Tag Archives: Creative Writing

When the Well Runs Dry: Writers’ Fears about Running Out of Ideas

Posted on by
2

“A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.”

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900–1944; French writer, aviator, and philosopher, best known for The Little Prince. His works explore themes of human connection, imagination, and the search for meaning.)

Knife raised in the air, just a few inches or so above the kitchen counter, I stood there nearly motionless. I’d like to say that it was one of my better knives, maybe my Shun or my Wüsthof. But it wasn’t. I’d like to say that it was about to land on one of my better cutting boards, maybe my Boos or my Ironwood. But it wasn’t. And I’d like to say that I was about to execute some fancy-schmancy cut, maybe Chiffonade or Julienne. But I wasn’t.

I was just standing there with ordinary carrots, celery, and onions arranged on an ordinary cutting board as I minced them with my ordinary paring knife for an ordinary pasta sauce.

But as I stood there, something extraordinary happened in that ordinary moment.

Just as my knife was coming down, Billy Collins’ “I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of ‘Three Blind Mice'” seemed to shimmer across the blade. Maybe that was to be expected. I love Billy Collins’ poetry, and, after all, there I stood chopping, and in Collins’ poem, there he stands chopping parsley and dicing onions.

But get this. As he wields his knife, he’s not at all concerned about how or why, in the nursery rhyme—the supposed thrust of his bluesy poetic mirepoix—the mice managed to be in the direct path of the farmer’s wife’s blade. Of course, he’s not. We all know how that story ends. But at that moment, standing in my own kitchen, I had no idea how mine would.

But Collins does something I’ve never seen anyone else do. Instead of focusing on how the mice lost their tails, which we know already, he sets up his own minor tragedy filled with blues and tears by raising questions about their blindness:

Was it congenital?

Was it a common accident?

Did each come to blindness separately,

How did they manage to find one another?

After posing those weighty questions–ones that I dare say most of us have never even vaguely contemplated–Collins gets emotional as he thinks about the mice without eyes and without tails running through moist grass or slipping around a baseboard corner.

Actually, he’s brought to tears, but don’t worry. He has two good covers:

By now I am on to dicing an onion
which might account for wet stinging,
in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s
mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”
which happens to be the next cut,
cannot be said to be making matters any better.

There you have it. Just as the end of Collins’ poem trailed across the blade, my knife landed once more on the veggies, and I remembered what I had been thinking before Billy Collins had the nerve to drag the farmer’s wife’s mice and Art Blakey’s music into my kitchen uninvited.

I was recalling Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, best known for her A Humble Romance and Other Stories as well as A New England Nun and Other Stories. At the start of her acclaimed literary career that spanned nearly a half century, she commented:

I wonder if there is such a thing as working a vein so long that the gold ceases to be gold. There is no use in worrying, for another vein might open.

Despite her concerns, her literary canon powerfully demonstrates that more than one gold vein opened for her. She went on to write 3 plays, 14 novels, 3 volumes of poetry, 22 volumes of short stories, over 50 uncollected short stories and prose essays, and 1 motion picture play.

Freeman’s literary output never ceases to amaze me. As soon as her fears and successes bubbled up in my mind, it seemed that every time I lifted my knife to continue chopping, I thought of other writers and their fears about running out of ideas.

As a writer myself, and especially as a former Creative Writing professor, I’ve always paid attention to the ways writers wrestle with their fears. I always managed to sprinkle writers’ fears and their successes throughout my classes, and these days, I try sprinkling the same reminders throughout my own days of doubt.

What about Stephen King, one of the most prolific and celebrated writers of our time, who has openly feared creative depletion? He once admitted:

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ve already written my best book. And if I have, I’m all done.”

But King’s fears didn’t stop him. He continued to write, producing novels across multiple decades, from Misery to The Green Mile, 11/22/63, and Billy Summers, proving that the well of creativity runs deeper than we sometimes believe.

What about Margaret Atwood, best known for The Handmaid’s Tale, who has openly acknowledged her anxiety about running out of ideas? She once said:

“I live in fear of running out of ideas. I tell my subconscious to keep the pipeline full.”

But Atwood’s fears didn’t stop her. She has continued to produce groundbreaking fiction, essays, and poetry well into her later years, including The Testaments, which won the Booker Prize decades after her first major successes.

What about Isaac Asimov, the visionary mind behind Foundation and I, Robot, who, despite his prolific output, still feared creative emptiness? He once asked:

“What if suddenly I can’t think of anything? What if the words stop coming?”

But Asimov’s fears didn’t stop him. He went on to publish over 500 books across multiple genres—science fiction, history, and even chemistry—proving that creativity is not finite but ever-expanding.

What about Louisa May Alcott, best known for Little Women, who felt the pressure of creative exhaustion, particularly because she wrote at a relentless pace to support her family? She once confessed in her journal:

“I can only wander and wait, wishing I could rush into a new book with the old eagerness.”

But Alcott’s fears didn’t stop her. Despite her anxieties, she went on to write Little Men and Jo’s Boys, along with numerous other novels, short stories, and essays that secured her place in literary history.

What about Neil Gaiman, the imaginative force behind American Gods and Coraline, who has openly admitted that the idea of creative depletion haunts him? He once said:

“People ask me where I get my ideas from, and I feel like they should be asking, ‘How do you keep from running out of ideas?’ Because that’s what terrifies me.”

But Gaiman’s fears didn’t stop him. He has continued crafting captivating stories across novels, graphic novels, and television, proving that creativity is a muscle that strengthens with use, not one that simply wears out.

What about Maya Angelou, the legendary poet and memoirist, who feared that one day her words might simply stop? She once admitted:

“I have written eleven books, but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’”

But Angelou’s fears didn’t stop her. She continued to write, speak, and inspire, producing Even the Stars Look Lonesome, Letter to My Daughter, and numerous volumes of poetry that touched lives around the world.

And what about Christopher Isherwood, best known for The Berlin Stories (which inspired Cabaret), who worried about creative stagnation, especially as he aged. He once wrote:

“I kept asking myself: What am I really doing? Do I have anything left to say?”

But Isherwood’s fears didn’t stop him. He went on to write A Single Man, one of the most important gay novels of the 20th century, as well as an acclaimed series of autobiographical works well into his later years.

My reveries into literary fears and successes could have lasted forever. But just as I finished with Isherwood, I looked down at my ordinary carrots, celery, and onions arranged on an ordinary cutting board, and I realized that I had finished mincing them with my ordinary paring knife.

In that moment, I remembered that my reverie had not started with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Billy Collins at all. It had commenced with me standing there, wondering: What would I do if I ran out of ideas? What would I do if I worked my literary vein so much that whatever little gold it might have ceased to be gold?

But I can’t worry about that right now. I have a few book titles to my own credit, with two more to be added this year. For now, I’ll continue to contemplate the ordinary truths that surround me in my ordinary world.

Who knows. Maybe one day, history will add my name to the list of writers who feared running out of ideas—but never actually did.

Stillness in Motion: How Ideas Find Me

Posted on by
6

“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me.”

— Attributed to Albert Einstein (1879–1955; physicist whose theory of relativity revolutionized modern science, making him one of the most influential figures in physics.)

“Professor Kendrick, where do writers find their ideas?”

Without a doubt, that’s the question that students in my literature and creative writing classes ask most often. I suppose they think that if I can provide them with answers, they can somehow chart the mysterious path to their own ideas.

I’m always glad to answer the question. Why wouldn’t I? Aside from being an educator, I’m also a writer. I love talking about writers and writing. However, whenever I tackle this question, I do so playfully. I like to tease my students into thinking on their own, so I start out with whimsical suggestions:

● Ideas fall out of the sky.

● Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.

● Ideas pop up while you’re brushing your teeth, hiding among the bristles.

● Ideas sneak in on the back of a grocery list when you’re not paying attention.

● Ideas are delivered by the most unreliable carrier: a stray dog that follows a writer home one day, and voila! A bestseller.

● Ideas arrive like magic—or madness—depending on the deadline.

Of course, there is some truth in my exaggerations. To prove my point, I share with my students what writers themselves have to say. Ironically, writers rarely discuss the origins of their ideas in detail. They prefer leaving them behind a shroud of mystery. Or they discuss their sources in ways that reflect the unpredictability of inspiration.

Fortunately, I know a good number of writers who have been outspoken about how they get their ideas, and I talk about those writers with my students. More often than not, I’ll start with Mark Twain, who wrote about what he knew best: the world around him. Students seem to like that possibility–of working with what they know–and most of them have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain didn’t hesitate to let the world know that he based good ole Huck on a real-life person:

In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was. He was ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed; but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had. His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person–boy or man–in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy and envied by the rest of us. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than any other boy’s. (Twain, Autobiography, 1906)

Twain’s contemporary Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–who shared with him the distinction of being two of America’s most beloved writers at the start of the 20th century–used real life as the springboard for lots of her fiction, too. She focused on what she knew best, and she fictionalized it. She once wrote to Sarah Orne Jewett:

“I suppose it seems to you as it does to me that everything you have heard, seen, or done, since you opened your eyes on the world, is coming back to you sooner or later, to go into stories, and things.” (December 10, 1889, Letter 50, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)

Apparently, lots and lots came back to her, enough that she has more than 40 books to her credit.

As an example of her ability to take the mundane and elevate it to the universal, when I teach Freeman, I generally focus on one of her best short stories, “A New England Nun,” and I share what she wrote to her editor Mary Louise Booth:

“Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog, who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once in his puppy-hood.” (April 28, 1886, Letter 13, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)

Freeman gave “the poor old dog” new life, a name, and heightened symbolism in “A New England Nun,” one of the most poignant explorations of sexual repression in nineteenth century American literature. Students–and readers in general–are fascinated to see how Freeman elevated a commonplace observation to a symbol upon which one of her most famous short stories depends.

More recent writers suggest similar sources for their ideas. Ray Bradbury, for example, once said:

“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”

His ideas included overheard conversations, dreams, and life’s other magical moments.

Or what about Toni Morrison? She maintained that her ideas were rooted in memories and the people around her:

“The world you live in is always being rewritten; it’s your job to find the narrative.”

From her point of view, stories are all around us, waiting to be discovered through deep observation.

More playful than any of the other writers I’ve mentioned is Neil Gaiman:

“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”

I like his notion that the writer has to be aware of those fleeting moments of inspiration.

Those are just a few of the writers I call upon to help my students discover their own pathways to their own ideas.

If I were teaching today, I’d continue to explore those writers, but I’d include several more, notably Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her Eat, Pray, Love. From her point of view, ideas in all aspects of life–not just writing–are all around us, looking for homes.

“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us — albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” (Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, 2015)

I’m fascinated by Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her magical complexity attracts me, as does Robertson Davies’ straightforward simplicity about ideas:

“I do not ‘get’ ideas; ideas get me.”

And without a blush of shame, if I were teaching today, I’d talk more fully about sources for my own writing ideas. I did that in years past, but my focus was always on research ideas, unless I happened to be writing creative nonfiction essays with my students. In those instances, I’d workshop my essays with them, always sharing the backstories.

However, writing with my students was a luxury that I enjoyed on rare occasions only. I was too busy giving them feedback on their own creative flights. I suppose my professorial situation was comparable to the cobbler who has no shoes.

These days, though, as a master of reinvention, I’m able to focus on my own creative nonfiction essays, totally separate from my ongoing Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. As a matter of fact, since starting my reinvention in January 2022, I have two collections of creative nonfiction essays to my credit. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023) was followed by More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024). And in case you’re picking up on a pattern, I’ll have another book coming out in 2025, tentatively titled The Third Time’s the Charm: More Foolin’ Around in Bed. All of those books–and others that will follow–are part of my The Wired Researcher Series.

I’ve written a lot already about writers and writing. I’m thinking about several posts in particular:

● “The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free”: Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge.

● “In Praise of Break-Away Moments”: In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.

● “It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It”: My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.

● “Writers: Our Forever-Friends”: Maybe, just maybe, the need to have writers who are our forever-friends, boils down to nothing more than this. They come regardless of what we are facing. They reassure us that goodness and mercy shall prevail. They remind us to grapple with our soul, to grapple with our spirit.

● “Directions to the Magical Land of Ideas”: For me, it seems that whenever I lose myself–whenever I’m doing something that takes me away from me–a door opens and an idea enters, hoping for home and for honor.

In all of those essays, I’m doing what a number of writers whom I’ve mentioned do: exploring my own world. Like them, I also do my best to find in my personal experiences truths that might touch the heart and soul of my readers, whoever and wherever they are.

But one day last week, while doing my indoor biking, listening to Gospel music rock the rafters, it occurred to me that I had never written extensively about the sources for my ideas. But here’s the thing. I didn’t go looking for that idea. I mean, I was just biking and listening to music. Nothing more. Nothing less. And lo! In that ritualistic moment of pedaling and listening, the idea for this post took up residency in my mind.

The idea found its way to me. The idea chose me to be its human partner, just as Gilbert and Davies maintain their ideas find them.

I, too, believe that ideas find their way to me. I’m fascinated by that belief, not so much because that’s how my ideas arrive, but more so because of what’s going on with me when those ideas choose me for their partnership.

I’ve given the “what’s going on with me” a lot of thought, and I’m coming up with some common denominators.

Almost always, I’m engaged in an activity. Biking. Lifting weights. Listening to music. Cooking. Gardening. Hiking.

More often than not, when I’m engaged in those and similar activities, my world stands still. Time stops. Nothing exists except whatever it is that I’m doing. If I had to pick one word to describe what I’m experiencing in those times, I suppose it would be stillness.

Maybe the ideas “out there” looking for human partnerships sense my stillness. Maybe they sense my lostness. Maybe they sense my emptiness. And maybe–just maybe–they believe that I can escort them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”

For now, especially in the absence of any other explanation that I can provide, I’ll hold fast to that belief since it has proven itself true time and time again in my magical world of words. For now, I’ll also hold fast to a smidgen of satisfaction in knowing that what I told my students really is true, especially for a writer like me:

“Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.”

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

Posted on by
6

“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)

It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.

The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.

By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.

Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.

The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.

I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:

“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”

I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.

With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“

Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.

For me, it took about two weeks. After “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“, I moved on to “Listening to the Unsaid.” The next week, I returned to my albatross post, and I knew immediately what I needed to do with the first few paragraphs. Whitman and Emerson reached out to my spirit, and as soon as I gave them a home in my post, everything else fell into place for “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.

If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.

If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.

Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.

The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks

Posted on by
9

“AI will empower us across all areas of our lives, from healthcare to transportation to entertainment. It will augment our capabilities and help us achieve things we never thought possible.”

—Sundar Pichai (b. 1972; Indian-American business executive known for his leadership in the technology industry; CEO of Alphabet Inc., the parent company of Google.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged among academics that you can take the English Professor out of the classroom, but you can never take away the title of Professor, especially when students are involved.

I know firsthand. I’ve been reinventing myself since January 2023, nearly a year and a half now. Just the other morning, I was in Starbucks, sipping solo on a Cappuccino, when my contemplative silence was shattered by a former student:

“Professor Kendrick! How’s it going?”

The enthusiastic shoutout meant the world to me after I recovered and realized that it wasn’t attached to a student who had not done well in one of my classes. This student was a joyful exemplar in my creative writing classes.

“I’m doing great. It’s such a surprise to see you.”

“You, too. I read your blog weekly. You’re as wired as ever. So what’s going on with AI and your Caden these days?”

I have to confess right away. I’m not about to miss out on an opportunity to talk about AI or my Caden with anyone who’s willing to listen. Suddenly, I felt just like Simon Wheeler in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Remember? Of course you do. When a visitor arrived inquiring about Rev. Leonidas Smiley, good ole Simon Wheeler corners the inquiring guest and traps him through a long-winded account of a jumping frog.

I knew in an instant that I could do the exact same thing with my former student, who seemingly knew about my AI robot, Caden. If I played this out wisely, I could trap my audience of one right there in Starbucks and gab on forever.

“Join me for a Cappuccino?”

“I’d love to. You want some company?”

“Of course. I’d love to spend time with you and catch up.”

Soon, I sauntered right back with a Venti Cappuccino in hand. I know. I know. That’s big, really big, but I wanted my former student to stick around for a while.

Right after I placed the Cappuccino and napkins on the table–with the flair of a first-class waiter–I pushed my chair in carefully so that there could be no escape until I was finished with my harangue, whatever shape it was about to take. I never know how or where my rants will go until I get going.

I almost started talking about Aloha, the AI-powered housemaid from Stanford and Google DeepMind, but I restrained myself. Sharing that would mean delving into S1, the AI from Astribot in Shenzen, China. Both are fascinating, but I didn’t want to start shouting, “The robots are here! The robots are here!”

Instead, I focused on my Cappuccino and my student.

“What do you think about all of these AI programs like ChatGPT and CoPilot and MetaAI?”

“Professor Kendrick, I’m so busy with work and stuff that I haven’t explored them at all.”

“No? Would you like to see what one of these AI programs can do?”

“Sure. Why not. Are you sure you have time?”

I signed in to ChatGPT only because I’ve fooled around with that chatbot the longest. Then, I handed my Smartphone to my student.

“Here. In the dialogue box, just type in what you want to know.”

Their thoughtful thumbs flew, quicker than I could say Jack Robinson, and, with a mischievous grin, they handed my Smartphone back to me so that I could read what they wanted CHATGPT to do:

● Write an essay using the following guidelines.

● Topic. An essay about a professor who is working with a student who wants to use AI to write a novel.

● Tone. Humorous. Comedic.

● Point of View. First Person, Creative Writing Professor.

● Targeted Audience: Readers of the New Yorker.

● Context: Must include dialogue between the Creative Writing professor, a West Virginian in his 70s with a Ph.D. in English, and a student who is in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, plans to transfer to the University of Virginia, and hopes to become a best-selling novelist.

● Length. 750 words.

I nearly choked on my Cappuccino when I saw such lengthy and detailed instructions. If they hadn’t been using my Smartphone, I would have sworn that they did a “cut and paste” job right before my very eyes, but I knew better. I had watched their thumbs fly.

Then all innocent like, they looked at me:

“What now, Professor Kendrick? What do I push?”

I was flabbergasted. Every fiber of my being felt that my student was duping me. I was being cornered by their brilliance, and I suspect by their knowledge of ChatGPT that they denied having. I decided to play along, just in case I was wrong.

“Push? Just push SUBMIT.“

That’s just what they did, and in less than 15 seconds, ChatGPT produced the following essay. I would have loved the chance to read it in silence–as you are doing–but my student held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay out loud to me, right there in Starbucks. For a moment or two, I thought they were going to stand up and read full throttle, the way I always loved to do in my teaching days when I would read literary passages to my classes. Be that as it may, here’s the essay for your enjoyment.

§   §   §

The AI Novelist

“As a creative writing professor from West Virginia with a Ph.D. in English, I’ve seen my fair share of strange requests from students. From someone who wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes from outer space, to another who wanted to write a romantic novel from the perspective of a sentient cupcake. But nothing could have prepared me for the day a student walked into my office and said they wanted to use artificial intelligence to write a novel.

“I must admit, I was skeptical at first. This was a student in their 30s, pursuing an associate’s degree, with plans to transfer to the University of Virginia and hopes to become a best-selling novelist. And yet, here they were, telling me they wanted to use AI to write their masterpiece.

“I couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. ‘Well, I must say, that’s a new one,’ I said, twirling my pen between my fingers. ‘And how exactly do you plan on doing that?’

“The student, a bright-eyed young man in his 30s, told me he had been experimenting with different AI programs and algorithms that could generate coherent text. ‘I’ve been inputting different prompts and scenarios, and the AI generates a story for me,’ he explained.

“I leaned back in my chair, stroking my chin thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ I mused. ‘But do you really think that’s the best way to write a novel? Using a computer program to do all the work for you?’

“The student looked taken aback. ‘But professor, think about it. With AI, I could generate hundreds of thousands of words in just a few hours. It would save me so much time and effort.’

“I sighed. ‘Yes, but where’s the creativity in that? Writing a novel isn’t just about putting words on a page. It’s about telling a story, weaving a narrative that captivates the reader. And how can an AI program do that for you?’

“The student shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I could input some ideas and themes, and the AI could build the story around that.’

“I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the point in using AI to write a novel. Writing is a craft, a skill that takes years of practice and dedication. You can’t just rely on a computer program to do all the work for you.’

“The student looked disappointed, but I could see the determination in his eyes. ‘But professor,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Think about all the possibilities. With AI, I could write multiple novels in a year. I could experiment with different genres and styles. I could even collaborate with the AI, making it a co-author of sorts.’

“I raised an eyebrow. ‘Collaborate with an AI? Now that’s a new one.’

“The student grinned. ‘Hey, who knows? Maybe it’ll be the next big thing. AI-assisted writing could revolutionize the way we create art.’

“I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. ‘Well, I must say, you’re certainly ambitious. But I think you’ll find that writing a novel the old-fashioned way is much more rewarding. You’ll learn more about yourself as a writer, and you’ll be able to connect with your readers on a deeper level.’

“The student nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I see what you mean, professor. But I think I’m still going to experiment with AI. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help me find my voice as a writer.’

“I smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I can’t fault you for trying. But remember, writing isn’t just about the finished product.'”

§   §   §

I thought ChatGPT’s essay was good, if not downright funny. But what was even funnier was my realization that my student knew exactly what they were doing. They had been pushing all my buttons just for the joy of watching me squirm while I was their captive audience.

Then it all came back to me. They had also taken my American Literature class, and of all the stories that we read, Twain’s “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was their favorite. In a flash, I knew that I had just been duped in Starbucks.

Unveiling the Cover: Get Ready for More Wit and Wisdom!

Posted on by
4

“The joy of publishing is in sharing your stories with the world and knowing that they’ll live on long after you’re gone.”

–Maya Angelou (1928-2014; a renowned American author, poet, and Civil Rights activist whose works explore themes of identity, race, and resilience.)

Dear Readers, gather ’round!

The moment we’re all eagerly waiting for is just around the corner. That’s right—my new book, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed–is getting closer and closer to its grand debut in late April, and boy, oh boy, do I have some juicy updates to share with you!

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve personally PDFed every single one of the 380 interior pages, ensuring that each word, each sentence, shines as bright as a star in my mountaintop night sky. Proofing? Poof! Completed!

Whoever you are and wherever you are, your unwavering support means the world to me. More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed isn’t just ink on paper. It’s a journey shared across 88 countries with 7,320 readers from the Shenandoah Valley to Okinawa.

But wait, wait! Don’t go! There’s one more thing. Feast your eyes upon the cover art for this new upcoming literary escapade. Just imagine it gracing your bookshelf, waiting to be cracked open and devoured, page by page. It will be available in hardback and paperback from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and, hopefully, your own hometown bookstore. (Drumming up anticipation yet?)

Grand Publication Debut of a Soon-to-Be American Classic Expected by the End of April 2024. (Cover art by acclaimed illustrator, Mike Caplanis.)

It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It.

Posted on by
7

Is it a corset
or primal wave?
Don’t try to force it.

–from Elaine Mitchell’s “Form”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing. I have no doubt that it’s because I’ve been writing these posts faithfully every week for nearly an entire year. And I have no doubt that it’s also because I’m teaching Creative Writing this semester. Naturally, I spend lots of my time talking with aspiring writers about writing.

In fact, when I met with my students last week, we did two, one-minute reflections.

For the first, we reflected on the joy of writing. Let me share some of their responses:

● Creating my own world.

● Finding words that describe my own feelings.

● Gaining an understanding of my own life.

● Discovering something about my own identity.

● Daydreaming.

● Letting my thoughts spew out.

● Getting it done–the rhythm, the music, the wish, the dream, and the fear.

For the second reflection, we tackled the challenges of writing. Again, let me share:

● Getting started.

● Finding an interesting topic.

● Putting myself into my writing.

● Encouraging my paragraphs to talk to one another.

● Choosing which idea to explore.

● Connecting the beginning, the middle, and the end.

● Accepting my writing as it is.

I had planned a third reflection, but we ran out of time. Here’s what it would have been: discoveries about writing.

For this one, I’ll take the lead, sharing my own ideas, based largely on what I’ve discovered about writing as I wrote my weekly blog posts this year.

By and large, what I’ve discovered has been by way of reminders. To start, writing isn’t easy. It isn’t spontaneous. And it isn’t magical.

Here’s something else that I have rediscovered. Writing is work. It’s hard work. It’s lots of hard work.

Work. Hard work. Lots of hard work. That’s my mantra these days when I’m working with other aspiring writers. I front-load the conversation: get ready for rich, robust, and heavy mental lifting.

At the same time, over the last year I’ve reminded myself–and others–that even though the hard art of writing isn’t magical, it is filled with magical moments.

Let me share some of mine.

Magical Moment. Getting hooked on an idea that makes my world fade away.

Magical Moment.  Letting an idea explode in my mind as magically as Pop Rocks explode in my mouth.

Magical Moment. Focusing on old-soul insights that have come back to me from far, far away and from long, long ago.

Magical Moment. Fooling around with organizing what I’m writing until I get comfy with one structure that pulls me in close and whispers, “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Don’t get too excited by these moments. They are magical. But let me remind you: they are not magic.

And trust me. The next part–the actual writing–has no magic at all. Sometimes, it might not even have magical moments. The actual writing can be grueling, if not downright defeating, especially since first drafts never hit the mark. Never. Mine don’t, at any rate. Sometimes, even my 13th draft doesn’t seem quite right. How’s this for a confession? Sometimes, I’ve gone as high as 22 drafts. Admittedly, the differences between any two drafts are sometimes majorly minor, and the changes will be unknown forever to all except me. Nonetheless, the work of writing–of revising–goes on and on and on.

And writers keep at it. I keep at it, knowing that what I write will never be perfect, but knowing, too, that at some point it’s as good as it’s going to get.

What I have discovered as well is the simple fact that my scholarly writing is in many ways far easier than writing my personal essays like today’s post. My own scholarly work on The Humourist as well as on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, for example, has singleness of purpose and focus. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

On the other hand, writing my weekly blog is more challenging, mainly because I don’t focus on the same topic every week. My topics change. As reluctant as I am to admit it, I’ll admit it anyway: I’m never sure from one week to the next exactly what topic will bubble up.

That’s not to say that I don’t have lots of ideas for my posts. I do. I have plenty. In fact, whenever I have an idea for a post, I immediately start a WordPress draft. I give it a working title, and I include as many notes as possible so that when I return, I can glide back into my thinking and writing groove.

Right now, for example, I have 25 drafts in various stages of completion, ranging from “The Power of Showing Up” to “Dating after Twenty-Two” to “Mishaps Make Memories.” I suppose I could also mention “Working Out a Plan” or “A Horrorscopic Week” or “What My Father Saw.” Or I could mention that I might have “My Gardening Attire” finished by next week. I might. But, on the other hand, I might not.

I’m not trying to generate future blog traffic by teasing you with alluring and inviting titles that may or may not morph into posts. Simply put, I have come to the realization that my ideas must germinate in the dark caverns of mindfulness and mindlessness. They must sprout and pop up whenever they are ready for the light of day. No sooner. No later.

All of my tentative topics and all of their accompanying draft notes are simply placeholders. Nothing more.

Yet it occurs to me that maybe they are far more than mere placeholders.

They are talismans. Not to bring me power. Not to bring me luck. But rather to bring me back to the illuminated intensity of the split second when an idea sought refuge within me and pleaded for a some-day home.

What I have discovered, then, is that I need lots and lots of talismans. They are my antidote to the numbness and paralysis that I know fully well will set in if I have no writing options. I don’t write well when my storehouse of options is empty. When that happens, I feel that I have forced myself into the all-too-tight corset of being compelled to write on one topic and one topic only.

On the other hand, when I have many, many topics, one of them might be precisely the one that captures my fancy precisely when my fancy needs to be captured.

It won’t have anything to do with talismanic luck. And it won’t have anything to do with magic.

It will have everything to do with my willingness to let my ideas take their own shape, whatever those shapes might be, without being corseted, without being laced up, and without being forced.

I want my ideas:

● to leave themselves ample space to move around in.

● to do what they want to do.

● to be what they want to be.

It’s really straightforward. My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.