Yesterday morning at the college, I ran into the Writing Center director and asked whether AI had thinned out the crowds of students seeking help. To his surprise, the numbers were down only slightly—less than ten percent. I told him I’m retiring in three semesters and have no idea what the job of a writing instructor will look like five years from now. He nodded and said what we’re all thinking: we’re in the middle of a technological tectonic shift, and no one knows where the fault lines lead.
When I got home, I realized that when I meet my students face-to-face in Spring 2026, I’ll need to level with them. Something like this:
Hello, Students.
I won’t sugarcoat it. Writing instructors are in transition, and many of us don’t quite know our role anymore. We’re feeling our way through the dark. To pretend otherwise would be less than honest, and the one thing we need right now is credibility.
In this class, you’ll write three essays—each roughly two thousand words. The first examines GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and the messy question of free will in weight management: are we outsourcing discipline to pharmaceuticals? The second explores our dependence on emerging technologies that claim to build new skills while quietly eroding old ones—a process known as de-skillification. The final essay tackles ultra-processed foods and the accusation that eating them is a form of self-poisoning. We’ll examine that claim in a world where food technology, especially for people on GLP-1 medications, promises affordability, convenience, and enhanced nutrition. All three assignments orbit the same theme: technology’s relentless disruption of daily life.
And speaking of disruption, we need to talk about large language models—ChatGPT, Gemini, Claude, Llama, and whatever else arrives next Tuesday. It’s obvious that students are already using these tools to write and edit their work. Many of you have used them throughout high school; for you, AI isn’t cheating—it’s normal.
I don’t expect you to avoid these tools. They’re part of being a functioning human in a rapidly changing world. The real question isn’t whether you use them, but how. If you treat them like wish-granting genies spitting out essays on command, you’ll produce communication with all the nuance of an emoji—slick, shallow, and dead on arrival. If you use AI for quick-and-dirty summaries, your brain will soften like a forgotten banana. But if you treat these tools as collaborators—writers’ room partners who help you brainstorm, clarify arguments, test counterarguments, and refine your prose—then you’re not just surviving college, you’re evolving.
College is where you learn to use tools that shape your professional future. But it’s also where you sharpen the questions that determine how you live: Why am I here? What does it mean to live well? Those aren’t academic abstractions; they’re the spine of adulthood. You can’t separate your ambitions from your identity.
AI can’t give you a soul. It can’t recall your first heartbreak, your deepest disappointment, or the electricity of a song that arrived at exactly the right moment. But it can help you articulate experience. It can help you think more clearly about who you are, how you plan to work, and how to live with an intact conscience.
The critical thinking and communication skills we practice in this class exist for that purpose—and always will.
Cinemorphosis 
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