their tormenters, there were five stumbling about, knocking those more sober off the tables, upsetting tables, smashing chairs over their compatriots’ heads until the sheriff burst into the inn with six armed deputies, all bellowing for calm.

“You! Minstrel!” the sheriff yelled. “What doggerel stirs these fine folk to such debauchery?” The sheriff, who gutted a man only last week for urinating in the street in full view of the priest, rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Balls.”

One word from a weak voice at the bottom of a pile of drunken men, and the room was in pandemonium once more.

We've GOT to Get ORGANIZED

Problem: Swimming through years of files, blog posts, Facebook posts, sweating about that external hard drive that died and you couldn't get the files off it, looking for a "great" bit of writing you did years ago, thinking to pull it out of mothballs and start working on it again.

Bigger problem: Not being able to find it.

Bonus: Finding other bits of writing that, through the mists of time, also still hold potential and interest, so you gather them in a new file just as likely to be lost as the one you're looking for, but at least you feel better for the looking.

Found what I was looking for. Emergency is over. Just had to remember the right search terms to use.

Little Ideas . . .

This, in response to a friend lamenting on Facebook about the nth iteration of the "lower-class kid enters school of magic and tweaks the snobs by becoming really good at something while being involved in a love triangle" storyline that he's read from the company slushpile.

I have to write this down, because it's good stuff. Maybe.

Subvert Expectations

I'm the last to say I'm musically inclined, but I have taken a shine to Charles Cornell on YouTube deconstructing songs to see what makes them work:

I like what he says about this song setting up expectations and then subverting them in subtle but surprising ways. I need to remember to do that in my writing. And that's probably why I like listening to him. Though he's talking about music, what he has to say has applicaiton across many creative disciplines.

I need to set up some guidelines as I write, and "subvert expectations like Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley" is going to be on it.

And though I'll always hear this song in Gene Wilder's voice, I also like the Ben Vereen version:

I will admit Wilder's version lets the song take center stage, while other versions have a bit too much of the singer in them. The mild wockachas don't add much to the Ben Vereen version.

"Writing is How We Understand Uniquely"

I want to write about artificial intelligence, or, more specifically, about large language models such as ChatGPT and the like. But first, I’m going to write about Disney animator Milt Kahl. The reasons for this, I hope, will be clear.

Affectionately known as one of Disney’s “Nine Old Men,” Kahl is considered the animator’s animator, known for his skill in drawing fluid two-dimensional characters of the like of Shere Khan from The Jungle Book, Little John from Robin Hood, and Tigger from Disney’s Winnie the Pooh stories from the 1960s and 1970s.

He developed signature animations without the use of human models because he wanted to animate how the unique drawn figure would move, not as a model would imagine them moving. He’s known for the Kahl “head swaggle,” seen in the likes of Shere Khan and Edgar, the scheming butler from The Aristocats, to show off his ability to maintain head shape and body weight and positioning throughout the complex animation.

YouTuber A Humble Professor, an admirer of “animation, film, and comics,” analyzes scenes from 1977’s “The Rescuers,” for which Kahl was the directing animator. The professor focuses on animation of Madame Medusa, the film’s primary protagonist: a vain, vile woman of seemingly humble means in New York City who longs for her dreams of wealth to be realized through the discovery of a diamond long-lost in pirate treasure. The professor discusses rough animation of one scene: “Despite how rough these are, Medusa’s character shines right through them. We can really feel her frustration she feels in the scene and we can also see how her pear-shaped body influences how she sits down and scoots the stool.”

In other words, while Kahl could have used human models, or relied on past animation success (which he did with the head swaggle) he also realized that good character animation relied on how each unique character moved and talked and walked and, in the case of Madame Medusa, shrieked and climbed up on a stool and gathered her skirts when Bernard, a hero mouse in the film, arrived, spat out by one of her pet alligators after she whopped it on the head with her walking stick.

Kahl helped Medusa become a standout character because, through long effort and practice, he figured out how she looked and walked.

Uniquely.

Now let’s get back to Chat GPT and the like.

Essayist Evan Puschak, narrating a video essay called “The Real Danger of ChatGPT” at Nerdwriter1, says “Language is how human beings understand themselves and the world. But writing is how we understand uniquely. Not to write is to live according to the language of others, or worse, to live through edits, tweaks, and embellishments to language generated by an overconfident AI chatbot.”

Let me re-emphasize what Puschak says: Writing is how we understand uniquely. Not through the language of others, but through our own language and understanding.

That, I believe, is what large language models threaten to remove from us. Artificial intelligence will win out not because it develops the ability to think like humans, but because it will entice humanity with the expeditiousness that only results in humans accepting writing like an algorithm thinks they should is good enough.

Large language models present the world of writing with its own calculator moment and we as writers, educators, and students have to figure out how much we’re willing to give up for the ease of what this new calculator offers.

This is not to say that the likes of ChatGPT are bad in every way. Like any other tool, large language models can and should have their uses. The danger lies in confronting every writing problem as a nail, and using large language models as the ubiquitous hammer.

For every student and teacher who recognizes ChatGPT is a valuable tool for outlining, for brainstorming and the like, there is a student who takes the large language model shortcut and submits artificially-written work and fails classes because of it. Just this year I saw a student who was writing passable essays and commentary as an English learner succumb to the promise of ChatGPT – once, then again on a major assignment after being warned about the first offence; a semester of effort turn into failure in only a matter of days. My colleagues all share similar tales of woe. I can often hear my wife, who also teaches English, ranting in the next room in our basement as she finds another student who thought artificial intelligence was their best writing friend.

And I feel like a failure to him: Should I have done more to warn my students about the pitfalls of AI? Did I miss AI on previous assignments and not nip the temptation in the bud earlier, so his confidence built in the tool he was using? Is the course itself – its design out of my hands and in those of a committee trying their best – flawed? Is my teaching too lackadaisical?

I don’t know. But it’s hard to place all the blame on the student when the solution to a writing problem seems so clear and easily accessible – and as a savings of time.

How do I help my students hone their ability to understand uniquely the world they live in, rather than – if you can bear another metaphor – exchange it all for a mess of pottage?

Or should I, as some commenters on large language model-adjacent videos I’ve watched, just surrender because AI is only going to get better and become more human and more undetectable?

I’ve piled on the questions here. Let’s go find some answers.

AI, Machine Learning, or Love Songs in Russian. Or Swahili.

This is from jnyfmg.tumblr and I think it's a good way to look at artificial intelligence and machine learning.

Star Trek certainly makes the point for universal translators having their place: They're invaluable on first contact (if you're unlucky to land on a planet whose inhabitants don't speak perfect English), invaluable in on-the-spot negotiations and such and probaly as valuable on post-first contact missions.

But to understand a society, a subject, you can't rely on it. You have to start getting that understanding in your own head.

I'm reminded of another excellent communicator: Chuck Jones, whom I've written about before.

The gist from the video in the link above:

"When you talk to Chuck, he is always encouraging you to go to the source, to study real life, to study art, and apply that to your animation. It's not just drawing funny faces."

And to Mr. Jones himself: "Reading. Read everything. It doesn't do you much good to draw unless you have something to draw. And the only place you're going to get anything to draw is out of that head."

Listen for the music. Let it touch your spirit. And always, always, fill your head.

One Last Score

They met in a back room of an ice cream parlor, knowing the shouts of the soda jerks and whirrs of the blenders would protect their speech from passers-by.

"I know you retired, Terry," Vinnie said, chasing a maraschino cherry around his tall slender glass. "But I got somethin' for ya, if you're interested."

Terry stirred his raspberry phosphate idly. "I'm not sure, Vinnie. I got a good thing going. Free lunches at the senior center every day, field trips, and Mabel, well Mabel, she's sweet on me."

"I know you're livin' the life," Vinnie said, "Got the world on a string. But Terry, you're the best. I know you got at least a dozen capers in ya. Ya just gotta dig a little deeper."

Terry sighed.

"I'll pay your AARP membership for the next ten years," Vinnie said.

"Okay, Vinnie, I'm in. One last score."

Added by a Facebook friend:

The handcuffs bit into Terry's thin, blue-veined wrists as he stood in the cold hallway at the police station. A daisy chain of young punks shackled wrist to wrist shuffled past, headed for detention, headed for a future Terry would warn them about if he thought they would listen. Kids never listened. He certainly hadn't. If only he'd listened to what his old man tried to tell him every evening after sweating out a 10-hour shift at the foundry. But Terry only saw that honest work was for suckers.

Tears welled in his eyes. His old man was long gone, but somehow Terry sensed his disappointment, his shame. He shoulda left those ruby slippers alone. He shoulda stuck to fixing bingo games and cheating at canasta and forging Social Security checks. Senior citizen rackets.

A hand hard as a wooden paddle smacked Terry upside the head, so hard his dentures rattled. When the stars in his vision settled, they revealed a pair of old eyes drooping beneath folds of weather-beaten skin. Officer Ed O'Malley, the only 90-year-old on the force. They'd run together as kids, but eventually Ed ran one way, Terry another.

"What's this, Terry? Crying because you got pinched?" Ed's voice was heavy with scorn. "You did a man's crime, now act like a man."

Ed moved on down the hallway. Terry watched him go, then straightened, the cuffs not so tight anymore, the hallway not so bleak. He may have had to make five trips to the bathroom every night and couldn't trim the hair in his ears fast enough to save his life, but he was still a man. He'd show those young punks how to take a pinch.

And more:

Warden Baum sat in his office, his fingers tented before his pursed lips, his eyes staring off into the middle distance. The phone continued to ring, but he knew there would only be questions on the other end of the line. Questions for which he had no answers.

The warden furrowed his brow. In the prison’s fifty-six year history, there had only been one officially recognized escape, and that was way back in 1977: Lenny “The Hyena” Scarpacci, so called because of his distinctive laugh. The Hyena had been recaptured within minutes of crawling through a window in the laundry. Old timers said his cackle could be heard all the way to D Block as they dragged him back inside.

Tonight, however, nobody was laughing.

How had Terry pulled it off? He had been in his cell at lights out, and the next morning he was gone. There was no evidence of a tunnel, no loose bricks in the walls, and nothing out of the ordinary. Terry’s bed was still neatly made, with razor sharp corners, a holdover from his time in the Army.

The entire prison went into immediate lockdown, and every single inmate was extensively interrogated. But nobody talked.

Terry had simply… vanished.

Warden Baum exhaled deeply through his nostrils and looked at the scrap of paper sitting in the middle of his desk. He’d read the simple message written thereon a hundred times, and it still didn’t make any sense. This scrap of paper was the only unusual thing found in Terry’s cell, sitting neatly in the center of his bed. A scrap of paper that contained only five words:

“There’s no place like home.”

Plagiarism, AI, and Effort

 

Posting this video not necessarily to tut about these particular accusations (though it's sad to see the Internet Historian is involved; I've enjoyed his content), but for one of the quotes from Jonathan Bailey, the plagiarism expert and author at Plagiarismtoday.com.

He hits on a particularly good point concerning plagiarism reducing writing quality:

"The plagiarism wasn’t just copy and paste plagiarism. [The author] went through and attempted to edit a lot of the words and rewrite things to make it more his own, supposedly. And the result of that type of editing is always just poor-quality writing."

He then takes it a step further, comparing the poor-quality writing to that produced by AI:

"And interestingly, this is a lot of what generative AI does, because generative AI does not necessarily understand what it’s writing, it’s just taking what it reads and gathers from the Internet and then tries to rewrite it cobbled together in a way that’s cohesive and understandable to people. So if you’re wondering why AI writing is not the best in the world, it’s the same reason this type of plagiarism produces very bad writing."

These bits come in at about 10 minutes into the video.

None of this, of course, will stop my students from plagiarizing. The utility, the reward without the work, is still very tempting. Not that I have a lot of students plagiarize -- what I see mostly is inadvertent, not on purpose, and once I point it out, they're quick to self-regulate and make things better. AI just adds another wrinkle in the writing utility train that's going to have to make us work harder.

And it all causes me to think about my own writing.

I don't want it to be boring. So I've got to try harder.

Harry Brewis, who produced the video Bailey discusses, has this to say in an interview at Vulture.com (emphasis mine):

"Now that people are aware that you can just make a computer write something, I think they’re going to raise their standards. As soon as I started asking myself, “Am I just watching trash a computer spat out?” a lot of YouTubers I used to watch became boring to me. I thought, This is interchangeable. Even if a person wrote it, I hate this. Ninety percent of everything has always been bad. And the fact that we now have to think about what we’re watching and if it’s bad in this very active way, people will be more discerning about what they enjoy. We used to live in a time when there were three channels. If you wanted to watch something, you had to buy it on DVD or you had to go through the effort of stealing it from a torrent site and finding one that wasn’t a virus. But now, it’s convenient to just keep watching anything forever. We hit that stage seamlessly without having a moment of stopping to assess the quality of what we do with that time. It used to be, you’d watch an entire anime, and then you’d have to do work to find what you’d follow it up with. Now, if you have Crunchyroll, there’s 500 million episodes and you can just keep going forever. It’s much harder to stop and reassess. In a way, the badness is so omnipresent now, people will have to actually rethink their practices in a way that is maybe better than what we had before."

There is a lot of bad stuff out there, professinally edited, mainstream published bad stuff. I don't want what I write to be bad. That's going to take effort, and that's not what most content creators want to hear these days. Effort is hard. It's long. It doesn't pay off in a span of days or weeks, but often months and years. I need to get back on the writing track and make my stuff stand out, in a good way.

Forget the Fifth of November, Just Remember to SLOW DOWN when You Edit

Letting someone else look at your work is kinda scary.

But gather around and let your teacher tell a true story about how having others evaluate your work can be a benefit to you.

This was me, a few weeks ago. Invisible to management until a mistake was noticed in my work.

Why was the mistake there? Two reasons:

1. I assumed the people I was working with had scrubbed this particular document for errors like this.

2. I did not scrub this particular document myself to detect errors like this.

I'm being vague because I can't discuss the nature of the work, but suffice it to say: Mistakes were made. I did not detect them -- and detecting is part of my job -- and the errors were detected by someone higher up in the chain.

I have since re-evaluated my work process with these particular documents and implemented a stragegy to help me detect these errors before the higher-ups have a chance to spot them. It means more work, but it also means infinitely less work and increased trust further in the document review process.

I neglected to check someone else's work properly, and it cost me a weekend of anxiety and two long weeks of work following that to make things right.

So, the lesson here is twofold:

1. When you peer review someone else's work, be sincere in your efforts.

2. When you get feedback, be sincere in accepting that your writing isn't perfect.

Here's a quick lesson on what's called "Levels of Edit," something I'd forgotten as I worked (or didn't work) on the document in question.

Levels of Edit means you read a document more than once -- each time focusing on a particular attribute of writing. That does mean more work on the surface, but it also means your likelihood of catching errors goes up significantly as you go through the various levels.

Here are some typical Levels of Edit to consider:

Spelling/grammar. Just looking to see if there are typos, misused words, awkward sentences and such.

Flow. Are the transitions between ideas okay? Does what your reading make sense, or are there gaps that the writer needs to fill to help you understand better?

Citations/APA. Does the author tell us where each quote or paraphrasing comes from? Are references included, as well as the works cited page?

As usual, Purdue OWL has some pretty helpful suggestions on the levels of edit to consider.

But wait -- won't I save time if I do all this editing at the same time?

Maybe.

Or maybe you'll miss important stuff if you don't take a more methodical approach.

I have more than 25 years of professional writing experience, and yet I still screwed up on something pretty fundamental because I was trying to do all levels of editing at the same time.

My advice to myself now: Slow down. Remember the fundamentals. And avoid future, high-profile screw ups. They're not pretty.

And if Dilbert isn't enough, consider the wisdom of John Kenneth Galbraith, economist and diplomat:

Openings, Babblings About

Openings are important. I need to remember this as I write. Because my openings generally suck.

Today, I'm looking at movie and TV show openings as inspiration. Openings really have to set the stage. They have to tell a mini-story, and quickly, to get the reader hooked.

I love this opening for its simplicity:

This tells us all we need to know in a simple package with a snappy tune: There's a bomb in a Russian nesting doll, set to go off just before midnight. Then there's a hint about a treaty. Ah, the setting, or at least one of them.

The tune is important too. It's swanky, to fit the spy theme. But it's jolly, not heavy. So it adds a bit of fun. So not a heavy spy thriller, but something different.

Here's another one (and yes, I know this also stars Bill Murray. Can't help that.

I'm cheating a little with this one, as you'll see in a moment. Again, a happy tune -- a polka -- as you might encounter at some small hick-town event. But all we see is clouds. And they're building, just like the music. It's almost etheral. We don't know anything about the characters or setting. Or maybe we do.

This is a film with two openings, however. Here's the whole thing:

Now we get a lot more about the characters and setting. But we're still wondering, what do the clouds at the beginning have to do with anything? They're setting the stage. Some foreshadowing that the beginning needs.

Also, that line: "For your information, hairdo, there's a major network interested in me."

"Yeah, the Home Shopping Network."

Kills me every time.

Cheating with this next one, too.

Here's a beginning that sets a mood, nothing more. Maybe hints about characters that we recognize after the story is over, but right now, just mood:

What's fun about this film is that it has a second beginning, right at the end. We get hints to the further story beyond what we've seen:

Don't like this film? Too bad. My blog, my likes.

Conclusion II: Also Inconclusive

In the interest of science (cue Dexter) I conducted a little experiment on Facebook, using my friends as guinea pigs.

As I explain in my post (linked here) I asked my friends to post a bit of writing, either from them, from a friend, or created by AI. I'd then use Edward Tian's AI language detector to do some detectoring.

Results were . . . mixed.

This experiment is hardly conclusive, but it's clear Tian's AI detector has trouble with "creative" writing (most of my friends who participated are published authors, in the publishing business, or extremely well-read). The detector consistently failed to differentiate between "creative" AI writing and human-originated writing. It got it right a few times, but more often than not, it failed.

Admittedly, some of the samples included were a bit short for the AI to chew on -- but there were bits in the middle-range of length that the detector basically said "I don't know. Not enough information here," while it confidently identified shorter texts as AI- or human-generated, both right and wrong.

What does this mean? I don't know. But it's interesting. I'll give it that.

Thirteen

“Thirteen.”

Geoffrey sighed. His mustache, usually primly waxed, was askew. He rubbed his handkerchief under his nose. The handkerchief resembled the mustache in its dishevelment.

“Thirteen.”

He did the accounting in his mind: A gallon of fluid for every fifty pounds. Thirteen, at, say, 165 pounds each. “No,” he muttered. “Enid Bag. She’s near three hundred. Better say 180 pounds each. “That’s . . . thirty-six gallons. Thirty-six. And he’d laid in only fifty gallons for the week. “I’ll have to call in,” he said. “See if they can deliver the weekly allotment a bit earlier. And not skip next week.”

He washed his hands at the sink, turned off the tap, and dried his hands on a blackening rolling towel. “Oh, that’s filthy,” he said. Won’t do. Better call the laundry man.

He turned briskly, then paused. He’d have to choose his route carefully. Enid there, Percival Banks next to her. How he’d managed that with the feuds they’d had, he’d never know. Past Percival to Oliver and then between Thwaites and Smith to Bragg, then Stover, then Bragg Junior. Said, that, he thought. Two in one family, and a family that never had two pennies to rub together.

Small, then Jones. No, that was Jones, then Small. “I’d better put out place cards,” he thought. Don’t want Jones to see a Small in the casket at the service. That wouldn’t do at all. Then Arnold. Geoffrey frowned. He still didn’t have the teeth right. False teeth were always a bother, and it didn’t help that folks where used to seeing Arnold’s teeth in crooked. If he didn’t cock them the right way, his wife would be sure to fuss and probably have a fit and heave herself atop the casket and there is no way they’d both fit inside, and besides she still hadn’t paid for it.

Sprague and Thistlewhite to round out the baker’s dozen. By all rights Sprague and Thistlewhite should be buried side by side, he thought, they spent enough time together after their spouses died. Cruel Mr. Thistlewhite cold in the grave fifteen years now, and Madame Sprague gone now twelve. He’d never seen the living happier when they were married.

And he did see a lot, as undertaker. You knew all the feuds, the deceits, the hidden loves. Sometimes he drew tangled webs and Venn diagrams underneath the satin in the coffins, in case there was an accounting when the Trump sounded and God Almighty came and wanted to know what’s what. He didn’t want to rely on his memory alone.

What killed them all, no one seemed to know. That something had killed them, and almost all at once was clear. If all the bills came paid, he’d have the best quarter that Briggenmast Ltd had ever had, and Briggenmast had seen the village through two world wars and countless coal strikes. He hoped the doctor had an inkling. And had kept good records, as he lay there in a mahogany coffin with brass handles, between Mr. Percival and Mr. Thwaites. “Maybe I’ll check with the hospital, see if they have a record or two they want buried with the brave doctor,” he thought.

He took his coat off the hook, buttoned it closely, then gently removed his hat from the shelf, creased it, and placed it on his head. He pause for a moment to look in the mirror, winced, and for a quiet moment waxed his mustache and tweaked it back into propriety.

They’d meet at the pub at half past eight, they said, when the morning rounds started and the allotment of clients were delivered. He’d sent Brown and Cockrell home hours ago; Brown was ashen after four, Cockrell, dogged Cockrell, lasted through nine. They were good boys. Good assistants. But, he thought, quickening his pace as he walked up the uneven concrete sidewalk, unaccustomed to the volume. “Can’t be helped,” he said. “Can’t be helped.” Oh, it probably could, he added. But no one wanted to talk about it. Sometimes, those who did found themselves on the slab, and in need of a good wash and brush and a bit of reconstruction with wax and felt and glue and a bit of cotton wool. This was not a time for questions.

And the bills were almost always paid.

Thirteen.

Thirteen.

As he walked, a black van dashed by. He recognized the driver, who nodded as they passed.

He sighed. Blackburn, the night man, would have to let him in. Two coffins, he thought. I have only two coffins left. Must contact the coffin man, taciturn on the best days. One would think a man who sold furnishings for people whose occupants would never complain about burst stitching or scratches on the woodwork would be happier, but no. And for the last year, even worse.

Best not to think of it. Best not to think of it at all.

Shepherd’s pie, he thought. And a bit of apple, bread, and cheese. That will wash away the taste of the day. He hurried more as another van shot past.

***YOU ARE HEARING ME TALK***

I need help reacting to something.

Tell me what you think of this:

***START***

Intervertebral disk disease (IVDD) is a common condition in dachshunds and other small dog breeds. It is caused by a degeneration of the discs that cushion the vertebrae in the spine, which can lead to pain, weakness, and difficulty moving. If left untreated, IVDD can cause paralysis and other serious complications.

The exact cause of IVDD is not fully understood, but it is thought to be a combination of genetic and environmental factors. Dachshunds and other small breeds are more susceptible to IVDD due to their longer spine and shorter legs. Other potential causes of IVDD include trauma, obesity, and improper nutrition. It is important for dachshund owners to keep their dogs at a healthy weight and provide them with a balanced diet to help prevent IVDD and other spinal problems.

The signs of IVDD in dogs can vary depending on the severity of the condition and the individual dog. Common signs of IVDD include:

• Pain or discomfort, especially when the spine is touched or manipulated

• Weakness or difficulty moving

• Loss of coordination or difficulty walking

• Loss of bladder or bowel control

• Loss of sensation in the limbs

• Loss of appetite

• Depression or changes in behavior

If your dog is showing any of these signs, it is important to consult with a veterinarian as soon as possible. Early detection and treatment of IVDD can help prevent complications and improve your dog's quality of life.  

IVDD can cause a number of complications, including pain, weakness, and difficulty moving. If left untreated, IVDD can progress and cause paralysis, loss of bladder and bowel control, and other serious complications. In severe cases, IVDD can be life-threatening. It is important to consult with a veterinarian if your dog is showing signs of IVDD and to follow their recommended treatment plan to prevent complications and manage the condition.

Dachshunds and other small breeds are most susceptible to IVDD due to their longer spine and shorter legs. Other dog breeds that are at increased risk for IVDD include Basset Hounds, Beagles, Corgis, and Shih Tzus. However, any dog can develop IVDD, regardless of breed, and it is important to monitor your dog for signs of the condition and to consult with a veterinarian if you have any concerns.

The best way to prevent IVDD in dachshunds is to provide your dog with a balanced diet and maintain a healthy weight. Exercise is also important for maintaining your dachshund's overall health and can help prevent IVDD and other spinal problems. Avoiding activities that put excessive strain on your dachshund's spine, such as jumping or rough play, can also help prevent IVDD. If your dachshund is prone to IVDD or has a history of the condition in their family, it may be helpful to talk to your veterinarian about ways to prevent or manage the disease.

IVDD is a chronic condition that cannot be cured, but it can be managed with appropriate treatment. The goal of treatment for IVDD in dogs is to alleviate pain, prevent complications, and improve your dog's quality of life. In some cases, IVDD may progress to the point where surgery is necessary to remove the damaged disc and alleviate pressure on the spine. Even after surgery, your dog will still be at risk for developing IVDD in the future, and will need to be monitored closely by a veterinarian. With appropriate treatment and management, many dogs with IVDD are able to live long and happy lives.

The three best treatments for IVDD in dogs will depend on the severity of the condition and the individual needs of your dog. It is important to consult with a veterinarian if your dog is showing signs of IVDD, as the condition can progress quickly and can be life-threatening if left untreated. Treatment options for IVDD in dogs may include:

1. Rest and confinement: In the early stages of IVDD, your veterinarian may recommend restricting your dog's activity and keeping them confined to a small space to prevent further damage to the spine.

2. Pain management: Pain medication can be used to help manage your dog's discomfort and improve their quality of life.

3. Surgery: In severe cases of IVDD, surgery may be necessary to remove the damaged disc and alleviate pressure on the spine. This can help prevent paralysis and other complications.

Again, it is important to consult with a veterinarian if your dog is showing signs of IVDD, as the appropriate treatment will depend on the individual needs of your dog.

Acupuncture is a form of alternative medicine that involves inserting thin needles into specific points on the body to stimulate the body's natural healing response. Some people believe that acupuncture can be effective in treating a variety of conditions, including IVDD in dogs. However, there is limited scientific evidence to support the use of acupuncture for IVDD in dogs. It is important to consult with a veterinarian before using acupuncture as a treatment for IVDD or any other condition in your dog. Your veterinarian can help you determine the best course of treatment for your dog's specific needs.

Physical therapy can be an effective treatment for dogs with IVDD. Physical therapy for dogs with IVDD typically involves exercises and activities that help to improve strength, flexibility, and mobility. This can help your dog to maintain or regain function in their spine and limbs, and can improve their overall quality of life. Physical therapy can be used in combination with other treatments, such as medication and surgery, to help manage the symptoms of IVDD. It is important to work closely with a veterinarian and a qualified animal physical therapist to develop a physical therapy plan that is tailored to your dog's individual needs.

The cost of IVDD surgery in dogs will vary depending on the severity of the condition, the type of surgery performed, and other factors. In general, surgery for IVDD in dogs can be quite expensive, with costs ranging from several thousand dollars to over $10,000. It is important to discuss the cost of surgery with your veterinarian and explore all available options before deciding on a course of treatment for your dog. Some veterinarians may offer financing options or payment plans to help make the cost of IVDD surgery more manageable.

If your dog has been diagnosed with IVDD, it is important to work closely with a veterinarian to determine the best course of treatment. In most cases, IVDD can be managed with a combination of rest, medication, and physical therapy. While IVDD can be a serious condition, it does not necessarily mean that your dog needs to be euthanized. Euthanasia should only be considered as a last resort after all other treatment options have been exhausted and your dog is experiencing severe pain and suffering that cannot be relieved. It is important to discuss all of your options with your veterinarian and make a decision that is in the best interests of your dog.

***END***

This is a topic that I've researched quite a bit on my own, just so you know. Partly to provide an example for my English students to read as they write their own essays. Also, because we've had three weenie dogs, and two of them have suffered from IVDD. One dog, unfortunately, we had to have put down, but the second is still alive, and while she walks with a funny gait from time to time, she's still kicking.

I don't remember how long it took me to research the sample essay I wrote, but I'm sure it was several hours. And I had the time to do it. And am an old hand at writing essays. And knew what I wanted to produce from the beginning, so I could easily suss good information from stuff that wouldn't be useful.

The essay above -- just over 1,100 words, granted without citations -- I "wrote" in about twenty minutes, using an open AI engine online.

This is something English departments need to reckon with. Now.

How to do that?

Dunno. But maybe reconsider the traditional essay assignment.

Maybe my fears are overblown. maybe these engines will produce the same content over and over again, and services like Turnitin will begin recognizing it as plagiarized.

But maybe not.

And no, it's not a perfect essay. There are no citations. When I asked this particular engine for experts, or citations, I got this response every time:

I'm sorry, but I am not able to browse the internet or access any expert opinions on this topic. I am a large language model trained by OpenAI and my knowledge is based on the text that I have been trained on. I can provide general information about IVDD in dachshunds, but I cannot cite specific experts or research on the topic.

But we're fools to think there isn't AI out there capable of finding and citing the experts and producing essays that are essentially what are asked for in your standard English class. I've even heard that the AI I'm using is capable of that, just have to figure it out.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Just thinking about it. But it's potential for use in academic fraud is immeasurable.

"Ah Shall Now Kiss You, Beatrice. . ."

 

With effortless ease, he pushed the plane along the plank. Curls of wood, matching his blond tresses, spilled onto the floor with each swoop of the tool.

Beatrice, her tea long gone cold, sat at the small café opposite the carpentry shop, transfixed. Despite the cacophony of the early-morning market, she had ears only for the gentle swoop-swoop of the plane and eyes only for the butterflies who settled on his bare back to sip from the beads of sweat that formed on his billowing muscles.

Once she caught his eye as he paused to stretch, sawdust clinging to the hairs on his bare chest. He paused, mid-yawn, and winked, and it was the wink that startled Beatrice and pushed her to pick up the menu to hide her blushing face. He laughed quietly, mopping the sweat from his brow with a red cloth as Beatrice watched him. She longed to be the one to brush the dust from his arms, to feel them around him, to smell the tang of pine and oak and the sweat of honest labor.

“Beatrice, there you are!”

She dropped the menu.

There, in his normal flop-sweat and pudge, stood Sir John Stanford.

“The galley leaves for Jamaica in three hours,” he said stiffly, hat tucked neatly under his arm as if the captain were there watching. “I thought, perhaps, before we left –“

Beatrice’s eyes wandered past him, to the carpenter’s apprentice back to shaving, shaving, shaving the planks that she knew would make a bed.

“—a walk in the garrison yard,” he said. “It may be some time, six months or more, before I return.”

“Oh,” Beatrice said brightly, still looking through him. “Do you think so?”

Sir John looked at Beatrice. So beautiful. So dainty. So . . . rich. A man could not hope to find a more suitable bride. And yet there she is, staring at the carpenter’s apprentice as if he were Adam himself.

He held out his hand to Beatrice and smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

Beatrice took his hand automatically. She still stared past him. As they walked up the busy market street, she could still hear the rhythmic swoop swoop of the plane in the carpenter’s apprentice’s hands.

Sir John frowned. “One moment, dear Beatrice,” he said.

“George! You there, George!”

A young man talking to the daughter of a fruit-seller dropped a banana and looked around. “Ah, Sir John! Depart in three hours we do!”

“Yes,” Sir John said, pulling the youth into a nearby alley. He looked at Beatrice. “Won’t be a moment, my love.”

“We are still short a ship’s carpenter, are we not, George?” Sir John asked, quietly.

“Indeed! Bastian’s still in jail for drunkenness—“ he replied, almost shouting.

Sir John waved a finger in front of his lips. “Discreetly, now, George,” he said. “I know the Captain looks dimly on press-gangs, but to go to sea without a carpenter is folly. Get Burns and Holly to grab the young man at the carpenter’s stall in the market. He’ll do for our voyage.”

George nodded, then glanced back at the fruit stall.

“Go now, George!”

George sighed, but loped off toward the docks.

“I apologize for the delay,” Sir John said to Beatrice as he watched George slowly wander toward the forest of masts. “Much to do in preparation for the voyage.”

“Yes, my love,” she said absently, staring into the marketplace.

She let out a long, low whistle, followed by a blast to rival the best signalers on the Marie Celeste, and a rough burlap bag smelling of rotten potatoes descended quickly over Sir John’s head. Rough hands clasped his arms and a meaty paw clamped over his mouth.

“I have no choice, my dear,” Beatrice said as the hands pulled him into a nearby stable. “Farewell, Sir John.”

“Remember, don’t kill him,” she said coldly to the captors. “Rough him up a bit and put him in the gaol with Bastian. And see that Bastian makes it to his ship on time; he has duties that should not be shirked.”

She grabbed a banana from the fruit-seller and glanced toward the docks, where she saw George still ambling quietly and slowly through the marketplace. She tossed the banana lightly in the air, spinning it, and caught it. “One more to go.”

Plagiarist, Heal Thyself

So this happened.

For those unwilling to click on links:

A young author -- they're almost always young authors -- wrote an essay explaining why she'd plagiarized bits (not sure how many) in her debut novel, which was cancelled when the plagiarism was revealed.

A few hours after the essay was published, it, too, was cancelled because parts of it were plagiarized.

Being outed as a plagiarist isn't self-healing, by the sounds of it.

And by the sounds of it (I haven't read the essay, nor heard of the author, nor was aware of her upcoming book) she took the typical outed plagiarist track: I was under SO MUCH PRESSURE to write this novel and I had no applicable life experience for what I was writing I had to go to other sources for inspiration and I PROMISED myself I'd go back and fix things but one thing led to another and now my hubris-laced apology is no more because I stole that too.

Have I ever plagiarized, I can hear you asking. Yes, I have. But that got pounded out of me very early on because I have a highly-developed guilt complex. Also, no pressure to perform at a young age.

My reaction to the news, posted on a Facebook post by a friend who shared the news: [Laughs and sobs in Gen X, because even if I won't amount to anything, at least *all this* is my own work.]

It all comes back to what Chuck Jones says: If you want to write well, you have to fill your head. In some ways I'm still filling my head. And not letting hubris get in the way of me writing a mediocre story.

Also:

Jonathan Bailey, writing about the situation at Plagiarism Today (in part about this author's plagiarizing of something he'd written about plagiarism) hits on something revelatory (emphasis mine):

"But the issue with her plagiarism isn’t her mental health. It’s how she writes. An author should never paste the works of another into their paper without immediately citing it. Notes need to be kept in a separate location. Furthermore, citation should never be left for the editing process and, instead, be part of the original writing process.

If Bello had done that, her pressures and issues may have hampered the book, but would never have led to plagiarism.

However, it’s pretty clear that this is simply how she writes. We know this because of what happened in her essay. That style of writing bears all the hallmarks of “paste and rewrite” plagiarism that she described in the essay itself."

Heady stuff, worth thinking about for writers of any age.

The Terrible Pun

Gavin quietly sipped his lemonade. Mine, I was saving it. To drink it here as we sat on the wall, looking over the pasture, meant with my super-sniffer the lemonade would have a tinge of manure to it.

"Looking at this makes me sleepy," he said, taking another sip. He waved his hand expansively toward the field, sloping down to the river. A few cows stared at us from far off, alternating between watching and nibbling. They seemed undisturbed by the smell.

Movement caught my eye. In the grass, not far from where we sat, a rabbit.

Gavin saw it too. He sat his lemonade down on a smooth stone, dropped off the wall and crouched.

The rabbit looked at him, but didn't stop its chewing.

Gavin moved slowly through the grass. The rabbit kept an eye on him, chewing, chewing.

Gavin reached out, grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck, and pulled to to his face. Then slumped over, releasing the rabbit, which tore off.

I leapt off the wall and crouched next to him. He groaned.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Gavin yawned. "Oh, I'm fine." He sat up. "But now I know why I was so sleepy."

I looked at him.

"That was the Ether Bunny," he said.

I shoved him over into a cowpie. Why are we friends? I'll never know.

My Best Friends

I've never met the people who live in the blue house. I see them scurry by, rushing when it's raining, or strolling when the night is warm and the only light come from the post at the end of the street. I see them gathering their mail, or watering their plants, or even just staring out the window maybe watching the doves or listening to the clamor from the Tuesday market in the square their windows face. They appear to be friendly. Sometimes we see each other on the street, or staring out of our own windows. The man will flinch as if he'd just touched a live wire and dart around the corner or close the curtain and dip away from the window. The woman always smiles and nods, and I smile and nod back. I have heard their voices; his quiet and rasping like a rusty gate heard far down the lane while hers, while also quiet, sounds like Debussy on the piano.

I saw her at the market once, and we had the following conversation:

Me: The bread is extra crisp today (we shopped at the same bakery).

Her: Yes, yes it is. Harold will love it.

I wonder if they know they're my best friends?

Oh Harriet . . .

Wipers irritate Frank.

Too slow and the water beads up and even with the movement of the car it's hard to see between the streaming drops.

Too fast and everyone coming the other way will think "Spaz at twelve o'clock."

So Frank spent an inordinate amount of time adjusting the speed on his wipers.

And the defogger. Don't talk about the defogger. Frank, he preferred the windows open. But Harriet, well, Harriet can't stand the noise. And the wind. And the infiltration of the rain. Drowns out her songs on the radio and makes her hair a soggy mess. So she rolls her window right back up if Frank rolls it down, and that makes the wind rattle in Frank's ears so he rolls the window down again and Harriet rolls it back up and gives him a look so he turns on the defogger and rolls up his window and sweats into his mackinaw because the defogger makes it too hot.

And the curves. Oh, the curves on wet, smooth asphalt, waiting to drift him off the road as he struggles with the wipers and the defogger and the windows and with that harridan Harriet who is never -- never -- satisfied with his driving and can't understand why he won't leave the damn wipers at one speed and just drive you moron, drive!

But it was quiet. He could hear the wipers quack on the windshield. And scrape if the drops diminished. The defogger was off and the windows -- the glorious windows -- were open.

He was pleased.

Best drive in fifteen years.

He was pleased he'd left Harriet at the service station an hour and a half back. Doubly pleased he'd flushed his cell phone down the bog.

He had money. He had a destination. He had the divorce papers waiting with his attorney at home. Once Harriet got there. And she'd get there; she had Roger to rely on. Stiff, reliable Roger. Who always knew what speed to sent his wipers at.

The rain fell harder. Frank cranked the wipers to the maximum setting, whistled a tune as the rain soaked his shoulder through the open window.

Who Gets the Benefit of Peer Review?

Recently, my wife and I had a discussion about the effectiveness of peer review.

For context, the discussion took place in a chat room for English instructors at BYU-Idaho. Screencapped here:

Says my wife:

I've been thinking about the breakout groups we had during our meeting the other night. As English teachers, we seem to have such a love-hate relationship with peer reviews. Is the purpose really to have the students help each other? Or do they do more damage than good sometimes? I told my breakout group that I cringe when bad advice is given, such as the student who told another student they needed to "put more fluff" in their paper, in order to meet the word count. Ack! For my own students, when they express nervousness over just how well they'll be able to review someone else's paper, I tell them the real reason I like peer reviews is so that the reviewer gets experience by looking at someone else's paper and then thinking about what worked and what didn't, and how that may influence their own writing. I realize different teachers may see the purposes of a peer review differently, but I had this thought: what if everyone was required to offer a review to at least one classmate, but it's a review only the teacher ever sees? Then I can see that they are using their powers of observation to help them grow as a writer, and the student having his paper reviewed can't be damaged by less than helpful comments. Is the result worth the effort, or is this just busy work?

Says me:

Is the result worth the effort, or is this just busy work?

That's a tough question to answer because it's subjective. We all know our students arrive at different writing skill levels. Some really crave the feedback and are open to it, whether they're good writers or not. Some don't care what others have to say, no matter their own skill level -- we see this when we offer our own feedback.

From my perspective, peer reviews are more to the benefit of the person doing the review than the one receiving it. For example, I recently had a friend ask me to read a snippet from a novel she's editing to check if the French being used was accurate. I put on my wobbly French copy editing hat and went to work -- but then realized there's a lot more to the scene than just correct French.

One character was a native French speaker, but a child --- so their French was going to be more French, but also prone to the shortcuts one takes when learning a language. The other character was a native English speaker speaking in French, so their French needed to have a more "translated from English" feel.

But then that got me to thinking -- how long has this second character known French? Maybe she's better at it than I give her credit for. And as for the second character, do I know how a French child would speak?

So. Many. Questions. And questions that I take back to my own fiction writing as I develop my characters. Less flying by the seat of my pants, more planning things out.

Maybe the author I helped in this instance will appreciate my effort. But I learned a bit more about characterization in the peer review than I expected.

To sum up: I think both my wife and I agree that the one who gets the most out of peer review is the one who performs the review, not the one who receives it.

That is of course, subjective (see the above comment on adding fluff to meet the word count).

So to say the benefit goes mostly to the reviewer is problematic. The reviewer has to be advanced enough in his or her writing career to be self-aware enough to recognize when advice given to another writer is advice that could also be applied to himself or herself.

I think I might be at that point.

Not that I'm a genius. I am not. But when I spend time reading others' writing in peer review situations, I look at what I'm telling the author and think, "Yeah, that's something I need to work on as well."

So I need to do more peer reviews. But they're hard to find unless I want to review romances. Ew.