Tag: writing

It’s Never Been a Worse Time to Write a Book

Looking at Paul’s literary success—a man whose brief collection of letters has been on history’s all-time best-seller list—I can’t help but feel I bet on the wrong horse. Here I was, grinding away at novels, when I should have been an epistle-wielding scrivener, maybe even the founder of my own religion. Paul understood something I clearly did not: the world wasn’t clamoring for door stopper novels the size of The Count of Monte Cristo—it wanted sharp, incendiary tracts that could shake the foundations of belief. His instincts were dead-on, and two millennia later, his work is still in print, while my manuscripts remain in purgatory.

And let’s be honest—there’s never been a worse time to write a book. We inhabit a post-literate wasteland, where the next generation’s idea of reading is squinting at subtitles while scrolling TikTok. The written word is being replaced by 15-second dopamine jolts, and syntax is being butchered faster than a hog in a slaughterhouse. Meanwhile, AI-generated prose is turning human creativity into an optional relic—why agonize over writing when you can plug a prompt into ChatGPT and get a grammatically competent, if soulless, 2,000-word essay faster than it takes to microwave a Hot Pocket? Argument structure, rhetorical flourish, actual thought? Who needs those when the algorithm can produce a sterile, citation-laden monstrosity with all the passion of an instruction manual? Paul saw the writing on the wall—literally. And I? I spent five decades wrestling with novels that no one wanted to read. Maybe it’s time to rethink my approach before I, too, become just another artifact of a bygone literary era.

And yet, when you’re possessed by the writing demon, as I am, none of this matters. Reality bends around the obsession. Practical concerns slide off me like water off a duck’s back—or more accurately, like rejection letters into my trash bin. The demon doesn’t care about markets, trends, or the creeping irrelevance of books. No, the demon is hell-bent on proselytizing, convinced that I’ve stumbled upon the elixir of life, and that the world must hear my truth, whether it wants to or not. It’s not just enthusiasm—it’s derangement, the kind of fevered compulsion that outs you as a hopeless fanboy for your own ideas. People start calling you “touched” or “special,” which is just polite society’s way of saying, “You are utterly unhinged, and we wish you would stop.”

You’re ashamed of your writing obsession, yet powerless to stop because the impulse isn’t tethered to reality—it’s pure pathology. You’re a self-appointed evangelist, convinced the world needs your message, your perspective, you. If only people would listen, if only your words took root in the collective consciousness, then maybe—just maybe—you’d finally feel the validation that’s eluded you your entire life.

And yet, you’re no fool. You see the absurdity of your crusade. You know the odds, the futility, the sheer delusion of it all. But you’re a divided soul—the rational part watches in horror as the compulsive part keeps writing into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, will care.

March 14, 2025
How Eddie Murphy’s Advice Pushed Tiffany Haddish’s Career in the Right Direction

If I was indeed possessed by a misguided writing demon in the mid-’80s—courtesy of reading A Confederacy of Dunces on repeat and subsequently squandering decades chasing a fool’s errand to capture some fraction of Toole’s novelistic splendor—then one could argue, with a certain tragic flair, that A Confederacy of Dunces ruined my life. Of course, that’s a spectacular oversimplification, but it has a nice literary ring to it, the kind of statement that cries out for a memoir deal. A perfect hook for a writing addict who, in theory, is supposed to have sworn off writing books but is secretly mainlining one on the side. It’s theatrical, adolescent, irresistibly neat. But let’s indulge the idea for a moment: a novel ruined a young man’s life. Decades later, the question remains—what do we do with this squandered life? Do we ignore it, dismiss it as a useless souvenir, or can something be salvaged from the wreckage?

If there’s anything worth extracting from my own literary misadventures, it’s a warning to younger, equally deluded souls who might be possessed by the same demon of ambition. And make no mistake—ambition alone will not get you anywhere worth going. Yes, it will drag you through years of toil, ensure you hit your daily word count, and convince you that sheer willpower equals literary success. But ultimately, ambition alone will lead you into a tunnel with no exit. You’ll work hard—but not the right way. You’ll write, but without joy, without connection, without meaning. You will produce, but you will not matter.

So instead of chasing the illusion of grandeur, you should be asking yourself four crucial questions. First, are you having fun with the creative process? If not, why are you doing this? The comedian Tiffany Haddish once said that Eddie Murphy pulled her aside and told her that if she wasn’t having fun on stage, the audience would sense it—and once she embraced that, her career took off. The same applies to writing. If your joy doesn’t translate onto the page, don’t expect anyone else to find it. Ambition will get words onto the page, but it won’t make them worth reading. Second, are you the only person in the world who could write this book? What unique gifts, obsessions, or quirks of personality make you the best person to write this, or are you forcing an idea simply because you think it’s marketable? If the demon of ambition is blinding you to your weaknesses, rest assured that agents and editors will see them clearly—and they will tell you to go home. The demon, of course, won’t listen. He never does.

Third, why this book? Can you articulate—persuasively—why your book matters? Will it survive in an attention economy where a two-minute TikTok can go viral while your ten-year opus sells six copies? Do you know what your book is competing against? Can you justify its existence?

Imagine, for a moment, that you’ve never been published and have no social media following to catapult your debut novel into relevance. How exactly do you think this book is going to survive? Picture a horde of baby sea turtles, freshly hatched, flopping their way toward the ocean. Before they even touch the surf, they’re picked off by seagulls, crabs, raccoons, foxes, coyotes, frigatebirds, herons, egrets, snappers, jacks, barracudas, dolphins, sharks—the list of assassins is endless. The ones that do make it into open water face even worse odds. And yet, statistically, they still have a better shot at survival than your novel has at flourishing into a living, breathing piece of art that embeds itself in millions of imaginations.

So before you get too deep into your literary fever dream, you need to ask yourself a sobering question: Is there enough juice for the squeeze? Best-selling author Sam Harris certainly asked himself that before shifting his focus away from books to his wildly successful Making Sense podcast. I remember him breaking it down with ruthless efficiency: writing a book can take five grueling years—writing, editing, publishing, book tours—and even after all that, sales might not justify the effort. Meanwhile, he can record a podcast in a few hours and reach millions instantly. No torturous rewrites, no endless editing loops, no begging the world to care.

And that’s a best-selling author speaking. You’re not one. You’re a nobody with a dream, convinced that your fragile little hatchling of a book will somehow defy the gauntlet and fulfill your delusions of literary immortality. You have lost your mind. More than likely, the book won’t be read. Which brings us to your final, painful reckoning.

Will your book actually connect with anyone? Or will it be yet another tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it? Failure to connect isn’t bad luck—it’s bad writing. If your prose exists in a silo of delirious echoes, unread and unloved, then it isn’t literature—it’s literary vapor, ghostly and weightless, doomed to drift into oblivion. And here’s the cruelest truth of all: your writing demon won’t make this distinction. He’ll tell you that writing is writing, that piling up pages is progress, that if you just keep going, success is inevitable.

It isn’t.

Had I asked myself these questions before chasing my writing demon down every blind alley, perhaps I would have written with purpose instead of compulsion. But I was too busy obeying the demon to pause and think. If you’re an aspiring writer, don’t make the same mistake. Ambition can drive you forward, but only if it’s tethered to something real—joy, originality, necessity, and connection. Otherwise, you’re just manufacturing words, filling pages with the sound and the fury, signifying nothing.

March 14, 2025
Interrogating the impulse to achieve literary dominance

Looking back at 5 decades of writing dozens of failed novels, I’m torn between admiring my audacity and filing a restraining order against my judgment. How, exactly, did I manage to pin so much hope on novels that, despite their half-decent opening chapters, quickly spiraled into the literary equivalent of a stalled elevator—going nowhere and deeply uncomfortable for everyone involved?

In contrast, my short essays were clearly sharper, more potent—but I refused to let reality intrude on my mission. No, I was going to write the comic novel.

This compulsion was never about art. It was about pain—the kind so deep that Jonathan Franzen famously coined Ache to describe the existential condition of adulthood: the rude awakening that we are not, in fact, the center of the universe and that our desires will always outrun our ability to satisfy them.

Manuscriptus Rex feels this Ache acutely and has embarked on a fool’s errand to silence it with literary fame. But why this brand of glory? Why not build a real estate empire, become a movie heartthrob, or invent the perfect bed that guarantees twelve uninterrupted hours of blissful, coma-grade sleep? Because Manuscriptus Rex is too much of a narcissist for mere wealth, beauty, or utility. Writing a book—one that matters—offers something more intoxicating: the power to hijack people’s brains.

And that’s what you really crave—not just admiration, but full cognitive occupation. You want your words burrowed into the minds of millions, your dream world dictating their thoughts. Your need for validation is so bottomless that only mass literary infiltration will mollify you. That this ambition is wildly improbable, driven by pathology, and guaranteed to bring more suffering than satisfaction? Irrelevant. The mission is all that matters. And the mission is literary dominance.

My wife once observed that men, with their colossal egos, often wake up with sudden revelations, epiphanies so grand they feel compelled to start religions. She’s not wrong. The novelist, the polemicist—what are they really doing but trying to ignite a movement, disrupt the world, and bask in the glow of their own importance? Their gospel isn’t about some grand truth—it’s about them, standing center stage, ablaze with self-appointed brilliance.

Religion is the ultimate expression of literary dominance. I think of the Apostle Paul himself, scribbling his epistles in a manic frenzy, waging rhetorical war in the bustling marketplace of spiritual ideas, demolishing rival orators, and confessing his own unhinged nature in Romans—his theological magnum opus, a mini-Bible inside the Bible. Only eighty pages in total. That was the sum of his obsessive writing, and yet his literary dominance is established. He’s been the talk of the town for over two thousand years. Whether they like him or not, people still want to hear what he has to say about the human condition.

This was the novelist’s role five decades ago, back when novelists were secular prophets, summoned to The Dick Cavett Show to pontificate on the issues of the day—because, once upon a time, their opinions mattered.

And that’s what I loved about Cavett. Even as a ten-year-old, I grasped the show’s implicit assumption: the intellectual life was its own parallel universe, just as electrifying as Paul’s eschatological one—except with better punchlines.

Perhaps Cavett planted the seeds of my literary delusion, setting the stage for a demon that would fully blossom into madness a decade later when I read A Confederacy of Dunces—then Portnoy’s Complaint and The Ginger Man. If I could write something as riotously funny as those masterpieces, I wouldn’t just be funny—I’d be brilliant, important, part of the conversation. My name would be etched into the pantheon of literary wit, my shattered self-esteem miraculously restored. I would find completion.

And lest you think this was mere posturing, let me be clear: my aspirations weren’t some carefully curated cool pose. I was, without question, funny—not in the “guy who recycles late-night monologue jokes” way, but in the gimlet-eyed, take-no-prisoners way that slices through the world’s absurdities like a scalpel. I was an ally of Kafka, wielding my literary axe to shatter the frozen ocean of human folly. My quest was real, my voice authentic, my success inevitable.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

I failed. Repeatedly. The novels kept coming, and to my credit, they got better—sharper, wittier, good enough to attract literary agents, which was dangerous because it fed the delusion. This wasn’t a phase. It became a lifelong affliction. In my twenties, thirties, forties, fifties—hell, even my sixties—the novels kept churning, like those chocolates on the conveyor belt in I Love Lucy, coming faster than I could process, devour, or even appreciate.

The demon was still in business.

And how good were these books as the result of all my literary effort? “Just okay.” Which, in an attention economy, is about as useful as a dial-up modem in the age of fiber optics. “Just okay” might sell 300 copies—a number so pitiful that the editor who championed your book could lose their job over it.

But sure, let’s keep the dream alive.

Having failed to write my grand, world-shaking book and having let A Confederacy of Dunces derail my life, I am left standing amid the wreckage of my literary ambitions, clutching at whatever scraps of wisdom I can salvage. Something must be redeemed, after all. And what better way to salvage a wreck than by turning it into yet another book? The Confessions of a Recovering Writing Addict.

But of course, that’s just the demon running its mouth again. The same devious little imp that once whispered sweet nothings about my inevitable literary greatness now insists that my failure is my brand, my gimmick, my golden ticket to the book that will finally rock the world.

And what is this seismic masterpiece, this literary game-changer? Oh, just a book about aspiring writers so starved for attention that they write not as artists, but as junkies, chasing the next fix of validation. A cautionary tale wrapped in a confession, packaged as a sales pitch—because irony, it seems, is the one thing I have mastered.

Writing with an ego hellbent on domination, we writing junkies reveal an uncomfortable truth—we all have a little Paul in us. We insist we write out of sincerity, fueled by a pure, burning need to communicate something true. But let’s not kid ourselves. Deep down, what we really crave isn’t truth—it’s importance. Recognition. Veneration. And, above all, relevance.

We aren’t just stringing words together; we’re mounting a last-ditch offensive against oblivion, hammering out prose as if sheer verbosity might hold off the reaper a little longer.

In the end, we place our hope in something as fragile as a glue-and-paper book in the digital age, believing—despite all evidence to the contrary—that it will elevate us, transcend us, and make us immortal.

March 14, 2025
What devotion really looks like

When I think of love in all its fullness, I dredge up a memory from 1982—a gem buried deep in my psyche from my early twenties. Back then, I was in college, slogging through a statistics course taught by a professor who looked like he’d been teleported straight out of a Dickens novel. Wild white hair defied gravity, crazed blue eyes darted around like they were searching for meaning, a nose as red as a warning light hinted at extracurricular activities with a bottle, and his overall aura was eau de whiskey. He was a kind man, though, in that shabby, endearingly tragic way.

The class itself was a masochist’s delight, and by week four—when the sadistic monster called “standard deviation” reared its head—half of us were drowning. Among my classmates was an elderly African American couple in their early seventies and always dressed for church, who were either a heartwarming sitcom subplot or walking proof that God has a delicious sense of humor. The husband, a determined relic with a cane, announced on the first day of class that this was his seventh attempt at passing statistics. His wife, the embodiment of long-suffering devotion, was there not as a student but as his support system—a Bible-toting, knitting saint.

The husband’s approach to learning was…unorthodox. While the rest of us quietly sunk in our seats, he would occasionally leap to his feet mid-lecture, his cane clattering dramatically, and hobble to the chalkboard. Pointing a finger like a preacher calling out sin, he’d declare, “That’s not the answer I got. Let me show you!” And then he’d scrawl his “solution” on the board—a series of hieroglyphics that no one could understand.

The professor, to his credit, tolerated these interruptions with the forbearance of a man who had seen worse (probably in his flask). Meanwhile, the wife would bow her head and whisper desperate prayers to “sweet Jesus” as if divine intervention might save her husband—or at least restore a shred of her dignity. Students stifled laughter behind cupped hands, and I sat there, torn between secondhand embarrassment and the sneaking suspicion that this was comedy gold worthy of Saturday Night Live.

After class, I’d drive home and pop in a cassette of “Tiny Children” by The Teardrop Explodes—a song that paired perfectly with my mood of existential dread. I’d replay the scene in my mind: the old man’s quixotic battle with the chalkboard, the wife’s quiet perseverance. And then, like clockwork, I’d start crying. Not just because I was floundering as badly as he was with standard deviation or because my social skills were nonexistent, but because that woman had shown me something profound: the power of love. Real love—the kind that sticks with you through seven attempts at statistics, through public humiliation, through everything.

I can still see that couple vividly. The husband’s determination, the wife’s quiet strength, and my own pathetic, lonely self, sitting there and learning—without realizing it—what devotion really looks like.

March 14, 2025
Father Time’s Frenemy

I often think back to the summer of 2019 when my wife and twin daughters were vacationing in Maui. There, on the beach, I spotted a short, compact man in his mid-seventies parading around in dark blue Speedos with a woman at least fifty years his junior—a striking Mediterranean beauty in her twenties. The guy was trim, well-manscaped, and scampering confidently on the sand like a millionaire who spends half his life in boardrooms and the other half trying to outrun the Grim Reaper. He dove into the waves with the vigor of someone convinced that as long as he keeps moving, Father Time can’t catch him.

You could smell the wealth on him. He was probably some CEO with a portfolio big enough to buy the illusion of eternal youth. He worked hard and played hard, to quote Hugh Hefner’s mantra. Now, I’m not here to pass judgment on the guy for choosing a partner young enough to be his granddaughter—that’s his business. What fascinates me is this idea that money, discipline, and a little manscaping can somehow hold age at bay, like youth is a rare potion you can sip on to stay forever young.

But the whole scene was off. He and his youthful companion looked like mismatched puzzle pieces being forced together by sheer willpower. It was as if they were two jagged halves of a broken mirror, stubbornly pressed together despite clearly not fitting. And with each attempt to make it work, the edges chipped away a little more, until all that was left was a pile of shattered glass—a perfect metaphor for trying to cheat time.

This rich fit man is Father Time’s Frenemy–a guy who pretends he’s on good terms with aging while secretly plotting to outwit it. He may have fooled himself with the “perfect picture” he created, but the eyesore is as plain as day to the rest of us.

March 14, 2025
CHATGPT LIVES RENT-FREE INSIDE YOUR HEAD
One thing I know about my colleagues is that we have an unrelenting love affair with control. We thrive on reliability, routine, and preparation. These three pillars are our holy trinity—without them, the classroom descends into anarchy. And despite the tech tidal waves that keep crashing against us, we cling to these pillars like castaways on a raft.

Remember when smartphones hijacked human attention spans fifteen years ago? We adapted—begrudgingly—when our students started caring more about their screens than us. Our power waned, but we put on our game face and carried on. Then came the digital migration: Canvas, Pronto, Nuventive—all those lovely platforms that no one asked us if we wanted. We learned them anyway, with as much grace as one can muster when faced with endless login screens and forgotten passwords.

Technology never asks permission; it just barges in like an unwelcome houseguest. One morning, you wake up to find it’s moved in—like a freeloading uncle you didn’t know you had. He doesn’t just take over the guest room; he follows you to work, plops on your couch, and eats your sanity for breakfast. Now that homeless uncle is ChatGPT. I tried to evict him. I said, “Look, dude, I’ve already got Canvas, Pronto, and Edmodo crammed in the guest room. No vacancy!”

But ChatGPT just grinned and said, “No problem, bro. I’ll crash rent-free in your head.” And here he is—shuffling around my brain, lounging in my workspace, and making himself way too comfortable. This time, though, something’s different. Students are asking me—dead serious—if I’m still going to have a job in a few years. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just another fossil ChatGPT is about to shove into irrelevance.

And honestly, they have a point. According to The Washington Post article, “ChatGPT took their jobs. Now they walk dogs and fix air conditioners,” AI might soon rearrange the workforce with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. Economists predict this upheaval could rival the industrial revolution. Students aren’t just worried about us—they’re terrified about their own future in a post-literate world where books collect dust, podcasts reign supreme, and “good enough” AI-generated writing becomes the standard.

So, what’s the game plan for college writing instructors? If we’re going to have a chance at survival, we need to tackle these tasks:
1. Reassess how we teach to highlight our relevance.
2. Identify what ChatGPT can’t replicate in our content and communication styles.
3. Design assignments that AI can’t easily fake.
4. Set clear boundaries: ChatGPT stays in its lane, and we own ours.
We’ll adapt because we always do. But let’s be real—this is only the first round. ChatGPT is a shape-shifter. Whatever we fix today might need a reboot tomorrow. Such is life in the never-ending tech arms race.

The real existential threat to my job isn’t just ChatGPT’s constant shape-shifting. No, the real menace is the creeping reality that we might be tumbling headfirst into a post-literate society—one that wouldn’t hesitate to outsource my teaching duties to a soulless algorithm with a smarmy virtual smile.

Let’s start with the illusion of “best-sellers.” In today’s shrinking reader pool, a “best-seller” might move a tenth of the copies it would have a decade ago. Long-form reading is withering on the vine, replaced by a flood of bite-sized content. Tweets, memes, and TikTok clips now reign supreme. Even a 500-word blog post gets slapped with the dreaded “TL;DR” tag. Back in 2015, when I had the audacity to assign The Autobiography of Malcolm X, my students grumbled like I’d asked them to scale Everest barefoot. Today? I’d be lucky if half the class didn’t drop out before I finished explaining who Malcolm X was.

Emojis, GIFs, and memes now serve as emotional shorthand, flattening language into reaction shots and cartoon hearts. If the brain dines too long on these fast-food visuals, it may lose its appetite for gourmet intellectual discourse. Why savor complexity when you can swipe to the next dopamine hit?

In this post-literate dystopia, autodidacticism—a fancy word for “learning via YouTube rabbit holes”—is king. Need to understand the American Revolution, Civil War, and Frederick Douglass? There’s a 10-minute video for that, perfectly timed to finish as your Hot Pocket dings. Meanwhile, print journalism decomposes like roadkill, replaced by podcasts that stretch on for hours, allowing listeners to feel productively busy as they fold laundry or doomscroll Twitter.

The smartphone, of course, has been the linchpin of this decline. It’s normalized text-speak and obliterated grammar. LOL, brb, IDK, and ikr are now the lingua franca. Capitalization and punctuation? Optional. Precision? Passé.

Content today isn’t designed to deepen understanding; it’s designed to appease the almighty algorithm. Search engines prioritize clickbait with shallow engagement metrics over nuanced quality. As a result, journalism dies and “information” becomes a hall of mirrors where truth is a quaint, optional accessory.

In this bleak future, animated explainer videos could take over college classrooms, pushing instructors like me out the door. Lessons on grammar and argumentation might be spoon-fed by ChatGPT clones. Higher education will shift from cultivating wisdom and cultural literacy to churning out “job-ready” drones. Figures like Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and Gabriel García Márquez? Erased, replaced by influencers hawking hustle culture and tech bros promising “disruption.”

Convenience will smother curiosity. Screens will become the ultimate opiate, numbing users into passive compliance. Authoritarians won’t even need force—just a well-timed notification and a steady stream of distraction. The Convenience Brain will replace the Curiosity Brain, and we’ll all be too zombified to notice.

In this post-literate world, I would inevitably fully expect to be replaced by a hologram—a cheerful AI that preps students for the workforce while serenading them with dopamine-laced infotainment. But at least I’ll get to say “I told you so” in my unemployment memoir.

Perhaps my rant has become disconnected from reality, the result of the kind of paranoia that overtakes you when ChatGPT has been living rent-free inside your brain for too long.
March 14, 2025
Where ChatGPT falls short as a writing tool

In More Than Words: How to Think About Writing in the Age of AI, John Warner points out just how emotionally tone-deaf ChatGPT is when tasked with describing something as tantalizing as a cinnamon roll. At best, the AI produces a sterile list of adjectives like “delicious,” “fattening,” and “comforting.” For a human who has gluttonous memories, however, the scent of cinnamon rolls sets off a chain reaction of sensory and emotional triggers—suddenly, you’re transported into a heavenly world of warm, gooey indulgence. For Warner, the smell launches him straight into vivid memories of losing his willpower at a Cinnabon in O’Hare Airport. ChatGPT, by contrast, is utterly incapable of such sensory delirium. It has no desire, no memory, no inner turmoil. As Warner explains, “ChatGPT has no capacity for sense memory; it has no memory in the way human memory works, period.”

Without memory, ChatGPT can’t make meaningful connections and associations. The cinnamon roll for John Warner is a marker for a very particular time and place in his life. He was in a state of mind then that made him a different person than he was twelve years later reminiscing about the days of caving in to the temptation to buy a Cinnabon. For him, the cinnamon roll has layers and layers of associations that inform his writing about the cinnamon roll that gives depth to his description of that dessert that ChatGPT cannot match.

Imagine ChatGPT writing a vivid description of Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. It would perform a serviceable job describing the physical layout–the sweet aroma of fresh waffle cones, sizzling burgers, and syrupy fudge; the red-and-white striped wallpaper stretched from corner to corner, the dark, polished wooden booths lining the walls; the waitstaff, dressed in candy-cane-striped vests and straw boater hats, and so on. However, there are vital components missing in the description–a kid’s imagination full of memories and references to their favorite movies, TV shows, and books. The ChatGPT version is also lacking in a kid’s perspective, which is full of grandiose aspirations to being like their heroes and mythical legends.

For someone who grow up believing that Farrell’s was the Holy Grail for birthday parties, my memory of the place adds multiple dimensions to the ice cream parlour that ChatGPT is incapable of rendering:

When I was a kid growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1970s, there was an ice creamery called Farrell’s. In a child’s imagination, Farrell’s was the equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. You didn’t go to Farrell’s often, maybe once every two years or so. Entering Farrell’s, you were greeted by the cacophony of laughter and the clinking of spoons against glass. Servers in candy-striped uniforms dashed around with the energy of marathon runners, bearing trays laden with gargantuan sundaes. You sat down, your eyes wide with awe, and the menu was presented to you like a sacred scroll. You don’t need to read it, though. Your quest was clear: the legendary banana split. When the dessert finally arrived, it was nothing short of a spectacle. The banana split was monumental, an ice cream behemoth. It was as if the dessert gods themselves had conspired to create this masterpiece. Three scoops of ice cream, draped in velvety hot fudge and caramel, crowned with mountains of whipped cream and adorned with maraschino cherries, all nestled between perfectly ripe bananas. Sprinkles and nuts cascaded down the sides like the treasures of a sugar-coated El Dorado. As you took your first bite, you embarked on a journey as grand and transformative as any hero’s quest. The flavors exploded in your mouth, each spoonful a step deeper into the enchanted forest of dessert ecstasy. You were not just eating ice cream; you were battling dragons of indulgence and conquering kingdoms of sweetness. The sheer magnitude of the banana split demanded your full attention and stamina. Your small arms wielded the spoon like a warrior’s sword, and with each bite, you felt a mixture of triumph and fatigue. By the time you reached the bottom of the bowl, you were exhausted. Your muscles ached as if you’d climbed a mountain, and you were certain that you’d expanded your stomach capacity to Herculean proportions. You briefly considered the possibility of needing an appendectomy. But oh, the glory of it all! Your Farrell’s sojourn was worth every ache and groan. You entered the ice creamery as an ordinary child and emerged as a hero. In this fairy-tale-like journey, you had undergone a metamorphosis. You were no longer just a scrawny kid from the Bay Area; you were now a muscle-bound strutting Viking of the dessert world, having mastered the art of indulgence and delight. As you returned home, the experience of Farrell’s left a lasting imprint on your soul. You regaled your friends with tales of your conquest, the banana split becoming a legendary feast in the annals of your childhood adventures. In your heart, you knew that this epic journey to Farrell’s, this magical pilgrimage, had elevated you to the ranks of dessert royalty, a memory that would forever glitter like a golden crown in the kingdom of your mind. As a child, even an innocent trip to an ice creamery was a transformational experience. You entered Farrell’s a helpless runt; you exited it a glorious Viking.

The other failure of ChatGPT is that it cannot generate meaningful narratives. Without memory or point of view, ChatGPT has no stories to tell and no lessons to impart. Since the days of our Paleolithic ancestors, humans have shared emotionally charged stories around the campfire to ward off both external dangers—like saber-toothed tigers—and internal demons—obsessions, pride, and unbridled desires that can lead to madness. These tales resonate because they acknowledge a truth that thoughtful people, religious or not, can agree on: we are flawed and prone to self-destruction. It’s this precarious condition that makes storytelling essential. Stories filled with struggle, regret, and redemption offer us more than entertainment; they arm us with the tools to stay grounded and resist our darker impulses. ChatGPT, devoid of human frailty, cannot offer us such wisdom.

Because ChatGPT has no memory, it cannot give us the stories and life lessons we crave and have craved for thousands of years in the form of folk tales, religious screeds, philosophical treatises, and personal manifestos.

That ChatGPT can only muster a Wikipedia-like description of a cinnamon roll hardly makes it competitive with humans when it comes to the kind of writing we crave with all of our heart, mind, and soul.

One of ChatGPT’s greatest disadvantages is that, unlike us, it is not a fallen creature slogging through the freak show that is this world, to use the language of George Carlin. Nor does ChatGPT understand how our fallen condition can put us at the mercy of our own internal demons and obsessions that cause us to warp reality that leads to dysfunction. In other words, ChatGPT does not have a haunted mind and without any oppressive memories, it cannot impart stories of value to us.

When I think of being haunted, I think of one emotion above all others–regret. Regret doesn’t just trap people in the past—it embalms them in it, like a fly in amber, forever twitching with regret. Case in point: there are three men I know who, decades later, are still gnashing their teeth over a squandered romantic encounter so catastrophic in their minds, it may as well be their personal Waterloo.

It was the summer of their senior year, a time when testosterone and bad decisions flowed freely. Driving from Bakersfield to Los Angeles for a Dodgers game, they were winding through the Grapevine when fate, wearing a tie-dye bikini, waved them down. On the side of the road, an overheated vintage Volkswagen van—a sunbaked shade of decayed orange—coughed its last breath. Standing next to it? Four radiant, sun-kissed Grateful Dead followers, fresh from a concert and still floating on a psychedelic afterglow.

These weren’t just women. These were ethereal, free-spirited nymphs, perfumed in the intoxicating mix of patchouli, wild musk, and possibility. Their laughter tinkled like wind chimes in an ocean breeze, their sun-bronzed shoulders glistening as they waved their bikinis and spaghetti-strap tops in the air like celestial signals guiding sailors to shore.

My friends, handy with an engine but fatally clueless in the ways of the universe, leaped to action. With grease-stained heroism, they nursed the van back to health, coaxing it into a purring submission. Their reward? An invitation to abandon their pedestrian baseball game and join the Deadhead goddesses at the Santa Barbara Summer Solstice Festival—an offer so dripping with hedonistic promise that even a monk would’ve paused to consider.

But my friends? Naïve. Stupid. Shackled to their Dodgers tickets as if they were golden keys to Valhalla. With profuse thanks (and, one imagines, the self-awareness of a plank of wood), they declined. They drove off, leaving behind the road-worn sirens who, even now, are probably still dancing barefoot somewhere, oblivious to the tragedy they unwittingly inflicted.

Decades later, my friends can’t recall a single play from that Dodgers game, but they can describe—down to the last bead of sweat—the precise moment they drove away from paradise. Bring it up, and they revert into snarling, feral beasts, snapping at each other over whose fault it was that they abandoned the best opportunity of their pathetic young lives. Their girlfriends, beautiful and present, might as well be holograms. After all, these men are still spiritually chained to that sun-scorched highway, watching the tie-dye bikini tops flutter in the wind like banners of a lost kingdom.

Insomnia haunts them. Their nights are riddled with fever dreams of sun-drenched bacchanals that never happened. They wake in cold sweats, whispering the names of women they never actually kissed. Their relationships suffer, their souls remain malnourished, and all because, on that fateful day, they chose baseball over Dionysian bliss.

Regret couldn’t have orchestrated a better long-term psychological prison if it tried. It’s been forty years, but they still can’t forgive themselves. They never will. And in their minds, somewhere on that dusty stretch of highway, a rusted-out orange van still sits, idling in the sun, filled with the ghosts of what could have been.

Humans have always craved stories of folly, and for good reason. First, there’s the guilty pleasure of witnessing someone else’s spectacular downfall—our inner schadenfreude finds comfort in knowing it wasn’t us who tumbled into the abyss of human madness. Second, these stories hold up a mirror to our own vulnerability, reminding us that we’re all just one bad decision away from disaster.

As a teacher, I can tell you that if you don’t anchor your ideas to a compelling story, you might as well be lecturing to statues. Without a narrative hook, students’ eyes glaze over, their minds drift, and you’re left questioning every career choice that led you to this moment. But if you offer stories brimming with flawed characters—haunted by regrets so deep they’re like Lot’s wife, frozen and unmovable in their failure—students perk up. These narratives speak to something profoundly human: the agony of being broken and the relentless desire to become whole again. That’s precisely where AI like ChatGPT falls short. It may craft mechanically perfect prose, but it has never known the sting of regret or the crushing weight of shame. Without that depth, it can’t deliver the kind of storytelling that truly resonates.

March 14, 2025
WILL WRITING INSTRUCTORS BE REPLACED BY CHATBOTS?

Last night, I was trapped in a surreal nightmare—a bureaucratic limbo masquerading as a college elective. The course had no purpose other than to grant students enough credits to graduate. No curriculum, no topics, no teaching—just endless hours of supervised inertia. My role? Clock in, clock out, and do absolutely nothing.

The students were oddly cheerful, like campers at some low-budget retreat. They brought packed lunches, sprawled across desks, and killed time with card games and checkers. They socialized, laughed, and blissfully ignored the fact that this whole charade was a colossal waste of time. Meanwhile, I sat there, twitching with existential dread. The urge to teach something—anything—gnawed at my gut. But that was forbidden. I was there to babysit, not educate.

The shame hung on me like wet clothes. I felt obsolete, like a relic from the days when education had meaning. The minutes dragged by like a DMV line, each one stretching into a slow, agonizing eternity. I wondered if this Kafkaesque hell was a punishment for still believing that teaching is more than glorified daycare.

This dream echoes a fear many writing instructors share: irrelevance. Daniel Herman explores this anxiety in his essay, “The End of High-School English.” He laments how students have always found shortcuts to learning—CliffsNotes, YouTube summaries—but still had to confront the terror of a blank page. Now, with AI tools like ChatGPT, that gatekeeping moment is gone. Writing is no longer a “metric for intelligence” or a teachable skill, Herman claims.

I agree to an extent. Yes, AI can generate competent writing faster than a student pulling an all-nighter. But let’s not pretend this is new. Even in pre-ChatGPT days, students outsourced essays to parents, tutors, and paid services. We were always grappling with academic honesty. What’s different now is the scale of disruption.

Herman’s deeper question—just how necessary are writing instructors in the age of AI—is far more troubling. Can ChatGPT really replace us? Maybe it can teach grammar and structure well enough for mundane tasks. But writing instructors have a higher purpose: teaching students to recognize the difference between surface-level mediocrity and powerful, persuasive writing.

Herman himself admits that ChatGPT produces essays that are “adequate” but superficial. Sure, it can churn out syntactically flawless drivel, but syntax isn’t everything. Writing that leaves a lasting impression—“Higher Writing”—is built on sharp thought, strong argumentation, and a dynamic authorial voice. Think Baldwin, Didion, or Nabokov. That’s the standard. I’d argue it’s our job to steer students away from lifeless, task-oriented prose and toward writing that resonates.

Herman’s pessimism about students’ indifference to rhetorical nuance and literary flair is half-baked at best. Sure, dive too deep into the murky waters of Shakespearean arcana or Melville’s endless tangents, and you’ll bore them stiff—faster than an unpaid intern at a three-hour faculty meeting. But let’s get real. You didn’t go into teaching to serve as a human snooze button. You went into sales, whether you like it or not. And what are you selling? Persona, ideas, and the antidote to chaos.

First up: persona. It’s not just about writing—it’s about becoming. How do you craft an identity, project it with swagger, and use it to navigate life’s messiness? When students read Oscar Wilde, Frederick Douglass, or Octavia Butler, they don’t just see words on a page—they see mastery. A fully-realized persona commands attention with wit, irony, and rhetorical flair. Wilde nailed it when he said, “The first task in life is to assume a pose.” He wasn’t joking. That pose—your persona—grows stronger through mastery of language and argumentation. Once students catch a glimpse of that, they want it. They crave the power to command a room, not just survive it. And let’s be clear—ChatGPT isn’t in the persona business. That’s your turf.

Next: ideas. You became a teacher because you believe in the transformative power of ideas. Great ideas don’t just fill word counts; they ignite brains and reshape worldviews. Over the years, students have thanked me for introducing them to concepts that stuck with them like intellectual tattoos. Take Bread and Circus—the idea that a tiny elite has always controlled the masses through cheap food and mindless entertainment. Students eat that up (pun intended). Or nihilism—the grim doctrine that nothing matters and we’re all here just killing time before we die. They’ll argue over that for hours. And Rousseau’s “noble savage” versus the myth of human hubris? They’ll debate whether we’re pure souls corrupted by society or doomed from birth by faulty wiring like it’s the Super Bowl of philosophy.

ChatGPT doesn’t sell ideas. It regurgitates language like a well-trained parrot, but without the fire of intellectual curiosity. You, on the other hand, are in the idea business. If you’re not selling your students on the thrill of big ideas, you’re failing at your job.

Finally: chaos. Most people live in a swirling mess of dysfunction and anxiety. You sell your students the tools to push back: discipline, routine, and what Cal Newport calls “deep work.” Writers like Newport, Oliver Burkeman, Phil Stutz, and Angela Duckworth offer blueprints for repelling chaos and replacing it with order. ChatGPT can’t teach students to prioritize, strategize, or persevere. That’s your domain.

So keep honing your pitch. You’re selling something AI can’t: a powerful persona, the transformative power of ideas, and the tools to carve order from the chaos. ChatGPT can crunch words all it wants, but when it comes to shaping human beings, it’s just another cog. You? You’re the architect.

March 14, 2025
Ozempic Challenges the Notion of Free Will

The other day I was listening to Howard Stern and his co-host Robin Quivers talking about how a bunch of celebrities magically slimmed down at the same time. The culprit, they noted, was Ozempic—a drug available mostly to the rich. While they laughed about the side effects, such as incontinence, “Ozempic face” and “Ozempic butt,” I couldn’t help but see these grotesque symptoms as a metaphor for the Ozempification of a society hooked on shortcuts. They enjoyed some short-term benefits but the side effects were far worse than the supposed solution. Ozempification was strikingly evident in AI-generated essays–boring, generic, surface-level, cliche-ridden, just about worthless. Regardless of how well structured and logically composed, these essays have the telltale signs of “Ozempfic face” and “Ozempic butt.”

As a college writing instructor, I’m not just trying to sell academic honesty. I’m trying to sell pride. As I face the brave new world of teaching writing in the AI era, I’ve realized that my job as a college instructor has morphed into that of a supercharged salesman. And what am I selling? No less than survival in an age where the very tools meant to empower us—like AI—threaten to bury us alive under layers of polished mediocrity. Imagine it: a spaceship has landed on Earth in the form of ChatGPT. It’s got warp-speed potential, sure, but it can either launch students into the stars of academic brilliance or plunge them into the soulless abyss of bland, AI-generated drivel. My mission? To make them realize that handling this tool without care is like inviting a black hole into their writing.

As I fine-tune my sales pitch, I think about Ozempic–that magic slimming drug, beloved by celebrities who’ve turned from mid-sized to stick figures overnight. Like AI, Ozempic offers a seductive shortcut. But shortcuts have a price. You see the trade-off in “Ozempic face”—that gaunt, deflated look where once-thriving skin sags like a Shar-Pei’s wrinkles—or, worse still, “Ozempic butt,” where shapely glutes shrink to grim, skeletal wiring. The body wasn’t worked; it was bypassed. No muscle-building, no discipline. Just magic pill ingestion—and what do you get? A husk of your former self. Ozempified.

The Ozempification of writing is a marvel of modern mediocrity—a literary gastric bypass where prose, instead of slimming down to something sleek and muscular, collapses into a bloated mess of clichés and stock phrases. It’s writing on autopilot, devoid of tension, rhythm, or even the faintest trace of a soul. Like the human body without effort, writing handed over to AI without scrutiny deteriorates into a skeletal, soulless product: technically coherent, yes, but lifeless as an elevator pitch for another cookie-cutter Marvel spinoff.

What’s worse? Most people can’t spot it. They think their AI-crafted essay sparkles when, in reality, it has all the charm of Botox gone wrong—rigid, lifeless, and unnervingly “off.” Call it literary Ozempic face: a hollowed-out, sagging simulacrum of actual creativity. These essays prance about like bargain-bin Hollywood knock-offs—flashy at first glance but gutless on closer inspection.

But here’s the twist: demonizing AI and Ozempic as shortcuts to ruin isn’t the full story. Both technologies have a darker complexity that defies simplistic moralizing. Sometimes, they’re necessary. Just as Ozempic can prevent a diabetic’s fast track to early organ failure, AI can become a valuable tool—if wielded with care and skill.

Take Rebecca Johns’ haunting essay, “A Diet Writer’s Regrets.” It rattled me with its brutal honesty and became the cornerstone of my first Critical Thinking essay assignment. Johns doesn’t preach or wallow in platitudes. She exposes the failures of free will and good intentions in weight management with surgical precision. Her piece suggests that, as seductive as shortcuts may be, they can sometimes be life-saving, not soul-destroying. This tension—between convenience and survival, between control and surrender—deserves far more than a knee-jerk dismissal. It’s a line we walk daily in both our bodies and our writing. The key is knowing when you’re using a crutch versus when you’re just hobbling on borrowed time.

I want my students to grasp the uncanny parallels between Ozempic and AI writing platforms like ChatGPT. Both are cutting-edge solutions to modern problems: GLP-1 drugs for weight management and AI tools for productivity. And let’s be honest—both are becoming necessary adaptations to the absurd conditions of modern life. In a world flooded with calorie-dense junk, “willpower” and “food literacy” are about as effective as handing out umbrellas during a tsunami. For many, weight gain isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a life-threatening hazard. Enter GLP-1s, the biochemical cavalry.

Similarly, with AI tools quickly becoming the default infrastructure for white-collar work, resisting them might soon feel as futile as refusing to use Google Docs or Windows. If you’re in the information economy, you either adapt or get left behind. But here’s the twist I want my students to explore: both technologies, while necessary, come with strings attached. They save us from drowning, but they also bind us in ways that provoke deep, existential anguish.

Rebecca Johns captures this anguish in her essay, “A Diet Writer’s Regrets.” Ironically, Johns started her career in diet journalism not just to inform others, but to arm herself with insider knowledge to win her own weight battles. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone: craft top-tier content while secretly curbing her emotional eating. But, as she admits, “None of it helped.” Instead, her career exploded along with her waistline. The magazine industry’s appetite for diet articles grew insatiable—and so did her own cravings. The stress ate away at her resolve, and before long, she was 30 pounds heavier, trapped by the very cycle she was paid to analyze.

By the time her BMI hit 45 (deep in the obesity range), Johns was ashamed to tell anyone—even her husband. Desperate, she cycled through every diet plan she had ever recommended, only to regain the weight every time. Enter 2023. Her doctor handed her a lifeline: Mounjaro, a GLP-1 drug with a name as grand as the results it promised. (Seriously, who wouldn’t picture themselves triumphantly hiking Mount Kilimanjaro after hearing that name?) For Johns, it delivered. She shed 80 pounds without white-knuckling through hunger pangs. The miracle wasn’t just the weight loss—it was how Mounjaro rewired her mind.

“Medical science has done what no diet-and-exercise plan ever could,” she writes. “It changed my entire relationship with what I eat and when and why.” Food no longer controlled her. But here’s the kicker: while the drug granted her a newfound sense of freedom, it also raises profound questions about dependence, control, and the shifting boundaries of human resilience—questions not unlike those we face with AI. Both Ozempic and AI can save us. But at what cost?

And is the cost of not using these technologies even greater? Rebecca Johns’ doctor didn’t mince words—she was teetering on the edge of diabetes. The trendy gospel of “self-love” and “body acceptance” she had once explored for her articles suddenly felt like a cruel joke. What’s the point of “self-acceptance” when carrying extra weight could put you six feet under?

Once she started Mounjaro, everything changed. Her cravings for rich, calorie bombs disappeared, she got full on tiny portions, and all those golden nuggets of diet advice she’d dished out over the years—cut carbs, eat more protein and veggies, avoid snacks—were suddenly effortless. No more bargaining with herself for “just one cookie.” The biggest shift, however, was in her mind. She experienced a complete mental “reset.” Food no longer haunted her every waking thought. “I no longer had to white-knuckle my way through the day to lose weight,” she writes.

Reading that, I couldn’t help but picture my students with their glowing ChatGPT tabs, no longer caffeinated zombies trying to churn out a midnight essay. With AI as their academic Mounjaro, they’ve ditched the anxiety-fueled, last-minute grind and achieved polished results with half the effort. AI cushions the process—time, energy, and creativity now outsourced to a digital assistant.

Of course, the analogy isn’t perfect. AI tools like ChatGPT are dirt-cheap (or free), while GLP-1 drugs are expensive, scarce, and buried under a maze of insurance red tape. Johns herself is on borrowed time—her insurance will stop covering Mounjaro in just over a year. Her doctor warns that once off the drug, her weight will likely return, dragging her health risks back with it. Faced with this grim reality, she worries she’ll have no choice but to return to the endless cycle of dieting—“white-knuckling” her days with tricks and hacks that have repeatedly failed her.

Her essay devastates me for many reasons. Johns is a smart, painfully honest narrator who lays bare the shame and anguish of relying on technology to rescue her from a problem that neither expertise nor willpower could fix. She reports on newfound freedom—freedom from food obsession, the physical benefits of shedding 80 pounds, and the relief of finally feeling like a more present, functional family member. But lurking beneath it all is the bitter truth: her well-being is tethered to technology, and that dependency is a permanent part of her identity.

This contradiction haunts me. Technology, which I was raised to believe would stifle our potential, is now enhancing identity, granting people the ability to finally become their “better selves.” As a kid, I grew up on Captain Kangaroo, where Bob Keeshan preached the gospel of free will and positive thinking. Books like The Little Engine That Could drilled into me the sacred mantra: “I think I can.” Hard work, affirmations, and determination were supposed to be the alchemy that transformed character and gave us a true sense of self-worth.

But Johns’ story—and millions like hers—rewrite that childhood gospel into something far darker: The Little Engine That Couldn’t. No amount of grit or optimism got her to the top of the hill. In the end, only medical science saved her from herself. And it terrifies me to think that maybe, just maybe, this is the new human condition: we can’t become our Higher Selves without technological crutches.

This raises questions that I can’t easily shake. What does it mean to cheat if technology is now essential to survival and success? Just as GLP-1 drugs sculpt bodies society deems “acceptable,” AI is quietly reshaping creativity and productivity. At what point do we stop being individuals who achieve greatness through discipline and instead become avatars of the tech we rely on? Have we traded the dream of self-actualization for a digital illusion of competence and control?

Of course, these philosophical quandaries feel like a luxury when most of us are drowning in the realities of modern life. Who has time to ponder free will or moral fortitude when you’re working overtime just to stay afloat? Maybe that’s the cruelest twist of all. Technology hasn’t just rewritten the rules—it’s made them inescapable. You adapt, or you get left behind. And maybe, somewhere deep down, we all already know which path we’re on.

As I mull over the anguish and philosophical complexities presented in Rebecca Johns’ essay, I realize I’ve hit a goldmine for my Critical Thinking class. The themes of free will and technological dependency in her essay make it a worthy essay assignment for my students. For an assignment to be worthy, it must contain “Enduring ideas” that transcend the course and are so powerful and haunting they potentially sear an indelible impression in the students’ souls.

My college’s online education coordinator, Moses Wolfenstein, introduced me to this idea of “Enduring Ideas,” which he learned from Grant Wiggins and Jay McTighe’s Understanding by Design. Moses explained that “Enduring Ideas” are the foundational, universal concepts within a subject—those big ideas that students are likely to carry with them well beyond the classroom. According to Moses, these ideas form “the heart of the discipline,” connecting to the larger truths of the human condition. Because they resonate so deeply with students, “Enduring Ideas” have the power to drive genuine engagement.

I was convinced that Rebecca Johns’ essay fulfilled the criteria, so now I had to create an argumentative essay assignment:

In a 1,700-word essay using at least four credible sources, support, refute, or complicate the claim that, despite the philosophical challenges to free will, self-worth, and authenticity raised in Rebecca Means’ essay “A Diet Writer’s Regrets,” her story demonstrates that reliance on technology—such as GLP-1 drugs and AI writing tools—can be a necessary adaptation for survival, success, and competitiveness in today’s world. However, this adaptation comes at a significant cost: the erosion of self-reliance, a diminished sense of identity, and compromised authenticity. Is the cost justified? Are we striking a dangerous bargain for convenience and success? Or is refusing this deal even more self-destructive, with consequences so severe that avoiding it is the greater folly? Explore these questions in your essay, considering both the benefits and risks of technological dependency.

March 14, 2025
HOW DO WE ASSESS STUDENT LEARNING IN THE AGE OF AI?
One of my colleagues—an expert in technology and education, and thus perpetually stuck in the trenches of this AI circus—must have noticed I’d taken on the role of ChatGPT’s most aggrieved critic. I’d been flooding her inbox with meticulously crafted, panic-laced mini manifestos about how these AI platforms were invading my classroom like a digital plague. But instead of telling me to get a grip or, better yet, stop emailing her altogether, she came up with an ingenious way for me to process my AI anxieties. Her solution? “Why not channel that nervous energy into a Spring Flex Activity on AI in teaching?”

Naturally, because misery loves company, she signed on to co-present. The date was locked—mid-February 2025. A few months to go, plenty of time to prepare… or so I thought.

Three months earlier in November, I was already deep into crafting a masterpiece of a Google Slides presentation, proudly titled: “Ten Approaches to Making AI-Resistant Writing Prompts: Resisting the AI Takeover.” It was focused, practical, and dripping with tech-savvy authority. I was convinced I had nailed it. I would be the knight in shining armor, defending academia from an algorithmic apocalypse.

But a tiny voice in the back of my head kept nagging: “You do realize ChatGPT has a faster upgrade schedule than your iPhone, right?” Every time I’d tested my so-called AI-resistant strategies, the platform would recognize its weaknesses, evolve, and then laugh in my face. Still, I chose to ignore that voice and basked in my fleeting sense of triumph.

Then came January. I pulled up my Google Slides to rehearse my presentation and felt the full weight of my hubris. My “cutting-edge” strategies were already about as relevant as an AOL dial-up manual. The AI arms race had advanced, and my presentation was now a quaint little relic—a reminder that in the war against AI, obsolescence isn’t just a risk. It’s the default setting.

Let me walk you through my three brilliant strategies for giving students AI-resistant writing assignments—strategies that crumbled faster than a cookie in a chatbot’s clutches over the course of three short months.

Strategy One: Have students summarize an essay with signal phrases, in-depth analysis, and in-text citations. Why? Because ChatGPT couldn’t handle that level of academic finesse. Or so I thought. Fast forward three months, and now the bot churns out MLA-perfect citations with smug precision and rhetorical flair, like it’s gunning for a tenure-track position.

Strategy Two: Ban clichés and stock phrases. Simple, right? Wrong. Students can now binge-watch YouTube tutorials that teach them how to reprogram ChatGPT to “write with originality” and bypass every plagiarism detection tool I can throw at them. It’s like handing them a cheat code labeled: “Creative Nonsense, Now AI-Enhanced!”

Strategy Three: Require current references. My reasoning? ChatGPT was stuck in a time warp with outdated sources. But wouldn’t you know it? The bot got a data upgrade and now pulls research so fresh it practically smells like new car leather.

In sum, ChatGPT is a shape-shifting Hydra of academic trickery. Any technique I recommend today will be obsolete by the time you finish your coffee. So, yes—presenting a guide on “AI-resistant” strategies would be like publishing a survival manual for Jurassic Park and then as you’re dashing into the parking lot to get inside your car, you’re eaten by a velociraptor.

So, what exactly was my Flex Day presentation supposed to be about? Since playing tug-of-war with AI’s ever-evolving powers was a losing battle, I decided it was time to pivot. Instead of chasing after futile strategies to “beat” AI, the real question became: what’s our role as instructors in a world where students—and everyone else—are increasingly outsourcing their cognitive load to machines? More importantly, how do we assess student learning when AI tools are rapidly becoming part of everyday life?

To stay relevant, we have to confront four key questions:
1. How do we assess how effective the students are at using AI-writing tools? Are they wielding ChatGPT like a scalpel or a sledgehammer? Are they correctly using ChatGPT as a sidekick to assist their human-generated writing, or have they fallen back on their lazy default setting to produce a “Genie Essay” in which ChatGPT materializes a cheap surface-level essay in “the blink of an eye”?
2. How do we create a grading rubric that separates “higher-order thinking” from surface-level drivel? The difference between a real argument and a ChatGPT-generated one is both profound and crucial—one is a meaningful persuader, the other a stochastic parrot (imitates language mindlessly and randomly).
3. How do we create a grading rubric that discourages the dreaded Uncanny Valley Effect in student writing? You know, that eerie sensation you get when an essay seems human at first glance but is just slightly “off,” like a malfunctioning Stepford paper that reeks of academic dishonesty.
4. What uniquely human tasks can we assign in class (online or face-to-face) to measure real learning? Spoiler: If the answer is a formulaic five-paragraph essay, you’re already in trouble.
If we can answer these questions, maybe—just maybe—we’ll stop grading assignments that feel like AI-generated fever dreams and start nurturing authentic learning again.

Questions one through three pertain to how we grade the students’ writing and define our expectations in the form of a grading rubric. When it comes to assessing students’ use of AI machines as collaborative helpers in their writing, we don’t get to see how they work at home. We only see the final product: a portion of their essay that we have assigned, like an introduction and thesis paragraph, or the entire manuscript.

Let us assume that every student is using an open-platform AI tool. We need a grading rubric that separates the desirable “AI-sidekick essay” from the “AI-genie essay.” To make this separation, we need an AI-Grading Rubric, which should address the following features of writing quality:
1. Is the language clear, rhetorically appropriate, and conducive to creating a strong authorial presence or is it mostly AI-signature cliches and stock phrases?
2. Does the essay explore the messy human side of an issue with higher-order thought, meaning, nuance, and blood, sweat, and tears, or does it smack of an AI-signature facile, glib, surface-level, cookie-cutter Wikipedia-like superficial bot piece?
3. Does the essay appear to be an authentic expression of strong authorial presence or does it have that creepy Uncanny Valley Effect?
For any kind of grading rubric to be effective, you will have to give your students contrasting essay models, which can be scrutinized in class and posted on Canvas:
1. Sidekick Essay Vs. Genie Essay
2. Strong Authorial Presence Vs. Cringe-Worthy AI Surface-Level Presence
3. An essay that is so deep in meaning and nuance that it transcends the original topic and speaks to larger human concerns vs. a glib surface-level essay that has somehow managed to take a sophisticated topic and reduce it to a fifth-grade cookie-cutter argument.
A crucial thing to acknowledge as you make the rubric is that you’re assuming students are using AI in some way or another. Your purpose isn’t to “catch them in the act of plagiarism.” Rather, your purpose is to focus on the quality of their writing. They may be using AI effectively and ethically. They may be using AI ineffectively and dubiously. Or they may be using it somewhere in between. The final measure of how they used AI will be evident in the quality of their work, which will be measured against your grading rubric.

Aside from assessing your students’ work in the AI Age, you want them to engage in coursework that is uniquely human and cannot be replicated by AI. I recommend the following:

One. Integrate Personal Writing in an Argumentative Essay: Your students can begin an argumentative essay with an attention-getting hook based on their personal experience. For example, I teach Cal Newport’s book So Good They Can’t Ignore You in which he argues that pursuing your career based on passion as your first criteria is a dangerous premise with a large failure rate while pursuing a craftsman mindset renders higher career success and happiness. My students defend, refute, or complicate Newport’s claim. In their opening paragraph, they write about their own career quest, based on passion or something else, or they observe someone else they know who is struggling to choose a career based on passion or another criteria.

Two. Have students interview each other and process those interviews into an introduction paragraph. This can be done in the classroom, or if the class is online, the students can interview each other on the Canvas chat app Pronto. For example, I show my students the documentary Becoming Frederick Douglass and the Jordan Peele movie Get Out and the students have to interview each other with the purpose of writing an extended definition of “The Sunken Place,” as a condition of hellish confinement, and “The North Star,” as a condition of freedom and enlightenment. These definitions will be present in their essays as they compare the themes of Frederick Douglass’s journey to the journey in Get Out.

Three. Use multimodal composition assignments. What this means is that in addition to your students submitting an essay, they also submit other media expressions of the assignment. For example, if they are writing an essay about “The Sunken Place” in the movie Get Out, their essay would be accompanied by a YouTube video in which they give an oral presentation of their essay. Another example of multimodal composition is to pair students who are debating an argument. Each student takes an opposing side and they hash it out on either a YouTube video or a homemade podcast.

If I had to guess, multimodal composition is going to scale over the next decade. Not only does it measure student achievement in uniquely human ways, it gives students the opportunity to use a variety of media tools that they will probably have to master in their career.

Four. Before the completed essay is due, have students write a one-page meta-analysis of the assignment in which they describe the ways the assignment made them anxious, frustrated, and confused; and other ways the assignment made them feel curious and changed their understanding of a topic they may or may not have thought about before. The purpose of this assignment is to make students look at the assignment from a radically different way and engage in the creative process, rumination, baking ideas over time, and realizing that ideas don’t crystallize into absolutes. Rather, ideas are open to change and the more they change and mature, the more deep and valuable they become.

I got this idea from reading Questlove’s Creative Quest. In the book, he recalls a nightly ritual with his parents: After dinner, they would spend two hours immersed in his father’s colossal record collection—every genre imaginable. His dad, a doo-wop musician from the 1950s, didn’t treat those records like sacred relics. Oh no, they were living, breathing works-in-progress. To Questlove, they were the analog version of Google Docs—always open for revision and reinvention. “The thing about records,” he writes, “was that they didn’t feel like closed ideas. They were ideas you could open and ideas you could use.”

As I reflected on this elegant creative tradition, I was hit by a wave of melancholy. Why? Because this ritual was steeped in abundance—abundance of love, of time, and of joy in creativity for creativity’s sake, without the specter of deadlines or profit lurking around every corner. Questlove’s parents gave him space to explore art as a lifelong conversation, not a product.

Now cut to me, the college instructor, trying to preach that same gospel of creative abundance to my students—students who shuffle into class like zombies after working double shifts and raising kids. They’re sleep-deprived, haven’t eaten since yesterday’s granola bar, and are already bracing for another round of minimum-wage survival. And here I am, waxing poetic about how they should “let their ideas germinate over time” like artisanal sourdough. Worse yet, I’m promoting multimodal composition—assignments so elaborate, they’re one drone shot away from being a Netflix mini-series. Yeah, that’s gonna land well.

The truth is, creativity—real, human creativity—requires time. And time is a privilege most of my students just don’t have. So, as I build my course content, I have to factor this reality in. Otherwise, I’m just another academic blowhard asking students to perform miracles on the fumes of a 20-minute nap and half a bag of stale pretzels.
March 14, 2025