It was perfect timing.

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Today’s writing-while-walking content was a brain dump of to-dos, and text for a few emails that I’ll send later on. Both short-form sorts of things that can be reasonably typed out in full with a pair of thumbs, and both of which benefit from a bit of open pondering to get right.

I like pre-emptively doing email (important email, that is) like this, because it reduces the pressure to read-digest-respond-send in a compressed moment.

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It’s a refreshing thing to do.

Still using the 50-on 20-off formula from Day 19.

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Given the wet weather, I turned up to give my guest lecture about 20 minutes early—although the seminar would be about music research, it’s been programmed in one of the health science buildings.

It’s just enough time to lodge a few notes in Obsidian (on the phone). Today I’m thinking about the old idea of showing vs telling in story craft, and whether there’s a middle ground missing in this model that could be productively explored (I think of Alice LaPlante’s commentary on the subject).

For example, is it helpful to think about a spectrum of concreteness for language choices in storytelling:

• At the most general level (up in the clouds), we have general descriptions that leave a lot to the reader’s imagination: it was a bright, sunny day; love was in the air; Horace was perturbed.

• On the concrete level (down in the earth) we have more concrete depictions: Smith’s upper lip quivered as he trawled through the meagre list of excuses he had committed to memory; the dog ate my homework, my little sister drew all over my homework, I was abducted by aliens. He balled his hands into tight fists and rubbed at his temples in tight little circles.

• What’s in the middle—how are these layers connected? I wonder if this is where translational material sits: she said with a smirk; it seemed to be; little did he know.

This is just a rough idea, but perhaps part of the expertise of writing is to have a decent sense for navigating between these layers, rather than welding one of them into a creative ideology.

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I tried something new today; partitioning my the time I had for writing into two blocks of about 50 minutes, with about 20 minutes in between for a brain break.

That ratio of focused time to recovery time is something I came across in this book. 20 minutes is a longer break than I’d usually go for, but today’s trial suggests that it’s worth trialling further (I think I was definitely able to stay creatively fresh for longer).

The hard part was figuring out what might count as a creative break—I was looking for something creatively engaging but low-stakes, and that wouldn’t amount to cognitive junk food (e.g., scrolling the ‘gram).

Watching a few tutorials on Quentin Blake’s style of drawing fit the bill perfectly! Here’s one I liked.

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Making coffee was a generative moment—I think coffee-making thoughts might be a bit like shower thoughts; it’s a solitary moment, with just enough room for pondering (if I take my time).

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I don’t often take my computer outside (e.g., to the park) to write, but I make note on my phone constantly—these are usually bullet points and disconnected phrases (sometimes even just key words) that I might pick up on again later. Sometimes I totally forget what the note was about.

One of the more interesting things I tried today (March 22, not the date of this post) was writing with some AI tools. The Claude interface is so much nicer than the GPT one.

There's one major part of the write-1000-words thing that it skips: the writing. Part of the point of writing 1000 words a day is, it seems, to get words out; but another part of it is to be involved in the process of ideating through the practice. It seems to me that it’s not ‘bad’ to use AI at all, it's just a different choice, and it probably has a different effect.

One of the strange experiential junctures is in the transition between bullet points points and something that more so resembles speech-like text—this is the point where I really start to feel my gripes with what comes out of most AI tools. This is also the hardest point at which to actually edit the text, maybe because the cognitive load is just higher when reading prose rather than dot points.

Documenting things visually is interesting; when I first started I was purely interested in a non-photogenic record as a prompt to reflection, but now the algorithm feeds me Instagram mobile photography content, and it’s more engaging to try and take a nicer photo.

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• Rough notes were taken in Obsidian during a morning jog.

• These fed some more reflective pen-and-paper work over morning coffee.

• I transposed some of this material into digital format over second coffee later on.

Thinking back on the digital heaviness or writing last week, I wanted to spend some time with pen and paper today. I tried to consciously build in some time for this before getting out the computer. It feels a bit like laying the table for a meal; a bit of preparation that doesn't come pre-fabricated in an aluminium casing.

Interestingly, the physical notes turned up again a few hours later (pictured), and I managed to pinch a few pieces verbatim from the pen-and-paper draft. In some ways it turned out to be quite useful that there was only two pages worth of physical notes, since have more to pore over would really have increased the cognitive load of finding the right bit in the moment. I do wonder if the shifting between different media (phone, pen and paper, laptop) might have helped to sustain engagement in the process for a bit longer than normal.

Often, on a crowded day, getting to 1000 words feels like a bit of an effort; but this stint had me wondering whether, on a very open day, it might be interesting to try limiting myself to 1000 words. Sometimes a frenetic rush to hit the 1000 word mark produces really interesting stuff, but on a free day would it be productive to try letting things simmer a little more before committing them to the page?

As always, shifting the same content between time, place, pace, and medium seems to induce refinements in the work.

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Toward the end of last year I ran quite a few writing sessions (writing sprints mostly)—I’m hoping to rekindle some more synchronous writing sessions in the not to distant future, so stay tuned for more on that front. In the meantime, read on for a little experiment I’ve been running.

In the last few weeks I've been diligent about photographing the spaces where I’ve settled in to do the day’s writing; it's an interesting way to keep data on where I am (provided I recognise the location), and at what date and time I got to work—I totally recommend it.

One of the most useful things about the exercise is that it really automates self-awareness and reflection on the writing process—remembering take pictures of these spaces seems to act like a bit of a cue for intentionality. One of the other really handy things about keeping this sort of visual record is that I’ve started to become more aware of what I was carrying with me (none of these photos show a pen and paper, I note), and how often I seem to combine writing with coffee.

A few really clear trends popped out for me straight away:

• Only one writing session in the last two weeks took place in the afternoon—subjectively, I know I don’t like writing in the afternoon, so it’s interesting to see that borne out in the timestamps.

• Mostly I wrote on a Macbook Pro, but on a few occasions I wrote on my phone (using the Obsidian app) while walking outdoors, and once on a waterproof notepad (one of these, for shower thoughts!).

• I wrote in six different locations over the fortnight, and almost all of them were repeated.

Here’s a few snaps of where it all took place:

The idea of recording daily practice visually is something I’ve poached from Hilary Hahn's 100 Days of Practice series on Instagram (you’ll find it if you click around a little). I’m tempted to try documenting 100 days of my own writing practice.

Most of Hilary’s entries show some moment of practice and have an accompanying comment—I didn't keep a close log of what I was thinking and feeling in each of these places, but that seems like a useful thing to do, so I’ll try that for next time.

Good to be back for 2024—more soon!

Jack

Questions I’m thinking about (and maybe subjects for future posts):

• Writing with AI: What's the difference between using AI in different parts of the process (e.g., beginning, middle, end)?

• One of the problems with writing fast and loose as a means of thinking is that it produces way more text than I sometimes know what to do with—is it viable to use AI tools to analyse these rough note for threads worth developing?

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Taking some inspiration from Kathleen, I wanted to see what would happen if I tried to come up with 100 reasons to write an essay. Perhaps I am trying to think of ways to convince my university students that essays are not, in fact, the devil incarnate in literary form.

Here’s what I came up with.

1. To practice staying in motion

2. To find things

3. To know what isn't yet known

4. To practice waiting

5. To practice seeing yourself on the page

6. To learn to make a point without saying it explicitly

7. To learn to make a point by saying it explicitly

8. For entertainment (to practice, being entertained by the process, rather than expecting it)

9. To have done something hard

10. To grow an idea

11. To participate in a tradition

12. To call oneself an essayist

13. To find something between formal writing and poetry/narrative (read Chesterton for this)

14. To write a lecture/speech

15. To adapt a lecture/speech

16. To attempt to emulate great writers

17. To contrast against great writers

18. To become a better writer

19. To become a faster writer

20. To write nonsense

21. To write something other people can read

22. To write something nobody els need read (but which might still be illuminating)

23. To set the stage for the next piece of work (before the sun goes down no less!)

24. To find a way into (and appreciate) mundane parts of the world

25. To escape mundane aspects of the world

26. To explore (or create) a world that doesn't exist at all (and yet still write about it in an essay rather than a narrative)

27. To practice drafting

28. To practice finishing

29. To practice ideating (something to write about)

30. To practice tone (is this advice? a defence? a moral tale?)

31. To see how far one can go before it isn't an essay anymore

32. To find the boundaries between essay as form and essay as function

33. To build some track record

34. To escape a genre that may be dominating one's time

35. To say (or figure out) what you mean

36. To say (or figure out) something you definitely don't mean

37. To try on someone else' clothes

38. As a meditative exercise (e.g. a freewritten essay)

39. Because you have to (perhaps you are at uni)

40. To let off some steam

41. To get it right

42. To see where you went wrong

43. To see what is in the space between one's own way of thinking, and that of another

44. To practice reacting (read in the presence of a writing implement)

45. To put something technical in accessible language

46. To find the technicality in something simple

47. To practice grammar

48. To write ungrammatically (yet correctly)

49. To try out different perspectives

50. To finish something in one sitting

51. To converse with the page

52. To practice brevity

53. To practice verbosity

54. To practice making an argument

55. To learn about imperfection

56. To develop an early idea

57. To extend an old idea

58. To make something out of nothing

59. To reduce something

60. To write a story on the sneaky

61. To defend something

62. To attack something

63. To sidestep something

64. To try writing with different media (pen and paper, computer, etc.)

65. To have made something today

66. To experience different places (writing in a cafe is not the same as writing in the dark watching a movie, or listening to a radio playing quietly in the background)

71. To see where words run out

72. To attempt a version that doesn't involve words

73. To practice a language

74. To ask 'what if?'

75. To document something

76. To remember something (or perhaps, someone)

77. Perhaps you have nothing better to be doing

78. Procrastination

79. To use up that spare paper

80. To write with that nice pen you were gifted

81. To find an excuse to visit somewhere (perhaps you wish to write in the quiet corner of a gallery)

82. To get some peace

83. Because one feels obliged

84. To pay the bills

85. To practice dealing with frustration and disappointment

86. To practice dealing with fulfilment

87. To escape another genre

88. To practice calligraphy (or perhaps, touch typing)

89. To enter a competition

90. To practice drafting

91. To be generous

92. To be selfish

93. To open up

94. To shut down

95. To make a good thing

96. To make a bad thing

97. To polarise

98. To unify

99. For the right reasons

100. For the wrong reasons

Later, I asked ChatGPT the same question. Enthusiastically (and with a preference for full-stops I do not share) it said:

Certainly! Writing an essay can be a beneficial and rewarding experience for various reasons. Here are 100 reasons to write an essay:

1. To explore a topic of personal interest.

2. To share knowledge and expertise.

3. To improve critical thinking skills.

4. To enhance research abilities.

5. To practice effective communication.

6. To develop a persuasive argument.

7. To inspire others with your ideas.

8. To express creativity and originality.

9. To challenge yourself intellectually.

10. To strengthen your writing skills.

11. To gain insights into complex issues.

12. To foster empathy and understanding.

13. To engage in self-reflection.

14. To contribute to academic discourse.

15. To clarify your thoughts and ideas.

16. To document historical events.

17. To analyse and interpret data.

18. To advocate for a cause you believe in.

19. To present a unique perspective.

20. To improve your vocabulary.

21. To organise your thoughts more effectively.

22. To impress and educate others.

23. To inspire positive change in society.

24. To promote critical analysis of a subject.

25. To participate in academic competitions.

26. To fulfil an educational requirement.

27. To demonstrate your expertise on a topic.

28. To create a record of your personal growth.

29. To share personal experiences and insights.

30. To contribute to a broader academic community.

31. To engage in intellectual discourse with others.

32. To showcase your writing prowess.

33. To present a well-structured argument.

34. To learn about different cultures and perspectives.

35. To impress potential employers or admissions officers.

36. To explore the nuances of a controversial topic.

37. To inspire others to take action.

38. To highlight the importance of a specific issue.

39. To engage in peer review and feedback.

40. To improve your problem-solving abilities.

41. To contribute to scientific research.

42. To share your passion with others.

43. To promote creativity and innovative thinking.

44. To inspire future generations of writers.

45. To participate in a writing challenge or competition.

46. To develop a deeper understanding of a subject.

47. To become a more effective communicator.

48. To contribute to public policy discussions.

49. To gain a sense of accomplishment.

50. To stimulate your intellect and curiosity.

51. To learn from the perspectives of others.

52. To leave a legacy of your thoughts and ideas.

53. To develop your analytical skills.

54. To inspire others to pursue their passions.

55. To contribute to the body of knowledge on a subject.

56. To engage in interdisciplinary learning.

57. To become a better reader by analysing texts.

58. To participate in academic research.

59. To promote open dialogue and discussion.

60. To prepare for future academic pursuits.

61. To influence public opinion on an issue.

62. To communicate complex ideas concisely.

63. To foster a deeper appreciation for a topic.

64. To develop a sense of discipline and commitment.

65. To challenge conventional wisdom.

66. To inspire critical thinking in others.

67. To encourage debate and discourse.

68. To showcase your ability to synthesise information.

69. To develop a better understanding of human behaviour.

70. To contribute to the advancement of knowledge.

71. To learn about the interconnectedness of different fields.

72. To build your professional reputation.

73. To improve your problem-solving skills.

74. To demonstrate your intellectual prowess.

75. To encourage introspection and self-awareness.

76. To enhance your persuasive writing abilities.

77. To promote empathy and compassion.

78. To express gratitude or admiration for someone.

79. To practice effective time management.

80. To inspire others to pursue lifelong learning.

81. To challenge yourself to achieve a goal.

82. To improve your ability to think critically and analytically.

83. To create a meaningful impact on others.

84. To engage in intellectual debates with peers.

85. To gain a sense of purpose and fulfilment.

86. To contribute to the cultural heritage of society.

87. To document and analyse historical events.

88. To inspire positive change in the world.

89. To showcase your academic achievements.

90. To connect with like-minded individuals.

91. To gain recognition for your ideas and insights.

92. To improve your academic and professional prospects.

93. To participate in intellectual discussions.

94. To educate others on a specific subject.

95. To leave a mark on future generations.

96. To build confidence in your writing abilities.

97. To explore the impact of technology on society.

98. To advocate for social justice and equality.

99. To inspire curiosity and a thirst for knowledge.

100. To become a more informed and engaged citizen.

Remember, writing an essay can be an incredibly valuable and fulfilling experience, and it allows you to contribute your voice to the world. Whether for personal growth, academic pursuits, or societal impact, the act of writing has numerous benefits that can positively influence both the writer and the reader.

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Prompts are getting a lot of attention at the moment, thanks to the AI boom. It seems worth noting, though, that prompts are a venerable old technology. They are good for real life too.

The practice of prompting is a handy lens through which to think about all sorts of common interactions—in principle, it has to do with providing some sort of stimulus in order to provoke a response. It seems useful to think about prompts as ways to test ideas; as little experiments.

An interpretation of a stimulus (the prompt) can be expressed in multiple ways, through multiple possibly legitimate responses. The testing of interpretations, and the expressions of responses associated with these, is very, very helpful for learning.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

This post was retrieved from a past blog (and lightly edited in the process).

The thesis in the title of this post occurred while I was reading Cal Newport’s A World Without Email, which makes a great case for the problems posed by email technology in knowledge-work contexts.

Toward the end of the book Cal (citing Neil Postman) makes the argument that technological change is not additive but ecological. The quote is this (as transcribed from the Audible version):

Technological change is not additive, it is ecological. A new medium does not add something, it changes everything. In the year 1500 after the printing press was invented you did not have ‘old Europe plus the printing press’, you had a different Europe.

My line of thinking is this: To what extent does this kind of observation hold true for education? Or perhaps, rather than education, situations where the changing technology is the human body and/or human knowledge?

Thinking back on time recently spent with Dewey’s ideas, I’m inclined to think that an ecological take on learning (as per the use of ecological above) is a fairly reasonable proposition. In this vein, a useful topic to review in the future might be the distinction between concepts of learning and change.

Thinking about education (and learning, and change) as ecological rather than additive has interesting implication for educational design. Riffing off of Dewey, how might seeing sequential educational experiences as ecological rather than additive shift our approach to structuring those experiences?

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

With AI having its moment, I’ve been thinking about the value of individuality. Chatbots are now clearly exhibiting personalities of a sort—they are, for example, capable of quipping (or at least, generating something that we might perceive as a quip).

One of the curious things that might happen as the AI becomes more personable is that it becomes in some ways and not in others. How does its personality hold together, relative to its knowledge? One of the most interesting aspects of this is that the more personable an intelligence becomes, so too the less omniscient—the bots can’t yet deliver all possible responses to a prompt at once (because there are infinite possible responses). To deliver something in language is to choose one option from many possibly legitimate (or illegitimate!) choices.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

Authenticity is a very popular term at the moment; to the point that it sometimes provokes an academic eye-roll.

In art, we sometimes use it to describe a sense of realness in our experience of making or perceiving a piece of work. In education, the dominant use at the moment has to do with the way in which the tasks we set our students prompt responses that are more or less in line with the types of things they will encounter outside the classroom.

Because authenticity is an abstract term it cannot have a single essential definition—it always requires some interpretation for it to be meaningful, especially in a practical sense. This is worth pointing out, because our options not only include working backwards to deduce its historical meanings, but also to propose useful interpretations that differ in some respects from what has come before.

This seems applicable to other inherently abstract concepts as well (e.g. knowledge, wellbeing).

This post owes some of its thinking to conversation with James Pawelski.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

I was reading Amos Tversky’s classic paper, Features of similarity (1977) this morning, and for some reason it reminded me of Quentin Blake’s also classic children’s book Mrs Armitage on Wheels.

In their own ways, both of these pieces of literature might lead us to ask: When is it better to work on creating a new context?

A ubiquitous feature of human practices is that they involve tools. We use tools to various ends, including to help us make things, and to provide information of some sort (an evaluative function). When an upgrade of some sort comes along, we may trade one tool in for a better alternative.

Under what conditions does it make sense not to focus on changing the tool, but the context? I feel as though this might apply in situations where tools suffer from a problematic premise—this is how I currently see rubrics in educational settings; better rubrics still have the same underlying technological issues. To effect meaningful change in a field like education, it might not be sufficient to focus on tools.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

When is it clear that a response to a situation is an error? Sometimes the stakes mean this is an obvious line (e.g. in a surgery, or a lawsuit), but there is often a considerable grey area between good and bad. A ‘response’ isn’t necessarily defined as an instance in time—sometimes things drift into error slowly.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

An evaluative performance problem can be thought of as a situation wherein there is a concern with the quality of a given performance. Performances seem (usually) to count as performances when there is some amount of human buy-in—otherwise naturally occurring things can come to be understood as performances when an analyst decides that the thing in question is worthy of attention.

How, then, to distinguish between various kinds of performances?

One way is through tense:

1. The concern could be with evaluating a past performance—say, a recital of a piece of music by a student, or a restaurant experience we’ve just had.

2. The concern could be with evaluating a presently occurring performance—say, we are in the middle of dinner at a restaurant and form a view about our experience as it is unfolding (or perhaps we are in the kitchen, appraising the efficiency of our staff).

3. The concern could be with evaluating a future performance—say, we are picking members for a team that will need to compete in a future sporting event.

Within the model above, the evaluative gaze could be directed at various components of the situation, including the performer as distinct from the performed work (e.g. a plate of food that arrives at our table).

It is also worth noting that the purpose of the evaluation could be multifaceted—it could be about improving future performance, making a rating for certification reasons (e.g. to award a restaurant three stars), or some other reason (including forming conclusions about the future; e.g., whether we’d like to eat at that restaurant again).

Different disciplines seem suited to different aspects of the game outlined above (e.g. deliberate practice might be good for enhancing future performance, but no so helpful when the concern is with the here and now).

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.

I’ve discovered that I like barebones titles; the kind that describe the basic ingredients something is made from—a bit like the way some restaurants label their dishes.

Sticky peanut, coconut, chilli, and lime leaf.

I have a rough idea about what this might be, but there’s no way to be sure. I know I like all of the ingredients listed, but there’s still plenty of room to be surprised as well.

Spanner crab, coriander, lemon, and applewood smoke.

I pulled those words out of the air, but I can picture what it might be about.

Story titles can get away with this too; The Overcoat (Nikolai Gogol); A Clean, Well-Lighted Place (Ernest Hemingway); American Gods (Neil Gaiman).

This doesn’t work so well for research papers, but still seems to hold for books. Why is that?

What's the difference between making things and finding things?

In some contexts, we are presented with situations that involve selecting the best possible things from existing options—it could be picking a course to study, players for a team, or a restaurant for dinner. In these situations, we are informed by our impressions of the quality or skill of the selectees.

In other situations, the emphasis is on making something from closer-to-scratch—sitting down to write one of these posts is a good example.

Decision-making seems to be different in both contexts (or perhaps, relative to both contextual emphases). When the issue is to do with selection, part of the challenge is in being able to perceive the right pre-existing characteristics (an exercise in evaluative judgment). In design scenarios, success seems more about being able to suspend judgment to enable something useful to emerge, almost as a function of probability in combination with latent situational characteristics (e.g. person, environment, state of mind, amount of coffee—things that include but are not limited to psychological characteristics).

The above is a little too dichotomous for my taste. If my experiences trying to write papers or produce music are any indication, a seesaw is a better metaphor for the interplay between design and selection. As soon as we produce something, the evaluative gears start turning. Being able to exercise the right state at the right time seems a practice worth figuring out.

If you found this useful or interesting, try this post.

This is a daily post, which means these ideas aren’t finished. Learn about the daily posts here.