Influential teachers in reading and writing – who inspired you?

In a conversation with an esteemed colleague, we started discussing influential teachers at school. We may forget the names of many people in our lifetime, but influential teachers hold enduring resonance.

My inspiration, the one who really got me into reading and writing, was Mr. Edwards, a Welsh teacher in a primary school based in Runcorn, Cheshire. It was a difficult time. I had missed out on significant amounts of schooling owing to moving house and emigration. I struggled to read and had, at times, received reading interventionist strategies and a potential screening for learning differences. There was nothing conclusive, but in all honesty my reading ability took years to catch up. Three eureka moments spring to mind when I think of Mr. Edward’s influence.

  • Creative writing. Mr. Edwards particular stroke of genius was to write a sentence on the blackboard during lunchtime which was the first line of a creative writing essay. My friends and I were so enthralled by this thread that we peered into the portacabin’s window and tried to read what he had written. We discussed the endless possibilities in continuing the story. It was an immediate trigger for our imagination to be let loose. That class got me into writing.
  • Silver Sword: Furthermore, Mr. Edwards read Silver Sword by Ian Serralier. It was an absolutely gripping tale. I was there, living the experience with them as refugees on the run trying desperately to find their parents; the fabled Nostos theme originating from the Odyssey. I now recognise the serendipity of that moment. At the age of eight or nine, this escape story held me on the edge of my chair for weeks. I longed for more books. As a family we had moved from place to place, country to country, house to house. Serralier’s more exciting story was set in wartime, escaping Poland’s apocalypse to the safe neutrality of Switzerland, perilously on the run from Nazis like hunted animals. Uprooted, they longed for safer borders free from terror and anxiety. To a child’s unfettered imagination, it was magical. At that age, there is a transitional period between magic and the beckoning dawn of reality, so brilliantly captured by Halldór Laxness in Independent People; that becoming self-aware from the innocent shelter of early childhood, you start growing up. That book got me into reading.
  • Book clubs: A monthly book club also came to Mr. Edward’s class. As his dedicated pupils, we eagerly sifted through a catalogue of book covers that electrified our imaginations. The book club got me into reading escape stories and adventure books as I continually rekindled that sense of uprootedness and Nostos within me. Even though I work in a Library and books are easily borrowed at no cost, I have always enjoyed buying and owning a book. Possessing a book always seem to be satisfying, like anchors reassuringly holding everything together, as we drift through life trying to find meaning and seize something more tangible.

Mr. Edwards had a significant impact on me. English was my strongest subject at school. Now, in Writing Development, I can help others like Mr. Edwards helped me. Who inspired you at school to read and write?

AI and Academic Writing

Where are we with AI and academic writing? Frankly the situation is a little chaotic. The institution line is still often that of ‘academic offence’, even though the institutions know this would be extremely hard to enforce. One reason for this being that anti-plagiarism software like Turnitin are in a perpetual catchup mode with the AI available, so unless everyone sticks with chatgpt (free on openai (they won’t)) then Turnitin’s detection algorithms will be outpaced by newcomers and rephrasers. Another one is that sometimes students write in styles identical to (an) AI. The common form of this is the very capable second (or more) language student; owing to the academic way the language is often learned, these students follow precise rules and sometimes do it extremely well. In turn, they follow the rules into stylistic use and end up sounding sufficiently like chatgpt that the software (and sometimes staff) pick it up, in turn they end up hauled in front of some disciplinary body just for being extremely smart.

This means that enforcement is hard to achieve, as one has to coordinate appearance of AI like style with some other evidence e.g. sudden alteration is style. This is possible, but time consuming for academics and if the student goes straight in with using the AI throughtout, then no style change detection will be possible; rephrasing software compounds the issue. Bearing in mind we’re in the total infancy of this technology, this is a difficult situation. I say difficult with no little thought; the situation is difficult not because of a negative connotation of difficulty, but rather because it is literally difficult to know what to do from here.

The essential question being ‘is assessment by academic writing in its current form a dead horse that we need to stop flogging?’ and if it isn’t dead yet, how long before it is dead (if indeed it will be dead at some point)? How will we know? Personally I would say it isn’t dead yet, but its death is probably between 2-5 years away. How will we know? We’ll know because the ability of AI to construct academic writing for students (and staff) will have permanently outstripped our ability to detect it either with software or with our minds.

That is, both in content and style, AI will produce work for students who wish to use it that will mean, if they don’t want to, then at least for the written components, their engagement with the material can be pretty much nil. Furthermore any student who, let’s say for integrity reasons, chooses to write their own work, may find themselves penalised by handicapping themselves to their human writing skills. Thus their integrity will get them quite possibly a lesser grade than their AI using colleagues.

But as we’re not there (yet) what can we do in this strange hinterland? This issue itself seems related to the future of AI and our interactions with it. That is, how guilty we feel about the interactions that we encourage, turns partially on what it will become. However since we cannot know where we are headed we don’t know how guilty to feel. What do I mean by ‘feeling guilty’? I mean this sense that we are cheating when we get AI to do work for us. Isn’t this a kind of crucial border, this meeting place between a legitimate productive use and losing part of ourselves which we possibly need to preserve?

Maybe we can sketch out two broad trajectories. In one, AI supplants our need for writing skills as it can produce any text we need more accurately and with greater detail than we can achieve. In another, writing skills continue to be needed because AI continues to fail to capture human synthetic abilities to generate insights. Because these insights were formed from human generated cognitive concatenations (consciously or unconsciously) the argumentative structures cannot be automatically written up by the AI and hence the ability to lay out the argument etc is still needed.

What is obvious is the blur of these heuristics. The former seems strange insofar as it indicates that whatever we want to write on, the AI can do it for us. This aligns this trajectory roughly with what some (mostly undergraduate) students might use it for, whilst the latter one seems more indicative of research usage.

The blur occurs because in the first case the student will still have an idea that they want the AI to write the essay on (admitting they also might not). Either way they have to engage with the AI and unless they literally want to hand in the first thing it writes, they have to do some thinking and engaging. No one is saying this minimal engagement is a good thing, it just means that even the laziest version has to have some effort in it. The second trajectory suggests that writing is still needed, however once the researcher has had this synthesising insight, whilst the AI may not be able to reconstruct their argument by itself, it can certainly help if you give it the different propositions and ask for paragraphs to be constructed around them. The point generally being that with the second trajectory, unless the academic is a kind of purist, doesn’t deny that AI could be used to help out with the writing.

It seems fairly clear that trajectory one we want to avoid, yet trajectory two could easily encompass quite a lot of AI written input. It seems to me the crucial part here was the academic’s synthesising idea. This idea was only made possible by the reading and thinking (conscious and unconscious) that the academic did. This reminds us that of course what is important in the educational/research process is actually comprehension. The first option strikes us as so bad, because comprehension is extremely low. I tried to highlight how the redeeming part or trajectory one is that it is on a gradient on which some students will at least have an idea on the topic, that they then get the AI to write the paper and then they read it to make sure it’s good. This redeeming aspect is their thinking engagement and comprehension.

Going forward with AI we need to find ways to emphasise comprehension of subject matters. We also need to accept the potential of AI to write for us, to help us write our ideas. The danger does lie in the lack of comprehension, but arguably there is a lot of lack of comphrension already, AI is just bringing out of the system the latent lack of student integrity and exposing it.

Academic writing in the traditional sense may well be ultimately largely supplanted by AI, but academic reading (and all other forms of learning, argument formation and thinking) cannot be allowed to do so. Indeed, in exposing the possible lack of motivation in the system, we can use this to think of new ways to engage students in understanding their subjects and helping them want to understand their subjects. The best the AI can be for us is probably be a new interlocutor. As soon as we have our new research insight, it goes into the system (the available research). From here it can be accessed by the AI to help other researchers, who must think carefully and through their own multiple inputs create new insights.

So the guilt issue should not be view so much as an issue with writing; it’s an issue with comprehension. We need to absolve ourselves of this nebulous guilt by the best practice of writing with AI and ensure that we remain active comprehenders, processors and producers of information —as opposed to passive receivers of AI insights. So long as we are exercising our capacities to think and comprehend to the best of our ability, then the AI becomes a partner that could be incredibly empowering. The danger lies in our, handing cognition and production over to it.

Looking beyond the cover: Becoming what you read

Being free, unshackled from the rigours of expectation, is important when you want to develop your writing voice and express things in your own way. When I was an undergraduate at Essex, a lecturer said to me that I had some good ideas and nice turns of phrases now and then, but my writing style was sometimes wooden. Ouch. It was a low blow, and I have never forgotten that remark. How would I improve and write in a way that was less awkward?

Reading is essential in unlocking that stuck gear. Hitherto, it’s important to enjoy what you read rather than viewing reading as a purely educational task; in the past I fell into the self-identity trap that I wanted people to think I was clever by the books I read. After I graduated and got a job in a London FE college I used to egotistically show off what I was reading to fellow commuters like the Thought Police were going to raid the Tube at any moment and check whether the cover was commendable enough to evade arrest. Certain authors spring to mind warranting immediate arrest.  An Orwellian or Kafkaesque dystopian society which nobody wants to live in. It was largely a false projection; an image of self that personified vanity but did little in the way of reading for pleasure. Yet anyone recall that beautifully dreamy scene in Raging Bull by the swimming pool when Jake LaMotta first meets his wife? Perhaps I had that in mind. Showing off book covers is hardly a sensible endeavour, yet as a mature student at that time I was making up for lost time and had to prove myself.

Choosing what you read is key to influencing your style of writing. What writing do I now enjoy? It can be much dependent on my frame of mind, but when arriving at a sweet spot I want to indulge as much as I can. Over the pandemic I devoured the works of Thomas Hardy. Gorgeous stuff. Nowadays it might be travel or sports writing, autobiographies or social history. Whatever it is, it must be suitable for a long train commute and the reading mood has to feel right – like wearing appropriate clothing for the weather.

What writer would I like to emulate nowadays? I’ve always had a soft spot for travel writing. As a child I moved around a lot, different towns, counties, even countries; travel was the shifting sands of my childhood. Perhaps that’s why I like travel writing, and a particular sort mixed with cultural history, intelligent humour, keen social observation and a side order of insightful reflection. I especially like reading about societies. What is it like to be there? Standing in a strange town square people watching, taking it all in as a casual observer yet Día morphically embedded in that society. A book can take you there. Learning about Le Flanuer in my undergraduate days has inspired many book purchases and many a read.

I recently read The Beast, the Emperor and the Milkman: a bone-shaking tour through cycling’s Flemish heartlands, which I adored. It had all the right components. I sat enthralled on the train journey home anxious that I was not going to miss my stop – easily done when glued to a book, absorbed in its world; a kind of joyous escapism in 300 pages. Offbeat and humorous, intelligence bordering on the academic, it showed me the way I wanted to go as a writer, and reading for pleasure showed me the way. It seemed like the perfect idea to go down the road I wanted to, and not to meet the opinions of others.

Perhaps we are what we read? Rather, it is discovering ourselves in the process that matters, not the vaunted benediction of others; an internal study – not a social mirror. Yet it is a two-sided activity. Consider what Alexei Sayle (2010, 26) observed about his father’s varied book collection:

‘…the hundred or so volumes housed in two wooden bookcases in the front room all dated from before the war and provided a vivid picture of the life of a working-class radical in the 1930s. Though Joe never got to speak much about what he felt even in the brief silences when Molly wasn’t shouting at the neighbours, these books were like geological rock strata that revealed the evolutionary layers of his personality’.

References

Sayle, A. (2010). Stalin ate my homework. London: Hodder & Stoughton.