There Are Two Ways

There are two ways to do some things, but it's not as simple as saying it's the right way or the wrong way.

There are two ways of driving to my house, the direct route and the scenic route. I would not call the scenic route the indirect route, because both drives seem direct enough. It's just that the direct route has two fewer traffic lights and one less turn through the town center but does not offer a view of the river, as the scenic route does. When alone, I choose the route based not on time but on my state of mind. When I think of myself I take the direct route, and when I think of you I take the scenic route. 

There are two ways to walk to the park, the shorter route about four hundred meters past the homeless men sifting through trash cans and urinating in the gutter when they aren't lying in a death trance against a graffiti-riddled abandoned tenement, or the longer route about five hundred meters along a cobbled path beneath a canopy of trees upon which black-capped chickadees, goldfinches, and scrub jays sing while hopping from branch, fluttering their wings, and defacating on the path below. The choice seems just about equal to me, and I take them both whether I am alone (the shorter route) or with you (the longer route).

There are two places we can go out for a drink, the local bar or the high-end bar. The local bar is not a low-end bar. In fact, it is greater than a high-end bar if you don't mind drinking by the landlocked town square and if you prefer drinking alongside the locals, the people who know the news of the community, the history of the bar, the quirks and penchants of the patrons, and the mixology of the bartenders. All night either a juke box plays the Great American Songbook or the player piano spins Tin Pan Alley tunes. The high-end bar is so called only because it overlooks the bay, which allows the proprietor to charge more for the drinks. But it's a throwback too. Dark wood planks cover the floor, wall, and ceilings. A candlelit chandelier flickers over the center of the room, four gas lights glow on the walls of each corner, sawdust is littered across the floor, and a black woodburning cast iron pot belly stove covers the center of the room. Warm Guinness is on tap. A neighborhood quartet commands a round table in a far corner plays Irish folk songs between sips of whisky on fiddle, banjo, tin whistle, and bodhrán. Both locals and out-of-towners go there. We go to the local bar when we have more time on our hands and to the high-end bar when we have less.

And you tell me there are two ways of loving you, the way I want to love you and the way you want me to love you. You say neither is the bad way, but they are different. As you put it, one is the sensory way and the other the soulful way, one way that fuses you into everyone and everything around you so that  you are in harmony with my world and one that masks everyone and everything around you so that only you come into focus and the world disappears. You have not told me which is the way I want to love you and which is the way you want me to love you, but you tell me I love you both ways. 

Why I Came

I came to your wedding uninvited. You have known the groom for three years, I have known you three hours. With him you have traveled the world. With him you have seen hundred-year-old sea turtles circle your anchored schooner along the Great Barrier Reef, fed Atlantic puffins upon the rocky fields at the Cliffs of Moher, tasted freshly picked lechosa near Angel Falls, heard the thunder of bighorn sheep head-butting in the Grand Canyon, lost your breath at the radiance of the aurora borealis in Akureyri. With him an Indian Chief in Acoma explained the oneness of the earth and humanity, a Buddhist Lama in a Tibetan gompa described the sanctity of the balep he fed you, a Wiradjuri elder by the Wambuul River told of the secrets the sun and the moon keep, a Yanomami Pata Thëpë in an Amazon rain forest summoned the spirit of the macaw. 

But in only three hours, I, no longer a stranger to you, foreshadowed all these moments. I laid at your feet the mysteries of life, and you received them as if you had been waiting for me long before you knew my name. Yes, just for the unbearable delight of looking into your eyes, touching your cheek, holding your hand. I remember the warmth of your fingers closing around mine, then loosening, as if even then some merciful part of you was practicing leaving me. You would not have gone with him to these places and listened to those wise leaders if it were not for my urging. I beheld you, beheld you, beheld you, penniless, rich with passion and desire, not of the flesh but of the spirit. Is that not what you wanted? We met years ago, but I have never forgotten those three hours with you; they have outlived meals, cities, illnesses, prayers, every sensible attempt to call them small. I have always been with you—in the silence before sleep, in the instant before laughter, in every distance you crossed with him. Your union with him may endure, but your bond with me is of stone. We get one chance in this world. You were mine for less than an evening.

You know I am here, don't you? Without looking at me, you see me. I saw it when the music began: the smallest break in your smile, the breath you swallowed before anyone else could notice. I know you won’t approach me, though your husband will eject me from your wedding without ever knowing who I am. You won’t approach me because if you come near enough to hear me breathe, if you look at me once, you know my answer will be the same as when I came to you at the start of our three hours together years ago, when you were standing alone in Greenwich Village, or was it on the Croisette, or was it on the Grand Canal, or was it near the Chillon Castle, when you asked me, in a language you were learning, “Why did you come here?”

The Importance of Record Keeping

For writers, records are a working memory. A notebook, writing log, or even a spreadsheet preserves the small decisions that shape a project: when an idea appeared, why a paragraph was cut, where a source came from, which draft solved a problem, and what remains unfinished. Without those records, a writer may waste time reconstructing choices instead of building on them.

Good records protect momentum. Writing can happen in fragments, between appointments, after reading, or in response to a sudden phrase. A dated log of sessions, notes, questions, and next steps helps the writer return quickly to the work. It shows progress when the project feels stalled and reveals patterns, such as the hours when writing comes easiest, the obstacles that recur, and the habits that produce stronger sentences, paragraphs, and pages.

Records matter professionally as well. Writers who submit work need to track titles, markets, submission dates, responses, contracts, rights, payments, and follow-up deadlines. Such details prevent duplicate submissions, missed opportunities, and confusion over ownership or payment. Accurate notes and source records strengthen credibility and make fact-checking easier.

Most important, record keeping gives writers evidence of growth. Earlier drafts, rejected openings, research trails, and revision notes show how a piece became what it is. They remind writers that writing is not a single flash of inspiration but a series of choices, experiments, and returns. Keeping records honors that process and makes future work more deliberate, efficient, and confident.

I use two types of record for my creative works in progress: a 200-page paper notebook like the illustrated one in this post and Microsoft Word files. Whatever type you use, be sure to create a reliable notation system for easy reference.

AI and Education: The Struggle Continues

AI is already reshaping education, and schools cannot simply ban it and return to the old classroom. Recent reporting in the New York Times shows how quickly AI has participated in homework, essays, lesson planning, and classroom routines.
 
The biggest concern is academic honesty. “Student Cheating Is Becoming Impossible to Detect in an A.I. Era” (NY Times, June 18, 2026) explains that AI can help students generate or revise writing instantly, making take-home assignments harder to judge. And AI detectors are becoming less reliable, as AI, whose grammar is typically flawless, can insert predictable grammatical errors to disguise that it created the content. Thus, teachers can miss cheating or wrongly accuse honest students, creating more suspicion and less certainty among educators.

 
In response to this challenge, teachers are redesigning lessons. “Adapting to a New World: Teachers on How A.I. Is Reshaping the Classroom” (NY Times, February 26, 2026) notes that teachers are bringing more writing into the classroom, asking students to describe their writing process and strategy. Others are using AI carefully for brainstorming, feedback, or practice while teaching students to recognize its limits.

 
“This Teacher Has Doubts About A.I. But He Won a Prize Using It” (NY Times, June 17, 2026) tells the story of a New York City teacher who won a prize with help from AI to create history lessons for his students while still having reservations about AI's use in the classroom. Teachers do not have to blindly accept every new tool, but they cannot ignore a technology students will—and should—continue to use. In fact, our very ambivalence should be the fuel to fire new ideas on when and how to use AI in the classroom, office, and boardroom. 

 
The goal should be responsible use: clear policies, better lessons, and practical assignments that teach students the difference between making AI a writing assistant and avoiding due diligence. AI may change how students write and study, but education should still help them think for themselves. 

A Return to the Lighthouse International Film Festival

For the fourth consecutive year, I attended the Lighthouse International Film Festival (LIFF) in Long Beach Island (LBI), New Jersey, from June 10 to 14. This year, the 5-day festival screened in 198 films from 31 nations in 4 venues scattered across the island. The films ranged from short length to feature length, narratives to documentaries, TV and web series to film house productions, and included specialties like darkhouse (horror), surfing, high school and college productions. Thus, much of the world and the entire film community were represented on the barrier island. And the entertainment, for the most part, was first rate.

To start with, LBI is a nice 5-day destination in early June, when the LIFF perennially runs. You can count on Atlantic surf walks along uncrowded beaches, or a lighthouse visit on the northernmost point of the island, sunrises on the beachside and sunsets on the bayside, plenty of specialty shops, great breakfast places like Uncle Will's or The Chicken or the Egg, and cool restaurants with bay views like the Bird and Betty's and Tucker's Tavern, or with a garden courtyard like The Gables, many of them with entertainment. So if you want to just lie low, LBI will give you that. 

During the film festival, I saw 40 shorts ranging from 2 to 25 minutes and 7 feature length movies, some of them exceptional, most notably Union County with Will Poulter (97 minutes) and 5th with Eric Roberts (16 minutes), both about people trying to overcome addiction. For most of these shows, the moviemakers or actors attend a Q & A directly after their film. 

One of best things about getting a festival pass for only $125 is the freedom to attend any of the movies as well as other special events, such as breakfasts and parties with the filmmakers. After a while, one feels they are a part of a community of like-minded people. Keep open early June 2027 to experience this singular event.

What's Standard English, Part 8: The F Word

I could get in trouble for this one.

I conclude this series with the word that prompted me to start it. While the F word is far from standard writing in the workplace, it is becoming increasingly pervasive in office speech, and you might find it here or there in writing. I have seen "WTF" in business text messages. You know what that means.

That spread does not mean the F word has lost its shock value. It still seems overtly and inappropriately aggressive, which is exactly why people use it. In speech, it may function as anger, emphasis, surprise, admiration, or even solidarity, depending on who says it, to whom, and under what circumstances. A close colleague may utter it jokingly and strengthen rapport; the same word from a manager in a tense moment may feel threatening or abusive. As with so much language, meaning lies not only in the word itself but in the relationship and context.

One thing for sure: Using the word would have ended a politician’s career a long time ago; now it’s little more than an understandable, innocuous sound bite.

The issue is bigger than one taboo word. It is about the steady migration of informal speech into professional environments. Workplaces now absorb the habits of texting, social media, streaming culture, and casual conversation far more quickly than they once did. What earlier generations would have considered plainly unprofessional may now pass without notice in some offices, especially in fast-moving, high-pressure, or highly familiar teams. The standard has certainly loosened.

It makes sense to remember that expanded acceptance is not the same as universal acceptance. A word that passes easily among peers may damage credibility with clients, offend a reader, or create risk in a difficult Human Resources situation.

Has the F word entered standard English? Not fully. But it has undeniably moved closer to the center of ordinary usage than many people are willing to admit. Standard English changes as culture changes, and professionalism now depends less on rigid rules than on audience, judgment, and timing.

What's Standard English, Part 7: :-) 😀 :-( 👍

The emoticons and symbols in the heading of this post represent the first time I have used them in the 21-year history of this blog—or anywhere, for that matter. I try to let my words speak for me in print. But that doesn't mean I am following some kind of usage convention. The standard is to use them. Such devices, once reserved for text messaging, have been the norm in business email for some time. They have specific meanings known by the writer and reader, so I suppose they count as language.

Still, their rise creates an interesting tension. Emojis can clarify tone in the quick, stripped-down medium of email. A brief “Thanks” may seem abrupt; “Thanks 🙂” may appear warm and appreciative. A thumbs-up can save a whole sentence. In fast-moving exchanges, these marks can do the work that facial expression, gesture, and speaking voice do in conversation.

On the other hand, they also blur the line between informal and formal writing. A smiling face or laughing symbol may seem harmless between teammates, yet the same mark may appear unserious in a difficult message, a disciplinary response, or a communication with a client. As with salutations, punctuation, and word choice, context governs everything. The writer must ask not merely, “Is this common?” but “Is this right for this reader and this moment?”

So are emoticons and emojis now part of Standard English? In practice, yes—at least in many everyday forms of digital writing. They may not belong in every document, and some writers and readers (like me) will resist them, but they are no longer fringe devices. They have become one more way that writers signal meaning, attitude, and relationship. Once again, the lesson is the same: standard English is not fixed. It changes because people do.