Tag Archives: writing

Extra! Extra! Read All About It! A Blog Is Born!

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“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”

–Carl Sagan (1934–1996; astronomer and science communicator who inspired millions through his work on Cosmos and popular science writing.)

Tell me to do something, and I probably won’t do it. It smacks too much of being ordered around. No, thank you. Most of the time–though not always–I prefer to do the bossing.

On the other hand, suggest that I do something–maybe even challenge me to do something–and I’ll probably do it. Yes, thank you. I thrive on encouragement.

That’s exactly how today’s post began. One of my followers–my Linden Correspondent (LC)–suggested that the world at large might be revved and ready to know how my wired blog began! I thought LC’s suggestion was splendid, especially since my blog just celebrated its 12th anniversary. What better time than now to share the electrifying backstory.

With a growing readership of 13,782 (and counting!), I like to think my blog has found its niche. My readers value my blog for what it is today: a succession of riveting and captivating creative nonfiction essays that appear magically every Monday morning just in time for that first cup of coffee–that is for early risers who get their brew going early. That’s why I make a point of posting before 7am. While I sip on my coffee and savor what I wrote, I like to think that the entire world is doing the same thing.

Every Monday morning, you’ll find me in my reading chair with Ruby—my 60-pound lapdog—perusing my post while she peruses me. Sometimes, I smile and say aloud for her amusement:

“Wow, Kendrick! That’s a remarkable sentence. If you keep cranking out little gems like that, maybe one day you’ll end up somewhere as someone’s endnote.”

Yep. An endnote. Ironically, I guess that’s where we all end up: Someone’s endnote.

That’s not such a bad thing, you know. An endnote here. An endnote there. It seems to me that achieving a memorable, perhaps quotable phrase here and there is probably far wiser than having the entire canon of my work ricocheting around the world.

Stop and think about it for a minute or three. Look, for example, at what Benjamin Franklin achieved as a writer. Let’s focus on his Poor Richard’s Almanack, published annually from 1732 to 1758—nearly a quarter of a century of wit and wisdom.

Most people today can recall only a handful of Franklin’s most famous sayings, like:

● “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
● “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
● “No gains without pains.”

Please tell me, Dear Reader, that you know those sayings, for if you don’t, you surely won’t know these:

● “Well done is better than well said.”
● “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
● “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”

Indeed, Franklin managed to do both: he wrote things worth reading and did things worth writing. And, as I like to say:

“Endnoted.”

But let me take you back to where I began: the beginning of this blog.

I am so sorely tempted to say:

“It was a dark and stormy night …”

And that’s exactly what I would say, but if I said that I would have to note that Edward Bulwer-Lytton opened his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford with those words. As much as I hate to say it, because I am a stickler on documentation, I have grown weary of all the endnoting that I keep noting. Let us then move on to something that requires no noting.

Whew! I don’t know about you, but I feel notably relieved already.

LC must be relieved, too, to see that, at last, I’m getting around to sharing with the world the story behind the birth of my blog. But, as they say, every blog has its story, and mine is no exception.

Here’s what’s fascinating. Today, I am known around the world for my weekly memoir blog posts talking about anything from Aging to Zippers and about everything in between.

But when the idea for my blog came to me in 2012, I had a sharp, narrow, scholarly focus. I was working on my application for the VCCS Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship Program. At the heart of my application was the scholarly research that I wanted to do with a remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements published pseudonymously under the name of “The Humourist” in the South Carolina Gazette during 1753-1754. The unique essays had never been reprinted, so they remained “hidden” and “undiscovered,” so to speak, in that newspaper. Further, no one knew who wrote the essays. Well, I was 99% certain that I knew, but I needed to do additional research and analysis to confirm my suspicions. In that sense, my project was a literary “whodunit” involving three things.

First, I planned to prepare a critical, annotated edition of the essays.

Second, I planned to develop a convincing case for authorial attribution based on a preponderance of internal evidence as well as on stylometrics.

Third, throughout the process of preparing the critical, annotated edition and developing a case for authorial attribution, I planned to give the essays a “close reading.” I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost:

“We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in high school. Once we have learned to read, the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”

I always shared that wisdom with my students. Learning to read—really read—gets to the heart of what we want our students to do, not just in English classes but across the board. When students slow down and give a text a close reading, critical thinking and intellectual discovery follow.

As Frost knew so well, that is what “learning to read” is all about. Further, when students learn how to really read, they can construct their own intellectual inquiries: “the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us.”

I always shared that belief—and approach—with my students without fail. I showed them how to learn to read, class after class, reading assignment after reading assignment, as I gave whatever literary selection we were reading my own close reading and as I made my own discoveries about a text. They were intrigued not only by my process but also by the discoveries that I made simply because of my dogged determination to give a text—any text—a close reading.

In my application, that’s precisely what I proposed to do with “The Humourist” essays. I wanted the opportunity to give the essays such a close reading that I would be able not only to establish a scholarly, annotated edition but also to identify the author.

I was really happy with that part of my application, but I knew that I needed something more. I needed a way to share my scholarly work on a regular basis with my colleagues and my students so that they could benefit, too.

I needed an idea. As I sat there on that January 8th evening, well into the third or fourth or maybe even fifth revision of my application, I started thinking about Daniel Boorstin (1975-1987), twelfth Librarian of Congress. A champion of accessibility, he worked to open the library to the public in symbolic and practical ways. He placed picnic tables and benches on Neptune Plaza, transforming it into a space for community gatherings. He initiated mid-day concerts and famously removed the chains from the majestic bronze doors at the first-floor west entrance leading to the Great Hall of the Jefferson Building. When told it would create a draft, he replied, “Great—that’s just what we need.”  In a bold move, he even stopped the practice of searching visitors.

At that time, I worked at the Library of Congress as an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, and I well remember the occasion when the bronze doors were opened. If I am not mistaken, it was on this occasion that I heard Dr. Boorstin say:

“You never know when an idea is about to be born.“

His comment lingered, and since hearing it, I made a point to keep track of when my own ideas were born.

So it came to be. While thinking about Boorstin, ideas, and my project, I exclaimed to myself:

“Blog it!”

I knew that a blog would allow me to share with the entire world my challenges, discoveries, and joys of research.

I knew that a blog would allow me to share with others this remarkable collection of Colonial American essays, songs, poems, and advertisements. The Encyclopedia of the Essay (ed. Tracy Chevalier, 1997) placed “The Humourist” essays in the tradition of Samuel Johnson’s Rambler essays and observed that they are the only “full-fledged literary” works to have appeared in the South Carolina Gazette. Years earlier, J. A. Leo Lemay (du Pont Winterthur Professor of English at the University of Delaware) had noted in A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature (1969) that the essays should be edited, published, and the author identified.

This was hot! I knew that I could make “stuffy” literary research come alive in a blog. Colleagues and students and scholars and the world at large would love it. I knew they would because who wouldn’t love essays on par with Benjamin Franklin’s “Silence Dogood Letters”? Get this, too. Franklin had direct ties to the South Carolina Gazette and possibly to the author of “The Humourist” essays.

I knew, too, that aside from being in the essay tradition itself, a blog would allow me to share my project with faculty and students throughout the Virginia Community College System (VCCS), from the beginning of my work and every step of the way through completion. I realized that a blog would allow me to capture my personal experiences on a regular and ongoing basis: my work, my methods, my discoveries, my challenges and frustrations, and my joys.

I knew that a blog would allow me to do in the virtual world—using a heretofore unstudied literary work—exactly what I did in my classroom with literary works that appear in our textbooks: turn my blog followers on to the beauty of giving a text a close reading and turn them my on to “learning how to read,” showing them that once they learned how to read all else would be given to them.

That same evening, I came up with a working title: The Wired Researcher.  I Googled it and was delighted to discover that no such blog existed.

As I often do, I emailed a former student—a lover of language and words and ideas—to get her take on my blog idea.

She responded immediately:

The word “wired” will catch the attention of …The Young.  They’ll think you are “hip.”

You’ll need a logo.  You’ll need T-shirts with the logo on them.  You need pens that say, “The Wired Researcher.”  “Sold in libraries everywhere.”  “Guaranteed to make study more exciting.” Oh, boy, I see tie-ins!

Clearly my former student was as wired as I was—perhaps that’s why I valued her opinions as highly as I did—but her email response gave affirmation to the title of the blog that had been born.

Here’s where the birth of the blog starts to get really sweet. I was awarded the Chancellor’s Commonwealth Professorship (2012-2014).

My first announcement appeared on October 19, 2012. It was short!

“Welcome to The Wired Researcher! Blog posts will begin on November 26, 2012.”

True to my promise, on November 26, I published “Opportunity Knocks Twice in the Virginia Community College System.” That post included the first of the historical essays that served as the nucleus for my project: “The Humourist” (November 26, 1753). Yep. Choosing to launch my blog on November 26, the same day that the Humourist launched his essays, was deliberate, and if I must say so myself, I think it was a stroke of genius!

And so, The Wired Researcher was born—not just as a blog, but as a way for me to share my love of research with a world eager to learn about my discoveries.

Now you have the inside scoop. If you want to know more, simply go back to the beginning and read all the posts from the start. But whatever you do, please make certain that you read “Colonial Charleston’s Biggest Literary Mystery Is Solved!” Yep. I solved the literary whodunit that captured me in the first place. Then you have to read “Three Special Shout-Outs!” because behind every success story are lots of people who deserve praise and thanks!

Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet. I have one or two more things to share.

When my blog started, I had around 1,750 views a year, representing 33 countries. So far this year, it has soared to an impressive 13,782 views from 152 countries! I must be writing something right!

To each and every one of you, My Dear Readers–then, now, and all along the way–a special shout-out!

To my Linden Correspondent (LC), who tossed out the idea that I share the story behind the blog, I extend a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious thank-you! (As Mary Poppins would say, nothing else captures the exuberance quite right!)

I look forward to a future of Mondays, inspired by the joy of discovery and by the connections that I’m making with all of you.

P. S. The joy of sharing new ideas awaits us all!

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

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“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”

—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

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“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.

When the Heat Is On: Cue the Vacay!

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“You don’t have to be rich to travel well.”

–Eugene Fodor (1905–1991; notable American travel writer and editor best known for founding Fodor’s Travel Publications).

All right, everyone, indulge me for a moment and imagine something a bit out of the ordinary.

Close your eyes and conjure up an image the likes of which I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before. Picture a man in his 70s, proudly sporting a ponytail that flutters like a whimsical flag in the breeze, perched precariously atop his chimney. Clad in well-worn flip flops and cut-off blue-jean shorts that reveal a pair of weathered but surprisingly spry and some-say-sexy legs, he stands with the kind of balance that suggests he’s either a seasoned acrobat or a silly fool blissfully unaware of danger.

From this lofty perch, he’s gazing out over the Shenandoah Valley below, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf’s, while the mountains in the distance seem to be returning their own salubrious salutation. With all the gusto of a wired researcher on a caffeine overdose, he belts out the Hallelujah Chorus at full volume, his voice soaring like a defiant eagle. His performance is a grand spectacle of unbridled joy and unequaled eccentricity, turning the chimney into his personal stage and the sky into his private audience.

In case you’re wondering who this daring rooftop performer is and why he’s carrying on such shenanigans, lean in close, and I’ll tell you. It’s me! I’m celebrating what appears to be the temporary end of an exhausting heat wave and drought by having my own imaginary rooftop concert that would make any diva proud. After enduring what felt like a never-ending barrage of scorching temperatures and parched landscapes, I figured it was high time for a little over-the-top jubilation. And if there’s anything that I love, it’s everything over-the-top.

Cooler temps and rain seem to be headed our way, and I’m embracing the arrival of this much-needed relief with the kind of exuberance that only a seasoned professor of hot weather clichés could cobble together. It’s been so blisteringly hot that I nearly froze to death, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve become a connoisseur of every sun-scorched saying you can imagine. I’ve spent weeks sweating buckets, trying not to fry like an egg on the hood of my Gladiator, and lamenting the fact that my car seats are doubling as personal saunas. I’ve become a pro at grumbling about the weather, wondering whether my walkway pavers were actually sizzling, and dreaming of anything that wasn’t a mirage.

Guess what else I did during the sweltering days that are temporarily behind us? I put off more tasks than Carter’s got liver pills! Yep. The heat and drought have been an excuse, whether I was avoiding the garden beds that have turned into dust bowls or ignoring other projects that seemed like too much effort in a heatwave. I’ve postponed weedwhacking, repairing the leaky faucet that’s been dripping like a leaky faucet (because, let’s face it, who wants to fix a sink when it feels like you’re living inside an oven?), and even organizing the loft, which has somehow become a haphazard shrine to summer’s oppressive heat.

Guess what else I did? I decided that I needed to take a vacation! Yep. You heard me right. I decided that I needed some good old-fashioned downtime. But dayum! Before I could even plan to take it, I found myself all curled up and relaxed with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) so that I could find out all about the vacation that the dreaded heat and drought convinced me that I needed to take.

As might be expected, our kith and kin Across the Pond used the word vacation as a noun long before we did, all the way back in 1405:

“Whan he hadde leyser and vacacion ffrom oother worldly ocupacion” (Chaucer, Wife of Bath’s Tale Prologue l. 683).

Isn’t that fascinating? Of course it is. More fascinating, though, is the fact that we Americans used it first as a verb in 1866:

“Whether Winter or summer, … threading the filthy lands of the Ghetto or vacationing among the islands, Mr. Howells found Venice … a theme for constant studies” (Round Table 8 September 90/2).

Now that I’m all squared away on the word vacation, I think I’ll spend just another second or two finding out when the phrase take a vacation was first used. You might have known it. The OED has the scoop:

“Smoke Jordan tried hard to get him to … maybe take a vacation, Florida’s nice. ‘Get yourself wheeled up and down like an icky banker?’” (D. Baker, Young Man with Horn, 1938)

What the OED does not disclose is fascinating as well, and I wouldn’t know it if I had not wanted to find out who “D. Baker” is. As it turns out, Dorothy Baker was an American novelist who loved jazz. In fact, her Young Man with Horn was based on real-life jazz cornet player Bix Beiderbecke. Even better is this hot tidbit: the novel was made into a 1950 movie featuring such hotties as Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, Lauren Bacall, Juano Hernández, and Beiderbecke’s friend and collaborator Hoagy Carmichael.

Well, these word trips are turning out to be as much fun as a vacay! OMG! Did I just use that word? Well, I did, and since my OED is still open (virtually), I just have to see when vacay was first used. I’m betting that it was coined by an American. Those Brits have no problem when they need to stoop to conquer, but they would never think about stooping low enough to truncate a word. Well, I was right. Vacay was first used in 1992:

“He said he was going on vacay and would give me something after he gets back” (Re: More on getting Gigs in rec. music. makers 14 January, Usenet newsgroup., accessed 13 Sept. 2013).

Just a sec, though. I might be wrong to claim the first usage as American. The OED‘s citation is rather shabby, in my opinion, and I can’t determine the authorship with any certainty. Lector: Cave a fidem non probatis.

I shall not, then, trust my initial claim, but I shall trust my subsequent claim that the next usage of the word vacay was American. It appeared in 1995 in the Pittsburg-Post Gazette:

“The convertible … was my Mom’s, we were on vacay” (16 July g8/2).

As for va-cay, vakay, and va-kay–those variant spellings of vacay–the OED has not seen fit to include them at all. I find that rather strange, however, since I am certain that I have seen them in use somewhere or other, perhaps right here in my blog. Ab ridiculo ad sublimem transire.

Hooey phooey is all that I have to say. Leave it to me to turn a vacation into a bunch of malarkey!

However, in case you’re thinking that you might need a vacation, let me help you. If you find yourself nodding along to any of the subsequent scenarios, it’s time to cue the vacay:

● Work: Your boss thinks “work-life balance” means balancing more work on your plate. Your to-do list looks like a never-ending scroll of doom. You start dreaming about spreadsheets. You feel like a juggler on a unicycle, minus the thrill. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Social Media: You’ve scrolled so much that you start liking your own posts. You find yourself in a deep rabbit hole, liking posts from three years ago, and you’re contemplating the philosophical implications of cat memes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Family Gatherings: Your aunt asks (for the 15th time) why you’re still single. You’re dodging advice and daydreaming about automated responses. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dieting: You’re on a diet of kale smoothies and quinoa bowls, and you start dreaming about burgers and ice cream like they’re forbidden treasures from a lost civilization. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Home Improvement Projects: Your “quick” weekend project turns into a month-long renovation of ginormous proportions, complete with a gazillion trips to the hardware store and questionable structural changes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● News: You’re considering a bunker in the backyard. Dystopian novels of doom and gloom look cheerful compared to your news feed. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dating Apps: You’re swiping so much that it feels like a full-time job. Your thumb is sore, your eyes are glazed over, and every profile starts to blend into one amor(ph)ous blob. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Exercise Regimens: Your workout routine feels more like a medieval torture session. You’re dreading your workouts more than a trip to the dentist. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Parenting: “Me time” means locking yourself in the bathroom with a chocolate bar. Your rare escape feels like a luxury retreat. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Blogging: Your efforts to craft engaging content week after week during a record-breaking heat wave and drought feel like an endless marathon. You’re standing on the chimney singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Yep. Cue the vacay!

Dayum! Dayum!! Dayum!!! Here I’ve done gone and paved the way for me to have a perfectly legit blogging vacay this week, and wouldn’t you just know it! I’ve done gone and cranked out today’s blog anyway! Phooey!

Clearly, my brain has been baking in the sun too long. Tuff. I’ll keep right on gazing from my imaginary chimney perch, realizing that, sometimes, the best way for me to break free from the grind and the heat is to let my imagination run wild and embrace the breeze of a little bit of whimsical madness.

I hope that you, Dear Reader, find your own rooftop, whether real or metaphorical, and that you sing your heart out when the world gets a little too hot to handle. Whether it’s a break from work, social media, family, or even blogging, taking a vacay isn’t just about escaping the heat—it’s about rediscovering the joy in life’s little quirks and celebrating them with gusto.

Cheers to your vacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.

“Always Done It This Way.”

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“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”

–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

A Special Shout-Out to 6,164 Amazing Readers Around the World!

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“A writer only begins a book. A reader finishes it.”

—Samuel Johnson (1709-1784; English writer, poet, essayist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, editor, and lexicographer; best known for his A Dictionary of the English Language, 1755.)

I just checked my blog’s mid-year statistics, and I am thrilled beyond measure. Together, we did it! 6,164 of you have been reading my blog posts this year.

For me, that’s incredibly awesome.

I couldn’t have done it without you, my loyal readers. You have fueled my passion for writing, and it’s your engagement that motivates me to share not only stories but also moments of laughter, reflection, and sometimes even tears.

Reflecting on the Journey

When I shifted the focus of my blog from research to memoir, I had no idea that it would grow into what it is now. Each week, I pour my heart into writing, hoping to connect with you through my words. This journey has been one of personal growth and deep connection, overcoming initial uncertainties to find a community of readers who connect with what I write.

Highlights of the Year So Far

Let me share with you the posts that have been the most popular during the last six months:

● Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

● Confessions of an Editor: The Infant Sphinx Reviewed

● When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)

● From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink

● From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Garden Tradition

● My Taxing Review: A Reality Post

● Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

● Abandon Hope? Not a Chance!

● My Kentucky Wonder

● What My Father Saw

● Not Alone

Looking Ahead

In case you’re wondering about future posts, let me share with you the tentative titles of drafts that I’m working on:

● The AI Times They Are A-Changin’

● The Sweet Taste of Defeat

● Literary Crosswalks at 76

● What I Would Say to My 18-Year-Old Self

● Fanning the Flame

● Turning Out the Lights: Reflections on Endurance and Hope

● Bigger than Ourselves

● Age of No Credit

● In Praise of Gratitude

● I Don’t Have Much to Give but What I Have I Give

● I Made It All Up

Looking at the Countries You Represent

And you, my 6,164 readers? What about you? You represent 145 countries from all around the world, showcasing an incredible diversity of cultures and perspectives. From Afghanistan to Zambia, including Bahrain, Cambodia, Denmark, Ecuador, Gabon, Hong Kong SAR China, Iceland, Japan, Kazakhstan, Latvia, Macao SAR China, Namibia, Oman, Pakistan, Qatar, Romania, Saudi Arabia, Taiwan, U.S. Virgin Islands, United States, United Kingdom, and Venezuela.

A Special Thank You

I want to give a special shoutout to each and every one of you, whoever you are, and wherever you are.

● You are my joy.

● You are my inspiration.

● You are my world.

Let Me Be Frank

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“The real problem is not whether machines think but whether men do.”

–B. F. Skinner (American psychologist, behaviorist, author, and social philosopher, best known for his work in exploring how behavior is influenced by rewards and punishments.)

No doubt, you’re still laughing about my June 10 post, “The AI Novelist: Or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.”

Say whaaaat? You’re not still laughing?

Of course not. You weren’t duped the way that I was. Well, let me remind you of what happened to me. As I was enjoying my Cappuccino in Starbucks, a former student walked in, and I invited them to join me. Hot damn! I had somebody who might be interested in talking about recent AI advances. The student feigned ignorance because work had kept them too busy to fool around much online. I decided to turn the encounter into a learning moment, so I opened up ChatGPT and handed my Smartphone to them:

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

Talk about flying thumbs! The next thing I knew, my student had given ChatGPT extensive guidelines for an essay to appear in The New Yorker. What a hoot! Then, they held on to my Smartphone and proceeded to read the essay aloud to me, just as I often did when they were in my classes. I realized that I had been cornered and tricked, just like the narrator in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

After being so surprisingly duped, I managed to chuckle a little on my way back up my mountain. At the same time, I was tempted to just forget all about the Starbucks encounter, and I suppose I would have done just that if not for comments from several of my faithful followers.

One of them, in a rare stroke of six-word brilliance, elevated me to the level of “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” by dubbing me “The Celebrated Professor of Shenandoah County.” (Thank you, Jenni. Move over, Mark Twain. There’s a new kid on the riverboat.)

Another follower pumped me up even more, and I quote verbatim: “Your storytelling is second to none.” (Thank you, Dave. Like I said, move over Mark.)

Both of those comments actually made me grateful that I had been duped in Starbucks.

The third comment spurred me on even more because my good friend and faithful follower Frank thought that he would have the last laugh by duping me once more. Can you imagine a friend doing that? Let me tell you what he did. He asked ChatGPT to write a response to my post, and then what did he do? What did Frank do? He posted it, all innocent-like as a comment under his own name! His own name! He’s got some nerve, if I must say so, but I’ve known Frank and his pranks for decades, so his spoof did not take me by surprise, nor did I fall for his pluck!

After all, I am a master at foolin’ around with words–in and out of bed–and as soon as I read his comments, I knew immediately that he was not the author.

Someone just screeched:

How did you know?

Here’s the short answer. I’m familiar with Frank’s writing style. The comment that he posted was not in the same style as comments that he’s made down through the years about my blog posts. It had nuances that just didn’t sound like Frank.

With Frank’s permission, I’m giving his entire comment below in bold. I’ll intersperse my observations in italics.

§   §   §

“Dear Brent,

No way! There’s just no way that Frank would start his comments about my blog with a salutation. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“I thoroughly enjoyed reading your latest blog post, ‘The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.’ Your narrative was both engaging and thought-provoking, capturing the essence of an academic’s ever-evolving relationship with technology. The way you seamlessly blended your personal experience with insightful commentary on AI’s role in creative writing was masterful.”

This paragraph shows a lack of understanding, and I know fully well that Frank understood my post. However, when he uploaded it to ChatGPT, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Frank is too savvy to make such a mistake. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Your encounter at Starbucks not only highlighted the cleverness of your former student but also underscored a significant theme: the intersection of traditional craftsmanship and modern technology. As someone who has been exploring the potentials of AI in various domains, I found your skepticism and eventual amusement towards AI-generated content particularly relatable. It’s fascinating to witness how AI, like ChatGPT, can generate coherent and even humorous narratives, yet still lack the human touch that makes storytelling deeply personal and impactful.”

Frank knows fully well that I have never been skeptical of AI. I have embraced it from the get-go. Once again, ChatGPT made the mistake of identifying me with the fictional professor in the essay that my student had AI generate. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Your reflections on the creative process were poignant. While AI can certainly aid in generating content, the true art of writing lies in the human ability to weave emotions, experiences, and unique perspectives into a narrative. This reminded me of a quote by Isaac Asimov: “I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.” Your post beautifully illustrates that while AI can enhance our capabilities, it is our human creativity and critical thinking that ultimately define our work.”

Frank often includes quotes in his comments, but they’re usually song lyrics. Asimov? Not hardly. Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Thank you for sharing this delightful and insightful story. It left me pondering the future of writing and the balance between embracing technological advancements and preserving the essence of human creativity. I look forward to reading more of your posts and perhaps even discussing these topics over a cup of coffee someday.”

Frank and I meet regularly for lunch, and we usually have oysters on the halfshell and a Gin and Tonic. Coffee? Never! Nope. No way. Imposter.

“Warm regards,”

Geez! Frank has never, ever used “Warm regards” as a closing for any of his comments. Never. Nope. No way. Imposter.

§   §   §

Aside from the above observations, one more thing made me aware that Frank was not the author: the length. Frank is a man of few words. He simply would not write such lengthy comments. Nope. No way. Imposter.

I was on to what Frank had done as soon as I read his comments. In my response, I added something that I thought would let him know that I knew:

“Coffee? You bet! Gin and Tonic with Oysters on the halfshell would be great, too! 😃”

One more thing, just for the record. I asked ChatGPT to take Frank’s AI comments and to rewrite them in a way more consistent with the Frank I know.

Here’s what ChatGPT provided:

Hey Brent,

I got a kick out of your latest blog post, “The AI Novelist: or, How I Was Duped at Starbucks.” Your storytelling was as sharp and engaging as always, blending your personal experience with a clever commentary on AI’s role in creative writing. You really captured the essence of an academic’s evolving relationship with technology.

The Starbucks encounter was a hoot, highlighting your student’s cleverness and the broader theme of blending traditional craftsmanship with modern tech. I’ve been delving into AI myself, and it was fun to see your take on how these tools can generate content that’s coherent and even amusing, though they still miss that personal touch that makes storytelling special.

Thanks for sharing such a delightful and thought-provoking story. It got me thinking about the future of writing and how we can balance embracing tech advancements while keeping the heart of human creativity. Looking forward to more of your posts, and maybe we can chat about this over lunch soon.

Catch you later,

Frank

Yep. That’s a lot closer to the Frank I know, but it’s still far too long. Unlike me, Frank knows that he’s not being paid by the word!

But, hey! Listen up! Guilt got the better of Frank. He called me one evening to confess! So, there you have it, and you heard it first right here.

Frankly, here’s the beautiful part of this long, drawn-out Twainesque post: humanity triumphed twice. First, Frank’s writing style has nuances that AI can’t mirror. Yet. Second, Frank’s conscience wouldn’t let him rest until the truth surfaced. AI can’t rise to that level. Yet.

Hopefully, this playful saga will remind us of the authenticity and complexity that define our interactions, whether through pranks or profound reflections. It’s in these moments that we find the essence of human connection and the enduring joy of shared stories and shared learning experiences..

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

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“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.

Wait No Longer! MORE WIT AND WISDOM Is Now Available in Hardcover!

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If you’ve been waiting for the hardcover edition of More Wit and Wisdom, your wait is over! This soon-to-be literary classic is now available in hardcover, paperback and Kindle. Check it out on Amazon or Barnes & Noble!

Don’t forget:

● More Wit and Wisdom is dedicated to educators who are changing the world one student at a time.

● All proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom go to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.

Buy a copy for your own summer reading and don’t forget to get copies for your family and friends!

Buy a Book. Help a Student.

A “Viral” Post and the Power of Connection

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“The reader’s heart is the writer’s pen.”

—Rachel Carson (1907-1964; American marine biologist, conservationist, and writer, best known for her 1962 groundbreaking book Silent Spring.)

Something remarkable just happened, thanks to you! My May 11 post “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands” has gone “viral,” already reaching over 1,000 readers—a milestone for me that touched my heart deeply.

As I reflect on why this post might have resonated so widely, I want to express my profound gratitude to all of you who read, shared, and connected with it. I can’t begin to thank you enough, My Dear Readers, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Let me share with you some possible reasons behind its impact and celebrate the universal themes that seemingly brought us together.

Emotional Connection

We all have someone whose hands guided us, comforted us, and helped shape who we are. Whether it’s a parent, grandparent, or mentor, the memories of their touch and care hold a special place in our hearts. It seems that my post captured the essence of this emotional connection, and it’s clear that many of you felt a similar bond. Thank you for allowing my intimate memories to remind you of your own cherished moments.

Vivid Imagery

Describing my mother’s hands and the memories tied to them in vivid detail perhaps allowed many of you to visualize and feel these experiences alongside me. I believe that this shared imagery created a bridge between my personal story and your own life experiences. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, bringing us closer despite our different backgrounds.

Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Nostalgia is a powerful force that connects us to our past and to each other. The sentimental journey through my memories of my mother’s hands seemed to evoke a similar sense of nostalgia in many of you. It’s a reminder that we all hold onto pieces of our past, and sharing these pieces can bring warmth and connection to our present.

Timeless Themes

The themes of love, caregiving, and the passage of time are universal. They resonate across cultures and generations. Your engagement with these themes in my post highlights our shared human experience. By reflecting on these timeless elements, we honor those who have shaped us and acknowledge the ongoing journey of life.

Personal Storytelling

Sharing personal stories can create a powerful connection. By opening up about my mother’s hands, I hope that I touched a chord within you. The wide reach of this post suggests that personal stories can transcend individual experiences and resonate on a much larger scale.

Broader Appeal

While the post was a tribute to my mother, the themes it touched upon are broad and inclusive. The experiences of love, loss, and memory are ones we all share. Thank you for finding your own reflections in my words and for making the story your own.

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As I look back on the unexpected “viral” success of “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands,” I am filled with gratitude. Your readership and engagement have shown me the incredible power of connection. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for sharing in these universal themes, and for reminding me of the ties that bind us all. Here’s to many more moments of shared humanity and heartfelt connection.

With deepest appreciation, I remain–

Your Wired Researcher