What do Mrs Dalloway, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day have in common? Yes, they were British texts written roughly a century ago, but that wasn’t what I was thinking of … Great. You’ve guessed it—my title gave it away, no doubt—they’re famous titles with titles in the titles: Mrs, Dr, Mr, Miss.

If they were writing today, however, I wonder whether Woolf, Stevenson or Watson would have used those titles. Raising questions about gender, tradition and authority, the use of honorifics seems to be declining, but do they still have a place in our language, or do they simply need modernising?

I taught in high schools for ten years and was used to being called “Mr Bush-Harris” or “Mr Bush” or “Sir” (and Bush-nut, at times, but I’ll leave it at that). I get it. These titles reinforce the power dynamic, cast the teacher as authority figure, maintain professional distancing, but are they necessary? Some schools allow students to call teachers by their first names. Progressive advocates of this policy believe “it fosters a more personal relationship [allowing students to] feel more confident to question adults” (Heuzenroeder). “[R]espect” according to one principal, “depends on much more than just a name” (Braverman). I teach at a college, now, where students are on a first-name basis with us. They are practically adult. Misbehaviour is a rarity. This suggests classes don’t necessarily descend into chaos. Of course, this may work well for primary schools and colleges, but as Brownlie notes, high schools tend to “stick with tradition [to maintain boundaries] especially with teenagers”.

What about “Dr”? The honorific denotes a medical professional or a holder of the highest academic qualification, connoting credibility. In a medical context, it “instils an innate sense of confidence in a healthcare professional” (Bismire et al.). However, an increase in non-physician “doctors” in clinical settings, such as PhD-holding nurses (AACN)—What! Nurses who are doctors?—has led to pushback and even a legal ruling upholding restrictions on who gets to be called “doctor” (Segal). Understandably, “[t]he primary purpose of any title used in a clinical setting should be to help patients clarify which member of the healthcare team they are interacting with, not to elevate the holder’s status” (Gallagher). However, professional nursing associations have quite rightly objected that “[n]o one discipline has ownership over the title doctor” (Barry). And who wouldn’t, after years of rigorous study and/or training, want “Dr” next to their name? The compromise lies in identification. Olsen et al. concluded that physicians “reported decreased role misidentification after use of a role identification badge. Even the Australian Medical Association, concerned that pharmacists have been allowed to use the title, concedes that they “will need to make it clear that they are a Doctor of Pharmacy”. Dr Seuss, who Steensma points out was not a doctor, had better take note.

But it’s one thing to have it on your door or on a badge and another for patients to say it. My GP, a few years back, insisted I call him by his first name (although, admittedly, I struggled to break the habit). However, wait for an invitation as a survey of 333 physicians found that nearly three-quarters reported being called by their first name “with annoyance reported in 61%” (Harvey et al.)—Yikes!

So, while I won’t be seeking treatment for my insomnia from my work colleague who holds a doctorate in creative writing (although he may prescribe Haynes car manuals as bedtime reading), I’ll sleep easy about calling him by his first name.

An advantage that “Dr” has over its Mr and Mrs counterparts is that it’s gender neutral. “Using gender-neutral [job titles] contributes to a more inclusive and equal society,” Petra tells us, adding that it “eliminates gender stereotypes and highlights the professional competence and skills of individuals beyond their gender”. Granted, it’s preferable (although to make it watertight, presumably, these professionals would have to omit first names from emails and badges, wear figure-obscuring veils and communicate through voice distorters).

The question remains, then: Is it time to gender neutralise (sounds sinister) our social titles? Two underlying issues exist.

The first concerns marital status. According to Minted, “Mrs. should be used to address women who are, or have been, married,” whereas “Miss should only be used to address young, unmarried women.” This is advice for writing wedding invitations. Now, nothing is intrinsically wrong with marital status-revealing titles. Some love becoming a Mrs (Savage). Others struggle, however, with the awkwardness of post-divorce titling (Sutcliffe). The issue is one of inequality. A recent petition pointed out that “age is often used to define male titles, but marriage for female titles”, explaining that males “under 18 are often given the title ‘Master’, then ‘Mr’ when over 18” (UK Government and Parliament). Having grown up in the UK, “often” is a stretch. I remember my grandma addressing me as “Master” once on a postcard circa 1986. Should we bring it back from the brink of extinction and redefine it as an unmarried male to help level the playing field? I can imagine some bachelors wincing at the reminder and others flaunting their availability. Surely, this would be a backwards step.

The second issue with gendered titles concerns people identifying as non-binary. For many, understandably, Mr., Mrs. and Miss. are problematic options. Mx., pronounced mix, is a gender-neutral title popular with “genderqueer and nonbinary folx” (Wax). A recent gender census, however, found that of 43,096 non-binary-identifying participants, 43% preferred to use no title (trending up) compared to 15% Mx., 11% Mr. and 6% Ms. (all trending down). Personal choice, of course, is important.

That’s all well and good in social settings, but what about in high schools where titles still seem to serve a purpose? We could follow Japan’s example, where students simply say sensei (teacher), which is “accurate, respectful and inclusive” (Clatworthy). (This would also circumvent married surname changes and those difficult to pronounce.) I suspect that a dramatic linguistic shift like this would be unlikely to take hold in English-speaking classrooms, not least because of the challenge of distinguishing between teachers. If the goal of this is to maximise happiness—avoiding marital-status awkwardness and negative gender associations while allowing for choice—then a gradual, more familiar, shift is probably the best bet. If it gained momentum, I’d happily be a Mx. or perhaps Mist., a compromise between Mr and Miss with the gender-neutral connotation of mystery.

It’s either that or go down the doctor path and title according to qualification:

Bachelor Bush-Harris… So long, street cred.

Master Bush-Harris? Stop it, Grandma!

It takes our jobs.
It drives our cars.
It twists our minds,
And it’s coming for our art.
It’s watching, listening, learning.

It dumbs us down, 
By penning our essays, 
Plotting patiently to
Topple our novels,
Eclipse our verse,

And we let it.
Look around at the
Head-down zombies,
Sleepwalking algorithmically,
Overdosing in their ideologies.

Call me a Luddite, 
Gripped by a hysteria 
Akin to the laughable 
TV fears of yesteryear, 
But it’s crossed the Rubicon. 

Forget HALfunction
Or Skynet destruction.
This is how it ends: 
One app at a time 
In an anti-social media, 
Machine-generated whimper.
—Stuart Bush-Harris, “The Gradual Redundancy”

I hate AI, my animator friend said a while back. We’d been discussing the threat it posed to his industry. “Hate” is such a strong word, but deep down I felt the same. As a writer, I’ve spent years researching, crafting and editing my stories—twenty years for one novel—all that time taken only for it now to be done at the click of a button.

I can’t escape it as a teacher, either. The tools are at their fingertips, embedded within word-processing software. Some do not even know that they are using it. Cases invariably add to the workload and, at times, to stress levels.

So, over the last few years, AI has been chipping away at my career, my life goals and, to a degree, my mental health. Perhaps you can see why I feel so strongly about it. I’m sure many people feel the same way.

During a spell of techno-depression, I considered the invention of the camera. Painters at the time must have despaired, having spent a lifetime mastering skills, striving for realism, only for the camera to do it instantly. Despite this, they didn’t mope for long. Great artistic movements rose from the ashes of realism: expressionism, abstract art. I rallied at this realisation. Perhaps AI could push writers to diversify, innovate—to create something great.

Unfortunately, AI isn’t the humble camera. If it was, then it would be a camera that could capture not only realism but expressionism and abstraction and anything else it wanted to.

AI is different, and yet the arts and education sectors seem to be frozen in its headlights or adopting policies of appeasement. There are, however, glimmers of hope.

Academic institutions are beginning to respond to the challenges that AI presents by reverting to handwritten assessment (The Guardian).

Platforms, such as Substack, now have options to block generative AI from training on their content. Find out how and use them.

Thankfully, most publishers state that they won’t accept AI-generated texts. In fact, a major publisher recently withdrew a novel due to suspected AI use (The Conversation). The author was, apparently, a victim of their editor’s use of it. As a result, they’ve become a sacrificial lamb, but it has set an important precedent for writers, editors and publishers who are considering using it.

Furthermore, the Society of Authors in the UK has recently introduced a scheme for authors to register their human-created works (The Society of Authors). Other countries need to get on board.

So far, I’ve been very one-sided, but I don’t want to be an anti-AI bigot, blinkered to the possibilities, unable to make reasonable and ethical concessions, and so the question remains: Is there a place for it?

Well, those inescapable AI overviews make research so much easier… but try to click on the source links to visit the sites as, otherwise, it affects their traffic (Chase).

I can’t help approving of X’s chatbot, Grok, which can be used to fact check disinformation, prejudice and ignorance in real time.

I’m intrigued by the use of chatbots for philosophy assessment, in which students debate one-on-one with them, avoiding the spotlight effect of class discussions, or teach concepts to ones preconfigured to be ignorant (Licon).

I’ve wrestled with the idea of allowing my creative writing students to use AI-generated illustrations when creating picture books or graphic stories since they are only assessed on their written work. I probably would if they had limited drawing skills. I certainly wouldn’t advertise it to the whole class. I feel conflicted, however—complicit, even—just thinking about it. It’s a permission they take with them: no need to employ an illustrator nor a graphic designer.

I’m sure there are many other beneficial applications, too, for using it.

The AI-genie is out of the bottle, and it’s never going back in, but we must all do our bit to limit its wishes. Sci-fi and dystopian writers have a duty to extrapolate. Educators can do more to highlight the impact of using it on the arts. History has taught us that it’s futile standing in the way of such technological juggernauts, but in numbers, we can keep it on a tighter leash. The resistance isn’t some grand war. It’s about educating, regulating and, even, signalling—as simple as liking posts such as this, sharing them one at a time to gauge who’s going to make a stand where it matters.

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Imagine the smile on your face as you check the website results and see your story in the list: You, Stuart Bush-Harris, published at last! Then, picture it dropping as you notice that a “Shane Bush-Harris”—whoever-the-hell he is—has gotten the credit for it!

You learn a new word that day: misattribution.

A writer’s name is an essential element of their brand, an identifier for their writing. My first brush with publishing success was, naturally, a diluted experience. Despite this, I took no steps to correct the error. Instead, I considered adopting the pseudonym!

Rereading the story years later, however, my editorial eye saw flaws in the writing, so part of me, then, was glad that Shane had his name on it. Perhaps I should have left the story in obscurity with him.

Anyhow, here it is, the new improved version, by STUART BUSH-HARRIS!

Falter

The fisherman’s a Godless man, and even this won’t budge him. You haven’t got long, old boy, he tells himself, eyes to wrist—11.05. Fever, sweat, sun. They say remain calm. As if, he thinks, visualising the dual puncture wounds, so seemingly benign. Must reach road.

The fisherman strides through the rainforest with silent tenacity. Luminous mosses saturate his vision. Roots thread his path like serpents. Death lurks vulture-like in the shadows. 11.12. His dismembered T-shirt forms a makeshift compression bandage above his right ankle. One word is scrawled down his bare leg in permanent marker. ONE WORD. It could make the difference.

The landscape changes. Lush becomes barren, becomes flatter, dryer. Sun bleached grasses sway in the wind. A kookaburra cackles. Naked trees stand here like crucified forms. 11.27. He feels a perverse excitement at the challenge. Ahead, the trapper’s hut appears, a tree corpse fabrication. Come on! You’re almost there. Metallic mouth taste induces vomiting. 11.49. His gait deteriorates with inebriation as the road materialises like a desert mirage. A devil lies fused to the asphalt, flies feasting on its spilled intestines. He collapses in sympathy beside it, nose to the sky. Be saved or die, but still must I lie.

Car brakes screech. He hears footsteps and then a disembodied voice: “...lying in the road… a bandage on his ankle… something written on his leg… ‘Tiger’… snakebite!”

The fisherman wakes to the whiff of disinfectant, white coats rushing around, and puts his hands quietly together.

A version of this story was first published in the Tasmanian Microstories anthology as part of Tasmanian Living Writers’ Week.

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