Let’s get one thing straight: AI writing tools are impressive—borderline sorcery—for tasks like editing, outlining, experimenting with rhetorical voices, and polishing prose. I want my students to learn how to wield these tools because, spoiler alert, they aren’t going anywhere. AI will be as embedded in their future careers as email and bad office coffee. Teaching them to engage with AI isn’t just practical; it can actually make the process of learning to write more dynamic and engaging—assuming they don’t treat it like a magic eight-ball.
That said, let’s not kid ourselves: in the AI Age, the line between authentic writing and plagiarism has become blurred. I’ll concede that writing today is more of a hybrid creature. You’re no longer grading a lone student’s essay—you’re evaluating how effectively someone can collaborate with technology without it turning into a lifeless, Frankensteined word salad.
And here’s the kicker—not all AI-assisted writing is created equal. Some students use AI as a trusty sidekick, enhancing their own writing. Others? Well, they treat AI like a wish-granting genie, hoping it’ll conjure a masterpiece with a few vague prompts. What they end up with are “genie essays”—stiff, robotic monstrosities that reek of what instructors lovingly refer to as AI plagiarism. It’s like the uncanny valley of academic writing: technically coherent but soulless enough to give you existential dread.
When faced with the dreaded genie essay, resist the urge to brandish the scarlet P for plagiarism. That’s a rabbit hole lined with bureaucratic landmines and self-inflicted migraines. First off, in a world where screenwriters and CEOs are cheerfully outsourcing their brains to ChatGPT, it’s hypocritical to deny students access to the same tools. Second, AI detection software is about as trustworthy as a used car salesman—glitchy, inconsistent, and bound to fail spectacularly when you need it most. Third, confronting a student about AI use is a fast track to an ugly, defensive shouting match that makes everyone want to crawl into a dark hole and die.
My advice? Forget chasing “academic honesty” like some puritan witch hunter. Instead, focus on grading quality based on your rubric. Genie essays—those hollow, AI-generated snoozefests—practically grade themselves with a big, fat D or F. No need to scream “Plagiarism!” from the rooftops. Just point out the abysmal writing quality.
Picture this: A student turns in an essay that technically ticks all your boxes—claim, evidence, organization, even a few dutiful signal phrases. But the whole thing reads like it was written by a Hallmark card algorithm that’s one motivational quote away from a nervous breakdown. Time to whip out a comment like this:
“While your essay follows the prompt and contains necessary structural elements, it lacks in-depth analysis, presents generic, surface-level ideas, and is riddled with stock phrases, clichés, and formulaic robot-speak. As a result, it does not meet the standards of college-level writing or satisfy the Student Learning Outcomes.”
I’ve used something kinder than this (barely), and you know what? Not one student has argued with me. Why? My guess is they don’t want to die on the hill of defending their AI-generated sludge. They’d rather take the low grade than risk having a grievance committee dissect their essay and reveal it for the bot-written monstrosity it is. Smart move. Even they know when to fold.
More often than not, after I make a comment on a genie essay, the student will later confess and apologize for resorting to ChatGPT. They’ll tell me they had time constraints due to their job or a family emergency, and they take the hit.
The shame of passing off a chatbot-generated essay as your own has all but evaporated, and honestly, I’m not shocked. It’s not that today’s students are any less ethical than their predecessors. No, it’s that the line between “authentic” work and AI-assisted output has turned into a smudgy Rorschach test. In the AI Age, the idea of originality is slipperier than a politician at a press conference. Still, let’s be real: quality writing—sharp, insightful, and memorable—hasn’t gone extinct. Turning in some bland, AI-scented drivel that reads like a rejected Wikipedia draft? That’s still unacceptable, no matter how much technology is doing the heavy lifting these days.
When it comes to grading, if you want to encourage your students to create authentic writing and not hide behind AI, it’s essential to give them a chance to rewrite. I’ve found that allowing one or two rewrites with the possibility of a higher grade keeps them from spiraling into despair when their first submission bombs. In today’s world of online Learning Management Systems (LMS), students are already navigating a digital labyrinth that could produce a migraine. They open their course page and are hit with a chaotic onslaught of modules, notifications, and resources—like the educational equivalent of being trapped in a Vegas casino with no exit signs. It’s no wonder anxiety sets in before they even find the damn syllabus.
By giving students room to fail and rewrite, I’m essentially throwing them a lifeline. I tell them, “Relax. You can screw this up and try again.” The result? They engage more. They take risks. They’re more likely to produce writing that actually has a pulse—something authentic, which is exactly what I’m fighting for in an age where AI-written drivel is a tempting shortcut. In short, I’m not just teaching composition; I’m running a support group for people overwhelmed by both technology and their own perfectionism.
If you want to crush your students’ spirits like a cinder block to a soda can, go ahead—pepper their essays with comments until they resemble the Dead Sea Scrolls, riddled with ancient mysteries and editorial marks. Remember, you’re not the high priest of Random House, dissecting a bestseller with the fervor of a literary surgeon. Your students are not authors tweaking their next Pulitzer prizewinner; they’re deer in the headlights, dodging corrections like hunters’ bullets. Load them down with too many notes, and they’ll toss their first draft like it’s cursed Ikea furniture in desperate need for assembly—wood screws, cam lock nuts, and dowel rods strewn across the floor next to an inscrutable instruction manual. At that point, ChatGPT becomes their savior, and off they go, diving into AI’s warm, mind-clearing waters.
Here’s a reality check: Your students were raised texting, scrolling, and laughing at 15-second TikToks, not slogging through The Count of Monte Cristo or unraveling Dickensian labyrinths in Bleak House. Their attention spans have the tensile strength of wet spaghetti. Handing them an intricate manifesto on rewriting will make their brains flatline faster than you can say “Les Misérables.” If you want results, focus on three key improvements. Yes, just three. Keep it simple and digestible, like a McNugget of literary wisdom.
You are their personal trainer, not some sadistic drill sergeant barking out Herculean demands. You don’t shove them under a bar loaded with 400 pounds on day one and shout, “Lift or die!” No, you ease them in. Guide them to the lat machine like a gentle Sherpa of education. Set the weight selector pin at 10 pounds. Teach them to pull with grace, not grunt like they’re auditioning for Gladiator. Form comes first. Confidence follows. They need to trust the process, to see themselves slowly building strength. Maybe they won’t make viral gains overnight, but this is why you became a teacher—not for glory or applause, but for those small, stubborn victories that bloom over time.
And trust me—there will be victories. I’ve seen it. Students with writing deficits are not doomed to live forever in the land of dangling modifiers and comma splices. I’m living proof. When I stumbled onto my college campus in 1979 at seventeen, I was told I wasn’t ready for freshman composition. They shunted me into what I’d later dub “Bonehead English,” which kicked my ass so hard I had to downgrade to “Pre-Bonehead.” I wasn’t stupid. My teachers weren’t to blame. I was just too busy daydreaming about being the next Schwarzenegger, consumed by the illusion of future pecs and glory. But something clicked in college—I redirected my muscle dreams from biceps to brain cells. And here I am now, climbing the educational ladder I once thought was unreachable.
So, lighten up on the corrections, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll witness your students climb too.
The point of this chapter isn’t to have you allow your AI concerns to make you morph into some grim, clipboard-wielding overlord of academic misery. It’s about threading the needle: keeping your standards intact while preventing your students from mentally checking out like a bored clerk on a Friday shift. And to strike that balance, here’s a radical idea—stop moonlighting as the plagiarism police. Nobody wants to see you patrolling Turnitin reports like it’s an episode of CSI: MLA Edition. Instead, fixate on improving the actual writing.
Next, throw your students a rewrite lifeline. Give them a shot at redemption, or at least at salvaging their GPA from the wreckage of their latest Word doc catastrophe. The goal is to prevent them from spiraling into despair and skipping class faster than a doomed New Year’s resolution.
Lastly, remember, these are academic toddlers in a gym full of intellectual kettlebells. You wouldn’t toss them onto the T-Bar Row or demand a perfect Turkish Get-Up without first teaching them how not to blow out their L5-S1. Show them the fundamentals, give them small wins, and gradually increase the weight. This isn’t a Rocky montage—it’s education. Adjust your expectations accordingly.
Cinemorphosis 
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