‘All good things must come to an end’, as the saying goes. And an IASH Postdoctoral Research Fellowship is a thoroughly good thing. I handed back my keys with sadness today, but I have had a great year. (The Fellowship was technically six months, but I was graciously permitted to hang around, retaining the use of my office for the rest of the year, which was wonderful, and enabled me to continue data-gathering in the Library’s Heritage Collections.)
19th meets 20th century Looking back …Last glance from bus stop St Patrick’s Square
If you are looking for a next step after your PhD, or if like me, you’re making a change of direction – or need a spell concentrating on a particular research question in the Humanities – do consider applying.
I devoted my time to examining the archives of the Edinburgh publishers, Thomas Nelson. I initially entitled my project, ‘From National Songs to Nursery Rhymes, and Discussion Books to Dance Bands: investigating Thomas Nelson’s Musical Middle Ground’, but the nursery rhymes turned out to be poems, and weren’t what I had in mind! The rest? Yes, I researched them.
I found quite a bit of correspondence between Thomas Nelson’s editors, authors and compilers, which was gratifying. I was able to trace material in journals that I would not have had access to, had I not been in Edinburgh; there’s the excellent University Library collection of actual and digital resources, and the National Library of Scotland just down the road.
I have deferred commencing any significant written work until I had explored all the potentially relevant materials in the files. I believe I’ve now reached that point. As a result of conducting this research, I have ideas for extending my research in new directions, and I’m contemplating writing another book, so I need not only to explore potential audiences, but also to start working on a book proposal
However, I have also applied for and recently won an Athenaeum Award from the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland to enable me to conduct an oral history project. This work, to be conducted in 2026, will hopefully enable me to write a final chapter for my proposed monograph. (I’ll be blogging about this before too long, but there are things I need to do first, before I spill the beans!)
I have benefited from being part of a research community, hearing other scholars’ papers and discussing our research; and attending researcher development sessions. I was able to focus on my new direction as a researcher – important, after so many years as an ‘alt-ac’ researcher working in professional services. In this regard, I have also been in a position to submit some other unrelated work for publication, and I spoke at a conference at the University of Sussex in June, all of which gives me a sense that my research is gathering momentum.
Today, my last day, I took a cake to the University Library’s Heritage Collections; went to IASH’s Christmas lunch; and mulled over aspects of my ethical approval submission for my next project. (Oh, and drank quite a bit of coffee!)
Thank you so very much for a great year, IASH!
IASH (Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities)
I wrote these words as a reflection, but then I wondered if other people might find them helpful. Maybe something like this – or worse (because I realise my experience was slight compared to someone whose whole article, story or book has been plagiarised) has happened to you? There might be folk who would shudder at the thought of laying bare their emotions, their gut reaction, to such a situation. As for me? My ‘words’ are my strength. If my words in the present posting make me look weak as an individual, be assured that I am fully aware of this. They also make me uniquely ‘me’, and who ever gets far by pretending to be other than themselves?
Meanwhile, my situation has been resolved, thankfully. I feel grateful. Grateful for the help. Grateful for the response and correction of the situation.
However, I feel utterly drained. I’m taking a day’s annual leave because it’s preferable to taking a day’s sick-leave for stress.
I initially headed this posting, ‘Thoughts on detecting plagiarism’. However, ‘on detecting plagiarism’ turns out already to be in the title of someone else’s blog post – Addressing the Inherent Biases in Automated Systems: On Detecting ‘Plagiarism’ (Lancaster University, Ref 2014 Impact Case Studies). I changed my heading. Do read the Lancaster post, if you’re interested. I commend it, even though it’s actually about detecting plagiarism in student submissions, rather than realising your words have been quoted without attribution. I read their blog post briefly last night, and I am not reading it again today. I took no notes, and I have no intention of borrowing anything that was there.
They were literally just a few words, but my own words, and the crux of a 21-page article written 12 years ago. The first full article on the topic. It hurt. And then I started questioning myself:- was I considered so unimportant that my authorship is insignificant? Because, PhD or not, I was ‘merely’ a librarian, hence unimportant? Because I’m now ‘just’ a postdoc research fellow? (That was actually a promotion, by the way!) Because I’m not very famous? Was it because I’m a woman? Because I’m older, and thus considered past it? Because, once published, the words were considered free for the taking? Because, significant or not, they were just a few words, and so temptingly apposite? Low-hanging fruit.
Mulling it over as I got ready for the day, I glanced in the mirror. There I was, an older woman – not ageing particularly stunningly or gracefully, short in stature and wide in figure. My garb was workaday (I was about to sit down to a solitary morning of research, 67 or not). I wore no makeup, and I haven’t been on the latest diet long enough – you wouldn’t notice me if I walked down the street. So there I was. I’m not publicly visible as a performer or composer, unlike a large number of my colleagues. And, as I mentioned, although as a librarian I achieved some visibility in the sectors I worked in – perhaps more visibility than many – librarians aren’t generally known for this quality. We exist to help other people. I’ve not been a librarian for a year now, but I think I probably still carry the aura of invisibility. And when you say ‘librarian’, not many people immediately think, ‘Ah! A researcher. An author. A public speaker.’ Well, there it is!
But although librarians might exist to help, to share, to facilitate, they aren’t ghostwriters. Even when they’ve retired from librarianship and are now employed solely as a postdoctoral research fellow.
‘It Says More about Them than it does about You’
And then I reminded myself (I think this is called cognitive reframing) that I didn’t actually know what they were thinking when they used my unattributed words. I can’t read other people’s minds. My identity may not have even been a consideration. And I recalled my latest mantra: that other people’s words and actions speak more about them than about me.
Trigger warning here. I am not preaching when I say that I’m a practising Christian; I’m declaring a fact, which probably does affect my philosophy. (I’m no Evangelical, though – I’m boringly conventional!) I found an intriguing article, ‘3 Reasons Pastors and ‘Authors’ Should Never Plagiarize‘ by David Kakish (12 July 2019). He does make the salient, human point that ‘Plagiarism Fails to Give Honor Where Honor is Due’. Be assured that I’ll be reading it, out of curiosity, but it doesn’t really help the person who has been plagiarised, so I’ll leave it until later! I did do a little web-searching to see if there was a Christian take on low self-esteem. However, I found nothing that resonated, except the grounding reminder that everyone is a unique person for a purpose, so we should embrace what we are rather than wish we were someone else.
I tried not to beat myself up about my own insecurities. I know what I’ve achieved, from a mid-career standing start, against the odds. My words are old enough to be irrefutably mine, regardless. And … well, I can always write some more!
Here are some useful links which I found last night
If your experience is on the more serious end of the scale, these might be helpful. I’m not proposing to offer guidance on dealing with such situations – I’m really not qualified to – but I would urge you to seek support.
Bailey, writing about author O’Hanlon’s dreadful experience, headed his post, ‘The Emotional Toll of Plagiarism’, and my own limited experience endorses that. In my case, a migraine and shall we say, gut reactions, were clearly telling me I was stressed. Symptoms can be treated, but how much nicer not to have had them at all!
You know how you buy a new car, and suddenly everyone seems to be driving the same white Fiat 500? It’s the same with research topics.
“Enthusiastic collectors of Gaelic songs and Irish harp tunes”
I researched Gaelic song-collectors Anna and Margaret Maclean-Clephane as part of my PhD (2009).
I blogged about the sisters as far back as 2012 in my librarian days, when the Whittaker Library was using Blogspot:- How Far Can a Song Travel? (Author Karen McAulay, Whittaker Live blog, Wednesday, 23 May 2012);
I followed up with an extended article about them (also in 2013). See this excerpt from the article:-
Naturally, the Maclean Clephane sisters are in my Pure institutional repository at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland. I coined the above phrase, ‘enthusiastic collectors of Gaelic songs and Irish harp tunes’, using it both in my book (p.92) and my article (p.62), both in 2013.
‘While they were still in their teens’
The sisters had a book ‘printed but not published’ while they were still in their teens – you can read about it in my article, p.58. I have to say, the arrangements in their book were – well, okay, but not artistically stylish!
Margaret had a harp – there is actually a Raeburn portrait of Margaret with her harp – see below. Alexander Campbell did say the sisters played, but there’s no portrait of Anna with a harp, so we can’t prove it either way. He didn’t meet them. (There was in fact a third sister, though her musical interest didn’t seem to carry through to adulthood. ) Indeed, Anna wasn’t that hot on the piano, as I recall. They grew up on the Isle of Mull. I’ve driven past the house, Torloisk. It’s massive!
I just love researching and writing about people, particularly musicians! If they’re women musicians, then that’s all the more interesting – so it’s hardly surprising I was drawn to them, and went looking at materials in the National Library of Scotland and the School of Scottish Studies in Edinburgh, and even visiting a manuscript that’s now down in London. (Blog post Women’s History Month 2024. Musicians, this present blog.)
Details of my article
But ever since, these fascinating and talented ladies keep cropping up in my social media feeds. People who’ve read my writings also contact me from time to time. Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, I get notifications that people have consulted my stuff, too … and there’s also a CD whose notes cite me, too:-
The harpist, Masako, asked if she could cite my work – I was very appreciative that she went to the trouble of asking me.
Correctly cited 😀Margaret Clephane … and Masako Art
I spent so long with my early nineteenth-century heroines, but eventually my research took different directions. Not being a Gaelic scholar was just one of the problems I’d encountered! I attended classes in speaking it, at the Conservatoire. I signed up to local authority evening classes at the Gaelic School in Glasgow. But somehow, I never really had time to give it enough attention, despite having been considered good at languages at school and possessing school certificates in – well, several European languages. I understand when someone agrees with me in Gaelic, and can pronounce ‘Torloisk’, for sure, but Gaelic remains beyond me!
But look – now the music is going to be played. That’s exciting!
Rest assured, I shall return to my normal scholarly tone in August. But for now – I’m on holiday, and this has been quite a month in more ways than I can explain. So, humour me. I’m distracting myself!
Today, a friend’s Facebook posting alerted me to the fact that sentimental stories on Facebook are often concocted by AI and have no truth in them at all.
Now, I may already have mentioned that I loathe, with a fierce and burning passion, the horrible meme of mean and entitled ‘Karens’ – inevitably white women, of a certain age. Similarly, I hate all the vile YouTube videos about a nasty ‘Karen’, usually a white American living in an HOA (Home Owner Association). I’ve heard from various sources that they, too, are made up by AI, or acted using an AI script. When I overhear an endless series of videos narrated in the same voice, same tone, same cadences – with ‘Karen sneered’, ‘Karen snapped’, ‘Karen glared’, I feel an almost visceral response. How DARE they turn my name into a mean, misogynistic slur? I don’t find them interesting or amusing – they’re pathetic and offensive. I hate my name!
But if I complain – then I’m an entitled middle-class white woman called Karen just proving their point for them by complaining. As ‘Karens’ do. (Or am I? My understanding is that the meme originated with people of the global majority who quite rightly objected to condescending treatment by a certain type of white person. I have seriously taken steps to educate myself about racism, and I don’t believe I am racist. Nor do I think I’m ‘entitled’. If anything, I apologise too often for being in the way, or daring to ask for something. This Karen is not a ‘Karen’.)
However, to test the theory that these things are written by AI, I decided to ask Chat GPT to write me a story, to see what the result would look like. How easily can one prompt a very predictable story to fit a predetermined template? And how would I rate the ‘writing’? (This is a one-off, I hasten to add, because I realise I’m wasting resources, especially water, by playing around with a robot. Moreover, the results are frankly boring! I won’t do it again.) My AI story is about a bigoted man called Bert. Here goes:-
“Could you please write me a realistic story about an American called Bert who lived in a housing complex and was mean and intolerant to anyone who looked different. The story must end with Bert learning his lesson the hard way.”
And Chat GPT replied, Certainly — here’s a realistic short story about Bert, with a strong narrative arc and a moral conclusion. (Chat GPT didn’t warn me how dull it would be!):-
Title: “The View from Apartment 3B”
Bert lived in Apartment 3B of the Chestnut Grove housing complex on the east side of Cleveland. He was 67, retired from thirty years at the steel plant, and proud of never needing help from anyone — especially not the government, not the church, and certainly not “those people.”
To Bert, “those people” included anyone who didn’t look, speak, dress, or worship like he did. He hated loud music in foreign languages. He hated headscarves and saggy pants, long beards and bright turbans, rainbow flags and prayer rugs. He especially hated when people didn’t speak English around him. He never said “hate” out loud, of course — he just called himself “old-fashioned.”
He’d sit on the bench outside the complex with his scuffed thermos of black coffee, offering grunted nods to the other older white tenants who tolerated his gruffness. But if anyone else came by — the young Nigerian nurse from 2A, the Filipino single dad from 4C, the Mexican-American delivery driver from the next building — Bert’s face hardened like a storm cloud.
He muttered under his breath, sometimes louder than he thought.
One evening, someone spray-painted “Go home” on the wall near the mailboxes. It wasn’t signed, but everyone suspected who might’ve said something to encourage it. Bert just shrugged. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “maybe they should.”
Then winter came.
In early January, Cleveland got hit with one of the worst ice storms in a decade. Power lines went down, roads froze over, and the Chestnut Grove complex lost heat and electricity for four days. The management company was slow to respond — they’d been cutting corners for years.
Bert, stubborn and reclusive, didn’t reach out for help. His old space heater didn’t work without power, and he refused to go to the warming shelter set up at the local community center. “Not gonna be packed in like sardines with a bunch of strangers,” he grumbled.
By day two, the temperature inside his apartment had dropped to the low 40s. Bert bundled up in layers of flannel and tried to wait it out, but his breathing became shallow, his chest tight. On the third night, he passed out on his kitchen floor, alone.
He came to in a different kitchen — warm, full of the smell of ginger tea and something simmering on the stove. A woman with dark brown skin and a soft voice was leaning over him, holding a warm compress to his forehead.
“Don’t try to sit up yet,” she said. “You fainted from the cold. My husband helped carry you over here.”
It was Amina from 2A — the nurse he always avoided in the hallway.
He blinked, confused. “Why…?”
“You live alone,” she said simply. “And we saw the light out in your window. We were worried.”
Beside her stood her husband, Yusuf, who offered him a bowl of soup. Bert’s hands trembled as he accepted it. In the corner, their children whispered, glancing at him with worried eyes.
He stayed the night in their warm apartment, too weak to argue.
When the power came back two days later, Bert returned to 3B. He barely spoke for a week. Then, one morning, he walked down to the common area and quietly scrubbed the wall where the hateful graffiti had been. No one asked him to. He didn’t say a word.
Later that month, he surprised everyone by showing up at the potluck in the rec room. He brought cornbread — a little dry, but appreciated — and sat with the Filipino dad from 4C. They talked about old cars. Bert even laughed once.
He never gave a grand apology. He never became warm and fuzzy. But he nodded more often. He started saying “hello” without suspicion. And one rainy evening, he left a small thank-you card outside 2A with a packet of tea tucked inside.
Bert didn’t change all at once. But he learned this much the hard way: It’s the people you push away who might just be the ones who save your life.
Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Chat GPT offered to make any changes I liked. So, let’s say that ‘Bert’ is now a New Englander called Joe, chairman of his local residents’ association, and the story takes place in a parking lot. (I don’t want to offend any Berts with a series of ‘Bert’ stories, so I’ve rung the changes.)
Chat GPT obliged. ‘Absolutely! Here’s a revised version of the story with your requested details’:
Title: “Lines in the Lot”
Joe Whitman was the chairman of the residents’ association at Maple Court Condominiums, a tidy, if slightly worn, complex in a leafy corner of suburban Massachusetts. A retired school administrator, Joe spoke in crisp, measured tones and had a fondness for pressed chinos, classic novels, and rules — especially those printed in the Residents’ Handbook.
He considered himself a man of principle. Decorum, order, and “shared standards” were his watchwords. In practice, this meant keeping the hedges trimmed, the recycling correctly sorted, and — most importantly — the parking lot free of chaos.
The parking lot was Joe’s domain.
He had lobbied for years to have the lines repainted and finally succeeded last spring. Now, every car was expected to park precisely within the marked bays. Double parking, backing in, or — heaven forbid — using visitor spaces without prior notice, were cardinal sins.
Joe’s frustration grew when residents who “didn’t understand the culture of the place” — his euphemism of choice — failed to follow the unspoken rules. A young Haitian couple had moved in recently. A Syrian family rented two units nearby. And there was the quiet Korean graduate student who sometimes worked late and came home after midnight, parking hastily across two lines.
Joe didn’t shout or sneer. He simply left laminated notices on windshields, written in the same font used by the association newsletter. “Please respect community standards. Repeat infractions will be reported.” He believed he was being fair.
One cold November afternoon, Joe spotted the Haitian couple — Daniel and Mireille — unloading bags of groceries. Their toddler was crying. The minivan’s front bumper was clearly over the line, intruding into the next bay.
Joe approached, arms crossed, ready to correct.
“Afternoon,” he said stiffly.
“Afternoon,” Daniel replied, adjusting his son’s hat.
“I see your vehicle is once again outside the boundary. The lines are there for a reason.”
Daniel looked at him for a long moment. “We’ll move it in just a moment. My wife needs to carry the baby upstairs.”
Joe gave a tight smile. “The rules apply to everyone, I’m afraid.”
That evening, Mireille posted in the community WhatsApp group — politely, but firmly — asking for a bit more compassion from the association when families had their hands full. Joe didn’t respond. He didn’t like being called out, especially not in public.
The storm hit two nights later.
Freezing rain coated the lot in slick black ice. Residents stayed indoors, waiting for the salt truck. But it never came.
Around 10:30 p.m., Joe went out to inspect the situation. It was his duty, he reasoned, to ensure no one parked irresponsibly overnight. He didn’t see the ice patch beside the Honda CR-V.
He slipped.
There was a sharp crack — his hip — and then nothing but pain and darkness.
He woke up to voices and headlights.
Daniel and the Korean student, Ji-Hoon, had found him. They’d been helping another neighbor move her car when they saw the shape on the ground.
They called an ambulance, covered him with their coats, and waited until help arrived. Daniel even rode along to the hospital.
Joe spent three nights recovering. The doctor said it could’ve been much worse — if he’d been alone for another hour, in that cold, things might’ve turned fatal.
Back at Maple Court, Joe took a long pause from association duties. He returned slowly — first attending meetings quietly, then helping organize a community clean-up day in spring.
He made no dramatic speeches. But a few changes spoke volumes.
The association adopted a “compassion clause” for parking enforcement. Laminated notices were quietly retired. Joe began greeting Daniel and Mireille with genuine warmth. He even asked Ji-Hoon about his dissertation over coffee one Saturday.
Joe never stopped valuing rules. But he learned that people mattered more — especially the ones you once only saw as problems.
Since I can’t bear my own name becoming a meme, we won’t let Bert or Joe become memes. But I couldn’t resist one more attempt! (To think I once published thirty-odd short stories and a serial in The People’s Friend, but now a robot can write sentimental stuff at the drop of a hat!) Could you tell the stories in this blog post were written by AI? They lack any sparkle that might make a reader want to rea it again!
I asked:- Could you please write me a very short sentimental story about a Devonian man called Derek, who had a much younger wife. A bit old fashioned in his ways, he would gently grumble (sorry, ‘comment’) about anything that displeased him, and his favourite insult was to tell poor Daisy that she was becoming more difficult with age. The story must end with Derek learning a salutory lesson.
Derek, a retired railway clerk from Devon, lived in a neatly kept cottage just outside Tavistock, with his much younger wife, Daisy. He was a man of habits — porridge at seven, gardening by nine, and a cup of milky tea at precisely four. Derek didn’t shout or rage; no, he commented. On the weather, on the state of the world, and most especially, on Daisy.
“Bit extravagant with the basil again, love,” he’d murmur as she cooked. “Back in my day, women didn’t wear jeans to the pub.” And, all too often: “You’re becoming more difficult with age, Daisy.”
Daisy, ever patient, would smile — though sometimes it flickered.
One Tuesday, Derek caught a chill. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him in bed for a few days. Daisy brought him soup, fluffed his pillows, and even read aloud from The Daily Telegraph, skipping the bits she knew would make him “comment.”
By Friday, Derek’s spirits lifted, but Daisy looked pale. “Just a bit tired,” she said, brushing it off. On Saturday, she fainted in the kitchen.
At the hospital, while waiting for news, Derek sat with hands trembling and heart thudding like an old train engine. A nurse appeared. “She’s all right,” she said gently. “Exhaustion. You’ll need to let her rest. And perhaps—help out a little more.”
Derek nodded mutely. That night, back in the quiet cottage, he made tea — weak, a bit tepid — and placed it by her bedside. Daisy opened her eyes, surprised.
“I made it myself,” he said. “Don’t say it’s awful. I’ve decided I’m the difficult one after all.”
She smiled, tired but amused. “Took you long enough, Derek.”
And for once, he didn’t comment. He just held her hand.
As I said, I won’t be doing this again. But I do now agree that a robot is perfectly capable of churning out sentimental, sarcastic or scurrilous material ad infinitum. They are boring stories. The second one has just the same ‘feel’ as the first – it doesn’t make you want to read on. The tone is so bland that, even in the days when doctors’ waiting rooms had magazines lying around, you’d have had to be pretty fed up to want to read to the end of these particular stories! However, it’s grammatical, and my results had acceptable language – no inappropriate academic turns of phrase.
But why would I bother? It’s not nearly as satisfying as writing about something more interesting oneself!
This week I’ve been focusing on my paper for the EFDSS conference, Traditional Folk Song: Past, Present & Future, on Saturday 10 November, 9:30am – 5:00pm at Cecil Sharp House, London. I’ll be talking about ‘National Airs in Georgian British Libraries’, and particularly focusing on the collections in St Andrews and Edinburgh. I’ll also be alluding to that old nineteenth century irritation – the allegation that England had no national music!
As it happened, I needed to take a day’s annual leave for a non-work related reason yesterday, but I hoped that for most of the day I would be free to concentrate on my presentation. Well, it didn’t work out quite that way, but I did start writing in the evening. Today, I spent the first couple of hours teaching library research skills, then it was back to the laptop in the research room for the rest of the day.
By the end of the working day, I had written just over 4,000 words and felt I deserved a treat: I left my papers on the desk and came home to spend the evening sewing! (Better still, another little indulgence had arrived in the post for me: a silver sixpence dating from 1821, the year of George IV’s coronation, and with a hole pierced in it by a previous owner so that it could be worn on a ribbon. As of course I already am!)
The conference will actually be the culmination of a particularly busy week for me: I’ll be visiting the two Irish Georgian legal deposit libraries in Dublin earlier in the week, and Stationers’ Hall and the British Library on the day before the conference. One of my choir-members looked somewhat surprised when I remarked that I’d be fitting in choir practice between Dublin and the overnight sleeper between Glasgow and London!
I’m particularly looking forward to this conference because it will be a completely different audience to those at the conferences I’ve already been to this year. I’m intending to give a fairly wide-ranging paper. If I unearth any surprises in Dublin, then there will be last-minute tweaking to add them into the mix!
NB If you liked this, you might like a post I wrote on a related topic, earlier this year – essentially a continuation of the story after the period that I’ll be describing in my latest conference paper:- England has no National Music? Chappell Set Out to Refute This
from 1821, the year of George IV’s coronation, and with a hole pierced in it by a previous owner so that it could be worn on a ribbon. As of course I already am!)
Karen McAulay, Musicologist 