Grammarly Is Not Your Friend

I'm sure that the people who work at Grammarly are good citizens, great at cocktail parties, and willing to save kittens from trees, burning buildings, etc.  I want to start proleptically by saying my beef with Grammarly is not with its employees, nor is it necessarily with the founders, owners, and/or investors of the company.  My goal with this long-overdue post in the Oratoria is to warn you--the language-interested reader who desires to have excellent if not flawless writing for whatever your writing needs may be--that what you want from Grammarly is not necessarily what you're going to get.  Because it can't be.  So what's a writer to do?  I've got a few suggestions for you, some of which you'll like more than others.

What is Grammarly?

Grammarly is a company that is heavily invested--to the tune of approximately $110 million, primarily from five venture-capital firms--in "using artificial intelligence to help people with the substance and content of what they write," according to CEO Brad Hoover.

My gloss on this is that Grammarly is a glorified version of the frankly adorable paperclip in ancient iterations of Microsoft Word, except that the paperclip gave users pointers about how to use Word in addition to pointing out typographical, spelling, and grammatical errors.  Grammarly sticks to the errors (Wikipedia says that Grammarly checks 250 million rules, but I can't verify that anywhere else, so consider it hearsay at this point).  I would also be remiss not to note that this claim is problematic insofar as changes to grammar do not necessarily equate to "substan[tive]" changes to meaning, let alone writing.  Chomsky proved that decades ago.

What is it, as a service?  Imagine paying a monthly fee to have Word check your spelling and grammar.  Imagine paying a monthly fee so that you can have a plugin for your browser that does what Word does in checking your spelling and grammar as you, say, type an email (or a blog post).  That's what people pay for when they pay for Grammarly.  The algorithms that the company uses to help narrow down the probability that certain conditions have or have not been met in any combination of words (i.e., that sentences are grammatical or not) are maybe better than Word's, more refined, more nuanced, more-regularly updated (but does it constitute the development of artificial intelligence?  Well, the mere use of algorithms does not artificial intelligence make), but even proving the validity of that assertion would depend on which test is being administered.

What's So Problematic about Grammarly?

Nothing, except that it's only marginally helpful.

"But wait!" you say.  "I use Grammarly, and just like in the commercials, it saved me from using a typo or misplacing a modifier in that email to my boss.  Yikes!"  Sure, but Word might have been able to help you catch that, too.  For free.

What's really problematic was a problem that started well before the point at which you, the Grammarly user, thought to yourself, "I better make sure my boss doesn't catch any errors in what I write for work."  Here's a brief summary of the layers upon layers of problems that led you to Grammarly:

  1. You weren't taught properly to rely upon--not just how to use but that you need to use--a proper handbook.  Anything that you feel unsure about, you could look up in a writer's handbook like The Everyday Writer or A College Grammar of English, depending on your needs.  A cheap handbook that I love to recommend is The Easy Writer by Andrea Lunsford.  Everything that Grammarly "knows" is in that handbook, and you can get it for less than the price of one month's subscription to Grammarly.
  2. You weren't taught the basics of grammar.  When you open up a handbook to learn about why "which" needs a comma but "that" doesn't, you may be thrown off by terms like "restrictive."  And what's a "modifier," anyway?  "Gerund"?  Who is "Gerund"? Your parents (and you) should have gone to your school board and demanded to be challenged in your English classes.  Shakespeare is important, too, but understanding grammar is far, far more important insofar as you need to understand the fundamentals of the linguistic tools you use to navigate your world each day of your life.  Which leads to the next point...
  3. The education and teacher-training system set you up to be ignorant.  This is partly because of standardized testing and the need to teach lots and lots of things to students.  Learning grammar takes time, especially if it's not intuitive (chemistry isn't intuitive for me, so I empathize).  Frankly, I'd bet that if you had a map of the U.S. and put a dot for each city/town in which at least one school has an expert in English language or even someone with more than six hours of English-grammar college-level education, the map would have fewer than 50 tiny specks.  Instead, we have teachers who aren't equipped to teach anything about grammar and usage, so why do we assume our students will know it?  Don't blame the teachers, though...
  4. I put a lot of blame on my own field, rhetoric and composition, for downplaying the importance of teaching the formal aspects of language for the sake of promoting the cultural aspects of communication.  Yes, it's true that there are multiple dialects of English and that communities should have the right to the use of their own dialect, that no dialect is inherently better than another.  However, if our students can't describe the ways in which a dialect operates and differs from another dialect--if they can't identify articles, verbs, syntactic complexity, etc., and analyze why, rhetorically, speakers and writers might use those elements for a purpose in any given context--then our attention to the cultural aspects of communication are pointless, because we're just telling people that something is a certain way without empowering them to understand how it is.  The "social turn" in my field should have been a time when we doubled down on teaching grammar, linguistics, and usage and then coupling them with cultural rhetorics and linguistics; instead, we chucked the one that looked like science and embraced the one that we thought was important by itself, for itself.  I argue that our students would be more empowered if they could explain how and why they are communicating or how and why others' communication affects their identities and rights; right now, few can.
  5. Because of the highly conditional nature of language--a function of the highly conditional nature of human social and cognitive contexts--what counts as an error to one person may not to another at any given point in time.  It wasn't until grad school that I learned how to use an em dash properly.  Now I find out that I'm applying the rule I learned far too stringently--that it's okay to use as an extendo tool like this.  It drives me nuts when people do it, even though it's something I used to do all the time.  I have a different set of rules in my head.  What rules does Grammarly have?  How adaptable is its "reasoning"?  Can you talk back and forth with the algorithm about what the rhetorical repercussions are of having used an em dash in the way that you did, in any given context?  Can Grammarly's alleged AI help you weigh the cost-benefit for a nuanced audience?  How do you know that something is an error?  How does Grammarly know?  Who gets to decide what's right and wrong in language use?

Grammarly fixes exactly none of these problems.  It doesn't educate the user.  It doesn't advocate for better teacher education to empower writers to be able to control their own language.  It takes money from people and puts a bandaid over all of this.  What's more, when people use Grammarly, they can't tell whether the fixes proposed by the Grammarly system are actually fixes.  In this way, Grammarly is kind of like going to a psychic.  Your psychic might be 100% right that you shouldn't marry your fiance, but you don't know that, and there's no way for you to verify it until it's too late.  Similarly, unless you can open up a handbook and point to the place where the handbook explains that no, you don't need a comma before a coordinating conjunction that splices two independent clauses in most cases (or what "coordinating conjunction" and "independent clause" even mean), among any number of additional rules about commas, then you don't know whether Grammarly has given you an accurate fix when it suggested deleting that one comma.  You are at Grammarly's mercy, in that case.

Don't Even Get Me Started with the Plagiarism-Detection Service

Companies like Turnitin and, now, Grammarly are compiling gigantic databases of writing.  This should give each of you pause.  What are they doing with your writing?  Is your privacy protected?  Which copyrights have you given away by virtue of having used these services?  Read all about it here.

What's the Solution?

I suppose we have to find a time machine and go back to the '80s and tell rhet-compsters not to throw the baby out with the bathwater.  There isn't enough R&D funding for that at the moment, I hear, so instead you have a range of options that are better than Grammarly:

  • Less-costly options:
    • Merely using Word (or whatever word processor you prefer)
    • Using a handbook.  This will take more time than using Word, because you'll have to spend time with it, learning about grammar, before you can really get optimal use out of it.
  • More-costly options:
    • Take a class on writing, but look at the syllabus first to make sure that there's plenty of attention paid to grammar and usage
    • Better yet, take an introductory linguistics class.  Then buy a handbook; you'll suddenly find it much more approachable. 
    • Ideally, you'd be able to secure the services of a professional editor.  I negotiate payment plans for students (and, really, anyone else who knows they're going to have difficulty paying a single lump sum for professional help), and many other copyeditors will, too.  Yes, it will be more than $15/month, but the monthly subscription price that you're paying to Grammarly is really just for wishful thinking.  If you're only using Grammarly, then you'll still need to have your writing checked over by a professional to ensure that it's actually correct because, hey, you don't know enough to know whether the automated advice given to you by Grammarly is worth anything or not.  Kinda undercuts the value of the subscription, doesn't it?

I hate to be the bearer of bad news for those of you who thought that Grammarly was the panacea for your writing woes.  What I'm trying to tell you is that it's actually much more important that you understand how writing works so that you'll be able to evaluate whether you're getting good advice, whether it's from an algorithm or from a copyeditor such as me.  Both the algorithm and I can make suggestions for improving your grammaticality, but I can make suggestions and changes that affect your writing qua writing, not qua grammatical strings of words that may or may not be meaningful or effective.  And I can teach you about how I've done it, if you want to know.

Why It's Never Okay to Self-Plagiarize, Especially If You're a Scholar in the Humanities

When I was a writing program administrator, I dealt with plagiarism occasionally.  It's a fact of life, but it's rarely something to get wrapped around the axle about.  That said, I have something on my mind, and I'm not going to pull any punches with this post.  Even if you're not in the field of academia, keep reading.  I'm going to explain a different way of thinking about plagiarism than you're probably used to, and I'm going to give you some insight into how we should value the services that academics in the humanities provide you.

My Students Almost Never Plagiarized.  Here's Why.

There's probably as much moral outrage connected to plagiarism as there is confusion about what actually constitutes plagiarism.  That's not a stable combination.  But as a teacher, I rarely had students plagiarize in my classes.  This was for three reasons:

  1. I made them write drafts, sometimes in class, so no one could show up to class with a complete paper out of the thin, blue sky.  They'd fail a substantial portion of the paper grade if they did.  We also talked explicitly about what plagiarism is, and they knew that part of the reason they were doing drafts was to help them avoid plagiarism.  There was no mystery to the process, because I wasn't trying to catch them or trick them.
  2. I had unique paper prompts that required writers to synthesize and/or address unusual topics and/or incorporate their own experiences.  This is the number-one way that teachers can avoid cases of plagiarism.  Not having unique assignments that ask students to do something truly unique (like incorporate their personal experiences into their analysis or to analyze things that few other folks would think to analyze) is a good way to avoid getting paper-mill papers.
  3. I warn students in the first few days of class that I am a rhetorician with enough training in linguistics that I can analyze their rhetorical/linguistic/discursive fingerprints based on samples of their in-class writing and compare that analysis with a similar analysis of any paper they turn in that I think might be plagiarized.  Armed with forensic linguistics, I would tell them, I could bring charges of plagiarism that would be pretty hard to deny even in the absence of a matching source if the analysis indicates that plagiarism had, indeed, occurred.

But when I did catch students plagiarizing, it was usually because they were:

  1. Ignorant about the topic they were to write about.  These were the students who'd bailed on class or hadn't done the readings.  They were stealing other people's ideas (yeah, I said it: stealing) because they didn't have any of their own to put into words.
  2. Ignorant about what constitutes plagiarism.  Yes, sometimes you have students (especially from foreign cultures) who just don't understand how our culture defines plagiarism, no matter how much we discuss the basics of plagiarism in class.  They might not realize that it's not okay to take a sentence from a paper they'd written in high school and plop it into a new paper, or that they have to provide actual citations for all materials--directly quoted or otherwise--that didn't come from their own brains or aren't common knowledge.  My response to this was, typically: "Except for common-knowledge issues, if you can cite a source for any idea or words you're writing, then you must."
  3. Out of time.  Maybe they knew the material inside and out.  Maybe they knew what plagiarism is.  But maybe they put off writing the paper and just don't have the time to write 6000 words in the next 3 hours or whatever before class, so they decide to lift someone else's ideas or words without proper attribution.  Yikes.  That's why plagiarism penalties exist, indeed.

All of that is understandable, if not always excusable.  We hold students to a high standard, and it's our responsibility as teachers to teach students what those standards are so that students can live up to them.  We're also here to help them do that "living up to" part, too.

Here's the thing: We cannot do that if we, their teachers, are plagiarists.  We have to hold ourselves to the highest standard if we want to be taken seriously.

Who's Afraid of the Humanities?

Nary a month goes by but that there's an op-ed piece in a major newspaper or academic trade publication about how important the humanities are.  Ever wondered why that is?  It's not as if there are op-eds about how unnecessary the humanities are, right?  Well, it's true that after the boom times of the 1990s, university budget cuts struck humanities programs first.  These programs weren't flashy (no robots getting built by philosophy professors, even though their work makes AI possible), they didn't get big grant funds (no pharmaceuticals being created by cultural-studies experts, even though their work informs how we categorize disorders and diseases), and they appeared to be more expensive than they were worth (even though some courses, like first-year writing courses, are huge money-makers for universities, largely because they're so cheap to teach and because students are conscripted into them).  Right before I went on the job market for a tenure-track job, the economy crashed, and English and other humanities departments around the country dried up.  Suddenly, our scholarship wasn't as valuable as it had been; it wasn't worth the same level of investment in the form of professorships and departmental funding.  So it goes.  The humanities really are vulnerable to the money-focused forces that steer contemporary universities. 

The problem isn't that we're not actually valuable.  It's also not that we're not inherently valuable, by which I mean that the humanities aren't valuable for their own sake.  Humanities scholarship is valuable, and humanities scholars have to be able to articulate the nature of that value in order to persuade others of it.  Torrential rainstorms of ink have been spilled in the effort to articulate that value, so I'm going to keep it brief here, but the best reason I can think of to indicate the value of the humanities is this: Imagine that everything we know about human culture didn't get passed down to the next generations.  Imagine that in two generations we don't know anything about what we were doing at any point beyond 200 years ago.  Imagine that we didn't understand anything about ourselves and how we got to where we are.  Sounds dangerous, right?  Not to mention wasteful.  That's what abandoning the humanities means.  We're worth investing time, effort, and, yes, money in.

Self-Plagiarism (Especially in the Humanities) Is Damn Ugly

The following scenario is hypothetical, okay?  But let's say that in the course of being the loving, diligent copyeditor of a book written by a group of smart, capable, insightful scholars in the humanities, I see a bit of code that indicates that a few words have come from an online source.  I used to see this code in my students' papers all the time when they'd copy and paste a quotation from whatever online source they were reading.  With proper attribution, this is not a problem.  In fact, with proper attribution, signal phrases, and fully integrating whatever was copied into their ideas and sentences, the inclusion of those outside words--whether they were copied and pasted or not--would constitute successful academic writing.  The code in and of itself wasn't the problem for my students.

So let's say I decide, "Well, I better double check that these words don't need to be cited, since they seem to be copied and pasted."  Because the words aren't cited.  Why would they be copied and pasted, then, I might wonder?  Let's say that I then search the interweb for the words, and find that, lo and behold, that exact phrase has already been published in an article on the same topic in a peer-reviewed, academic journal that specializes in publishing information about this topic.  Gasp!  And not cited??  This is not okay!

What I've just described to you in this hypothetical situation is plagiarism.  The author of the chapter hasn't given attribution to the exact wording of a pretty distinctive phrase that comes from another source that, in all likelihood, the author came in contact with in the course of doing research for this article.  Standard plagiarism that an editor can query: "Does this sentence require attribution?  It comes from an outside source.  Please provide complete citation information."

But let's say I look at the byline for the article from which this phrase has been flat-out plagiarized, and I find that the article was written by the same person who's written the chapter that I'm currently copyediting.

Um, no.  No, no, no.  Say it ain't so.  This humanities scholar has self-plagiarized.  This person has just repeated themselves verbatim in a totally new work of "scholarship."  And, let's go to the worst-case scenario: let's say that this person is a rhetoric-and-composition scholar with a tenure-track position and has even written a textbook about academic writing.

Let's say that happened.  Just, like, hypothetically.

This is truly ugly.  It's hypocritical.  It's professional malpractice.  It's self-sabotage.  Any humanities scholar, especially someone who specializes in rhetoric and/or writing, has no excuse.  They have no appeal to any of the three reasons why students might plagiarize.  Let me count the ways:

  1. Self-plagiarists in the humanities, especially writing-studies specialists, cannot claim ignorance of the subject matter they're writing about.  Clearly, as someone who's published on this topic before, they should be able to think of new things to say about this topic.  If they can't, they should take several seats and let someone else who has something new and fresh to say have a chance.  But this is one of the many problems of the academy today: publish or perish leads to a glut of echo-chamber publications.  It leads to cliques of scholars publishing each other's scholarship once one of them gets into an editorial position.  Perhaps self-plagiarizing humanities scholars think that no one is actually reading their work, at least not closely, and they'll never get caught.  That's woefully abject in its cynicism.
  2. They cannot claim to be ignorant about what constitutes plagiarism.  If you're a professional academic, you've encountered dozens of definitions of plagiarism.  It's your job to enforce plagiarism policies in your classes.  You can't say that you didn't realize that just repeating your own words and not providing a citation to that information is dishonest.  You can't say that you think there's no harm in trying to get ahead in the publish or perish game by cutting corners, by trying to seem as if you've got new, fresh ideas when in fact you're just repeating yourself.  This is why outsiders don't take the humanities seriously.  Things like this.  When we don't actually bring new, worthwhile knowledge to the table.  This is why.  This.
  3. They cannot claim to have run out of time.  Behind on that deadline?  Either ask for an extension or sit down and let someone else have a go.  I'm in the middle of an epic battle with myself about whether I'm ever going to get a chapter submitted for a certain edited collection.  But I'm not going to steal someone else's words or try to pass off words that I've already published somewhere else in order to have another publication line on my CV.  Neither would I steal just one sentence.  It's not going to save me that much time.  In the time that I saved by not trying to think of a new way to phrase that same idea, I'm not going to be able to fit in another student advising session or another email or another meeting or time enough to prep a whole class, etc.  It's not saving that much time to self-plagiarize just one line.  So why bother?  It's just lazy and ugly, and it suggests that what we do is cheap and not worthy of building upon.  It suggests that even we "really" know that what we do is just the same thing over and over.  As long as we get the publication glory, right?

So, I'm not saying anything.  I'm just saying.  If you're a scholar in the humanities and you're thinking of self-plagiarizing, don't.  Wait to write when you actually have something new to contribute.  Give someone else a chance, if the best you can do is repeat yourself.  If we're in this cosmic cocktail party together, then just remember that no one likes to chat up the person who just keeps saying the same thing over and over.  What's the point of listening to that?