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Read Abigail Witherspoon’s article ‘This Pen for Hire,’ originally published in Harpers Magazine, June 1995. You only need to read up to the line break in the article (page 5):

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Home » Uncategorized » Read Abigail Witherspoon’s article ‘This Pen for Hire,’ originally published in Harpers Magazine, June 1995. You only need to read up to the line break in the article (page 5):

Read Abigail Witherspoon’s article “This Pen for Hire,” originally published in Harpers Magazine, June 1995. You only need to read up to the line break in the article (page 5):

For your initial post, respond to one of the following questions:

  • She opened by identifying herself as an academic call girl. Is this an apt description? 
  • Does her trade violate Christian beliefs and values? 
  • Is her trade justifiable in that no laws are being broken? 
  • If you believe her trade is wrong, who are the victims being harmed?
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    ThisPenforHire.docx

This Pen for Hire

By Abigail Witherspoon

I am an academic call girl. I write college kids’ papers for a living. Term papers, book reports, senior theses, take-home exams. My “specialties”: art history and sociology, international relations and comparative literature, English, psychology, communications, Western philosophy (ancient and contemporary), structural anthropology, film history, evolutionary biology, waste management and disposal, media studies, and pre-Confederation Canadian history. I throw around allusions to Caspar Weinberger and Alger Hiss, Sacco and Vanzetti Haldeman and Ehrlichman, Joel Steinberg and Baby M. The teaching assistants eat it up. I can do simple English or advanced jargon. Like other types of prostitutes, I am, professionally, very accommodating.

I used to tell myself I’d do this work only for a month or two, until I found something else. But the official unemployment rate in this large Canadian city where I live is almost 10 percent, and even if it were easy to find a job, I’m American, and therefore legally prohibited from receiving a paycheck. So each day I walk up the stairs of a rotting old industrial building to an office with a sign on the window: TAILORMADE ESSAYS, WRITING AND RESEARCH. The owner, whom I’ll call Matthew, claims that he started the business for ghostwriters, speechwriters, and closet biographers, and only gradually moved into academic work as a sideline. But even Grace, the oldest surviving writer on Tailormade’s staff, can’t remember anybody ever writing much other than homework for students at one university or another.

This is a good city for Tailormade. Next door is the city’s university and its tens of thousands of students, a school that was once somewhat better when not all of its computer-registered classes numbered in the hundreds. Orders come in from Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg. There are plenty of essay services in the States, of course; they advertise in campus newspapers and the back pages of music magazines. Some of the big ones have toll-free phone numbers. They’re sprinkled all over: California, Florida, New Jersey. But we still get American business too. Orders come in here from Michigan, Vermont, Pennsylvania; from Illinois, Wisconsin, upstate New York, sometimes California; from Harvard, Cornell, and Brown. They come in from teachers’ colleges, from people calling themselves “gifted students” (usually teenagers at boarding schools), and, once in a while, from the snazzy places some of our customers apparently vacation with their divorced dads, like Paris.

Matthew runs the business with his wife, Sylvia. Or maybe she is his ex-wife, nobody’s exactly sure. When you call Tailormade – it’s now in the phone book – you hear Sylvia say that Tailormade is Canada’s foremost essay service; that our very qualified writers handle most academic subjects; and that we are fast, efficient, and completely confidential. Sylvia speaks loudly and slowly and clearly, especially to Asian customers. She is convinced that everyone who phones the office will be Asian, just as she’s convinced that all Asians drive white Mercedes or black BMWs with cellular phones in them. From my personal experience, I find the Asian customers at least more likely to have done the assigned reading.

Matthew and Sylvia are oddly complementary. Matthew, gentle and fumbly, calls out mechanically, “Thank you, sir, ma’am, come again” after each departing back slinking down the hall. Sylvia asks the Chinese customers loudly, “SIMPLE ENGLISH?” She tells the uncertain, Well, don’t show up here till you know what you want,” and demands of the dissatisfied, “Whaddya mean you didn’t like it? You ordered it, din’cha?”

This afternoon, October 10, I’m here to hand in a paper and fight it out with the other writers for more assignments. Some of us are legal, some aren’t. Some have mortgages and cars, some don’t. All of us are hungry. The office is jammed, since it’s almost time for midterms. Tailormade does a brisk business from October to May, except for January. The chairs are full of customers studiously filling out order forms. You can always tell who is a student and who is a writer. The students are dressed elegantly and with precision; the writers,wear ripped concert T-shirts or stained denim jackets with white undershirts peeking out. The students wear mousse and hair gel and nail polish and Tony Lama western boots and Tourneau watches and just the right amount of makeup. They smell of Escape, Polo for men, and gum. The writers smell of sweat, house pets, and crushed cigarettes. Four of the other writers are lolling in their chairs and fidgeting; work usually isn’t assigned until all the order forms have been filled out, unless somebody requests a topic difficult to fill. Then Matthew will call out like an auctioneer: “Root Causes of the Ukrainian Famine? Second year? Anyone? Grace?” or “J. S. Mill’s Brand of Humane Utilitarianism? Third year? Henry, that for you?” as some customer hovers in front of the desk, eyes straight ahead. Someone else in the room might idly remark that he or she took that course back in freshman year and it was a “gut” or a “real bird.”

I suspect that each of us in the Tailormade stable of hacks sorts out the customers differently: into liberal-arts students and business students; into those that at least do the reading and those that don’t bother; into those that have trouble writing academic English and those that just don’t care about school; into those that do their assignments in other subjects and those that farm every last one of them out to us; into the struggling and inept versus the rich, lazy, and stupid. But for Matthew and Sylvia, the clientele are divisible, even before cash versus credit card, or paid-up versus owing, into Asian customers and non-Asian ones. There’s been an influx of wealthy immigrants from Hong Kong in recent years, fleeing annexation. Matthew and Sylvia seem to resent their presence and, particularly, their money. Yet they know that it’s precisely this pool of customers – who have limited written English language skills but possess education, sophistication, ambition, cash, and parents leaning hard on them for good grades – that keeps the business going.

When I hand in my twelve pages on “The Role of Market Factors in the Development of the Eighteenth-Century Fur Trade,” Matthew tells me, “This lady’s been patiently waiting without complaining.” I must be very late. Turning to the client, he picks up one of my sheets and waves it. “At least it’s a nice bib,” he points out to her. “Look at that.” Although I wasn’t provided with any books for this essay, I managed to supply an extensive bibliography. I can’t remember what I put on it.

I’m still waiting for an assignment. In fact, all the writers are still waiting. We often wait at the bar around the corner; Tailormade has its own table there, permanently reserved. But we all have to get ourselves to the office eventually to pick up assignments. Grace, the oldest writer and by now, probably, the best, sits sorrowfully by the window, her long gray hair falling into her lap and her head jammed into her turtleneck, on her thin face a look of permanent tragedy. Grace gets up at three in the morning to work; she never forgets a name, a fact, or an assignment; she has a deep, strange love for Japanese history and in ten years here has probably hatched enough pages and research for several doctoral dissertations in that field. Elliott, another writer, reclines near the door, his little dog asleep under his chair. He uses the dog as an icebreaker with the clients, especially young women. He is six and a half feet tall and from somewhere far up in the lunar landscape of northern Ontario. He has a huge head of blond hair down to his eyes and pants as tight as a rock star’s. Elliott is the business writer. He specializes in finance, investment, management, and economics. He lives out of a suitcase; he and the little dog, perhaps practicing fiscal restraint, seem to stay with one of a series of girlfriends. When the relationship comes to an end, Elliott and the little dog wind up back in the office, where they sleep in the fax room and Elliott cranks out essays on his laptop. Henry and Russell, two other writers, twist around, changing position, the way travelers do when they’re trying to nap on airport lounge chairs. They both look a little like El Greco saints, although perhaps it just seems that way to me because lately I’ve been doing a lot of art history papers. They both have long skinny legs, long thin white nervous twiddling hands, long thin faces with two weeks’ worth of unintentional beard. Henry points out how good Russell looks, and we all agree. Russell is forty. He has a new girlfriend half his age who has, he says, provided a spiritual reawakening. Before he met her Russell drank so much and held it so badly that he had the distinction of being the only staff member to be banned from the bar around the corner for life. Henry, by contrast, looks terrible. He’s always sick, emaciated, coughing, but he invariably manages to meet his deadlines, to make his page quotas, and to show up on time. We used to have another writer on staff, older even than Russell or Grace, who smoked a pipe, nodded a lot, and never said anything. He was a professor who’d been fired from some school, we were never really sure where. Eventually, he went AWOL and started an essay-writing service of his own. He’s now Tailormade’s main competition. The only other competitors, apparently, worked out of a hot-dog stand parked next to a campus bookstore. Nobody knows whether they’re open anymore.

In general, there is a furtiveness about the way we writers talk to one another, the way we socialize. In the office, we’re a little like people who know each other from A.A. meetings or rough trade bars encountering each other on a Monday morning at the photocopy machine. It’s not because we’re competing for work. It’s not even because some of us are illegal and everyone else knows it. It is, if anything, collective embarrassment. We know a lot more than Matthew and Sylvia do. They sit dumbly as we bullshit with the clients about their subjects and assignments (“Ah, introductory psychology! The evolution of psychotherapy is a fascinating topic … ever read a guy called Russell Jacoby?”) in order to impress them and get them to ask for us. This must be the equivalent of the harlots’ competitive bordello promenade. But we work for Matthew and Sylvia. They have the sense to pit us against each other, and it works. We can correct their pronunciation of “Goethe” and they don’t care. They know it makes no difference. I suspect they have never been farther away than Niagara Falls; neither of them may have even finished high school. It doesn’t matter. The laugh’s on us, of course: they own the business.

___________________________________________________________________

OCTOBER 12, 1994. A tall gangly kid comes in for a twenty-page senior history essay about the ancient local jail. It involves research among primary sources in the provincial archives, and I spend a week there, going page by page through the faded brown script of the warden’s prison logbooks of the 1830s. Agitators are being executed for “high treason” or “banished from the realm, which, I assume, means being deported. Once in a while there’s a seductive joy to a project. You forget that you’ve undertaken it for money, that it isn’t yours.

Most of the time, though, all I think about is the number of pages done, the number to go. Tailormade charges twenty dollars Canadian a page for first- and second-year course assignments, twenty-two a page for third- and fourth-year assignments, twenty-four for “technical, scientific, and advanced” topics. “Technical, scientific, and advanced” can mean nuclear physics, as it does in September when there is no business. Or it can mean anything Matthew and Sylvia want it to, as it does in March. Most major spring-term essays are due when final exams begin, in April, and so in March kids are practically lined up in the office taking numbers and spilling out into the hall. The writers get half, in cash: ten and eleven bucks a page; twelve for the technical, scientific, and advanced.

There’s one other charge: if the client doesn’t bring in her or his own books, except in September and January, she or he is “dinged,” charged an extra two dollars a page for research. When the writers get an assignment, we ask if there are books. If there are, it saves us time, but we have to lug them home, and often they’re the wrong books. If there are no books, we have to go to the libraries and research the paper ourselves. “Client wants twelve pages on clinical social work intervention,” Matthew and Sylvia might tell us. “She has a reading list but no books. I think we can ding her.” “He wants a book report on something called Gravity’s Rainbow? Doesn’t have the book, though. I’m gonna ding him.”

OCTOBER 13. I am assigned a paper on the French philosopher Michel Foucault. The client has been dinged; I have to find some books. Foucault’s Discipline and Punish and Madness and Civilization are hot properties in the public library system. They are not to be found anywhere. Perhaps this is because professors think Foucault is a hot property, too; he’s all over everyone’s syllabus.

I warn the client about this in the office. “If you don’t find anything by the guy, call me,” he says. He gives me his home phone number. “Only, please don’t say you’re from the essay service. Say you’re … a classmate of mine.” I promise to be discreet. Most of the clients get scared when you call them at home; most never give out their numbers. I don’t blame them.

It was different, though, when I was a university student in the early 1980s. I wasn’t aware of anyone who bought his or her homework anywhere, although it must have happened. It was about that time that Tailormade was putting up signs on the telephone poles outside the university’s main classroom buildings. It advertised just outside the huge central library as well as outside the libraries of three or four smaller schools a few minutes’drive away. This burst of entrepreneurial confidence almost led to the service’s undoing. In a spectacular cooperative sting operation among the security departments of the various schools, the office was raided. This event has become a sort of fearsome myth at Tailormade, discussed not unlike the way Syrians might occasionally mention the Israeli raid on Entebbe. Matthew and Sylvia were hauled off to court and a dozen or so clients were thrown out of their respective universities. Matthew and Sylvia, however, must have hired the right lawyer: they were allowed to reopen, provided that they stayed away from campuses and that they stamped every page of every essay TAILORMADE ESSAY SERVICE: FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY. Now the clients take the stamped essays home, retype them, and print them out on high-end laser printers much better than ours. If the client is obnoxious, complains, or is considered a whiner, each typewritten page will be stamped in the middle. If the client is steady and has good credit, each page will be stamped in the margin so that the stamp can be whited out and the pages photocopied.

By the time Tailormade reopened, I had moved back to this country after some years at home in the States. I had no money and no prospects of a legal job. I came in, handed Matthew a resume, spent a couple of weeks on probationary trial, and then began a serious career as a hack. “What are your specialties?” Matthew had asked me. I told him I’d majored in history and political science as an undergraduate. Over time, as my financial situation grew worse, my “specialties” grew to include everything except math, accounting, economics, and the hard sciences.

OCTOBER 23. Three weeks ago I was assigned an essay on the establishment and growth of political action committees among the Christian right. I am earnest about this one; I actually overprepare. I want to document, with carefully muted horror, the world of Paul Laxalt and direct mail, the arm-twisting of members of Congress on the school prayer issue. My contempt for the client was mixed with pity: he knew not how much he was missing. Only afterward do I realize that after doing an essay I take seriously, I still expect, as in college, to get something back with a mark on it, as a reward or at least as an acknowledgment. I hear nothing, of course. I feel oddly let down. I’m certain it got the client an A. Today, the same client stops in to order something else and helpfully points out what he thinks I could have done to improve the essay I’d written for him.

OCTOBER 25. This summer, a woman wanted me to write about how aboriginal peoples’ systems of law and justice were better developed than those of conquering colonials. I took books with titles like The Treaties of Canada with the Indians of Manitoba and the North-West Territories, 1880 to the beach. After finishing the client’s reading material, I still had no idea what aboriginal peoples thought about law or anything else; she had given me only books about the conquering colonials. So the paper went on, for twenty-odd pages, about the conquering colonials. Now she wants me to rewrite it. The time I will spend on this second version waters my pay down to about a dollar an hour.

NOVEMBER 8. I will not go into any of the university’s libraries. I will not risk running into anyone I know, anyone who might think I’m one of those perpetual graduate students who never finished their dissertations and drift pathetically around university libraries like the undead, frightening the undergraduates. It would be as bad to be thought one of these lifelong grad students as to be suspected of being what I am. So I use the public libraries, usually the one closest to my apartment, on my street corner. It’s a community library, with three wonderful librarians, three daily newspapers, and remarkably few books. If I haven’t been given the books already, if the client has been dinged and I have to do research on my own, I come here. I have my favorite chair. The librarians assume I am a “mature” and “continuing” community college student, and make kind chitchat with me.

Sometimes, when I can’t find any of the sources listed in the library’s computer and don’t have time to go to a real library, I use books barely appropriate for the essay: books for “young adults,” which means twelve-year-olds, or books I have lying around my apartment – like Jane Jacobs’s The Death and Life of Great American Cities, H.D.F. Kitto’s The Greeks, Eduardo Galeano’s Open Veins of Latin America, Roy Medvedev’s book on Stalin or T. H. White’s on John Kennedy, books by J. K. Galbraith, Lewis Mumford, Christopher Lasch, Erich Fromm. Books somewhere between the classic and the old chestnut; terrific books, yet with no relation to the topic at hand. But they’re good for the odd quote and name-drop, and they can pad a bibliography. Sometimes I can’t get away with this, though, and then I have no choice but to go back to an actual place of research, like the archives.

The archives are, in fact, a difficult place for me. They are full of oak tables, clicking laptops, whirring microfiche readers, and self-assured middle-aged men working with pretty young women whose hair is pinned up in nineteenth-century styles. Perhaps some of them are lovers, but certainly all of them are graduate students with their profs. I, by contrast, am a virtual student, a simulacrum.

NOVEMBER 16. I have also been pulling at least one or two all-nighters a week for three weeks now. They’re very much like the all-nighters I did as an undergraduate. I eat licorice nibs for energy and drink molehill coffee for caffeine. You make molehill coffee by pouring an entire half cup of coffee grounds, the finer the better, in a number 4 paper filter, one filter per cup. At midnight the razzy voice of Tom Waits is temporarily replaced by the BBC news hour. It would be great to be able to speak just like the BBC newscaster, Somebody hyphen-Jones. If I sounded like that I’m sure I would be able to get credit, somehow, for writing about the birth of the Carolingian Renaissance, or the displacement of the samurai in Tokugawa times, or the inadequacies of the Treaty of Versailles.

I know by experience that if I start writing at midnight I can time my output: first page by the BBC’s second news summary, second page by the financial news on the half hour, third page finished by the time they read the rugby scores. Except that the first page, the one with the thesis paragraph in it, is the hardest to write, and it clocks in at well over fifteen minutes.

At two-thirty I hit a wall. The molehill coffee still hasn’t kicked in yet, or else it did and I didn’t notice, and now it’s worn off, or else I’ve just built up a fatal tolerance to the stuff, like a crack addict. I begin to fall asleep in my chair, even with my headphones on. I turn up the music and blast it through the headphones. This works for the time being. I plug along. I can’t really remember what I said in my thesis paragraph, but I am not going to worry about it. The client wants fifteen pages, and when I find myself on the fourteenth I’ll read the thing over and brace myself, if I have to, for a bow-out. Bow-outs, like legal fine print, allow you to dart gracefully out of the large ambitious thesis statement you’ve started the essay with: “The topic of bird evolution is an enormous one; I have been able to touch on just one or two interesting controversies within it.” “Space does not permit a detailed discussion of all the internal contradictions within Sri Lanka’s postcolonial history.” And so on. Nine and a half pages down. Five and a half to go. I can still barely remember what I said in my thesis statement. I can barely remember what this paper is about. I want to put my head down for a minute on the keyboard, but God only knows what it would end up typing.

NOVEMBER 18. Things are picking up for Christmas vacation; everything, it seems, is due December 5 or December 15. The essay order form asks, “Subject & Level,” Topic,” “No. of Pages,” “Footnotes,” “Bibliography,” and then a couple of lines marked “Additional Information,” by far the most common of which is “Simple English.” As the year rolls on, we hacks will all, out of annoyance, laziness, or just boredom, start unsimplifying this simple English; by April it will approach the mega-watt vocabulary and tortured syntax of the Frankfurt School. But people hand these papers in and don’t get caught, people who have difficulty speaking complete sentences in English; perhaps this is because classes and even tutorials are so big they never have to speak. But in December we’re all still on pretty good behavior, simple instead of spiteful. I’ve just handed in an assignment in “Simple English,” a paper titled “Mozart’s Friendship with Joseph and Johann Michael Haydn and Its Impact on Mozart’s Chamber Music.” It reads, in part:

Mozart was undeniably original. He was never derivative.

That was part of his genius. So were the

Haydn brothers. All of them were totally unique.

The little library on my corner didn’t have much on Mozart or the Haydn brothers. As a result, one of the items in my bibliography is a child’s book with a cardboard pop-up of a doughy-looking little Mozart, in a funky pigtail and knee breeches, standing proudly beside a harpsichord.

NOVEMBER 22. I’m assigned an overnight rush essay on the causes of the English Civil War. It may sound perverse, but I love rush essays. We get paid a dollar more a page (two for technical, scientific, and advanced), and if it’s lousy we can always say, “Well, you wanted it in a hurry.” Although I majored in history, I never took any courses on the English Civil War; I figured, wrongly, that Shakespeare’s histories would take care of that. Now I find myself reading the books I took out from the little corner library, not for quotes, or to form an opinion on the roots, germination, feeding, and watering of the war, but just to find out what the hell went on. I find out enough to write five pages. It takes me all night.

NOVEMBER 23. I am handing in something entitled “Sri Lanka: A Study in Ethnic Division and Caste Co-optation,” which Sylvia assigned me, over the phone, a week ago. “The girl says to tell you that she’s Sri Lankan.” Last year I wrote a senior sociology thesis on “The Italian-Canadian Family: Bedrock of Tradition or Agent of Change?” With that one I heard, “The girl says to tell you that she’s Italian.” I wanted to ask Sylvia if the client knew I wasn’t, but I was afraid she’d interpret that as meaning I didn’t want the work and she’d give it to someone else.

DECEMBER 2. Occasionally there is an assignment the writers fight for. This week somebody – not me – gets to take home Fanny Hill and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and get paid for it. I guess some kids really, really hate to read.

DECEMBER 5. A bad assignment: unnecessarily obscure, pedantic, pointless. Certain courses seem to consist of teaching kids the use of jargon as though it were a substitute for writing or thinking well. Often there is an implied pressure to agree with the assigned book. And many are simply impossible to understand; I often take home a textbook or a sheaf of photocopies for an assignment and see, next to a phrase such as “responsible acceptance of the control dimension,” long strings of tiny Chinese characters in ballpoint pen. No wonder the students find the assignments incomprehensible; they are incomprehensible to me.

DECEMBER 8. I hand in a paper on Machiavelli. “How’d it go?” asked the client, a boy in a leather bomber jacket reading John Grisham. I begin to go on about how great one of the books was, a revisionist biography called Machiavelli in Hell. I am hoping, with my scholarly enthusiasm, to make the client feel particularly stupid. “It’s an amazing book”, I tell him. “It makes a case for Machiavelli actually being kind of a liberal humanist instead of the cynical guy everybody always thinks he was – amazing.” “That’s good,” the kid says. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself on my tab. Did you answer the essay question the way you were supposed to?”

DECEMBER 16. Every so often clients come in with an opinion they want us to replicate. The freshman sociology and political science essays are already starting to rain in: a deluge of “Show why immigrants are a dead weight on the economy and take jobs away from us”; “Show why most social programs will become too expensive for an aging population”; “Show why gun control can be interpreted as an infringement on civil rights”; “Show the Pacific Rim’s single-handed assault on North American economies.” I ignore them. I write, depending on my mood, about the INS’s unequal criteria for refugee status, or the movie Roger and Me, or the NRA’s political clout. For instance, there is today’s assignment: to describe Locke’s influence, as an Enlightenment figure, on our own time. I think this is baloney. I talk about trial complex proves that God really did give the world, whatever Locke thought, to the covetous and contentious instead of to the industrious and the rational. No one’s ever complained about finding my opinion in a paper instead of their own. Now I realize this isn’t because I’ve persuaded anybody of anything. It’s just laziness: there are some customers who actually retype their stamped essays without bothering to read them.

DECEMBER 27. During Christmas vacation, friends of mine invite me to a party. Some people will be there whom we know from college; they are in the process of becoming successful, even making it big. It will be important to project confidence, the illusion of fulfilling my abandoned early promise. “What do I say,” I ask my friends, “when somebody asks me what I do for a living?”

“Tell them you’re a writer.”

My friend Lisa sticks by me loyally all evening. When people ask me, “What is it you do?” Lisa answers for me quickly:. “She’s a writer.”

“Oh, what is it you write?”

“Essays”, I say, spitefully, drunkenly. Lisa thinks fast.

“Articles,” she says. “She writes articles, on Sri Lanka, and Machiavelli, and the English Civil War.”

“Isn’t that interesting,” they say, leaving us for the guacamole.

JANUARY 10, 1995. School has been back in session for a week now. The only work that is in are essays from the education students. I hate these assignments. I have trouble manipulating the self-encapsulated second language in which teaching students seem compelled to write. But it’s after Christmas, and I’m broke. Education assignments all involve writing up our customers’ encounters in their “practicum.” Teaching students work several times a week as assistant teachers in grade school classrooms; instead of getting paid for this work, they pay tuition for it. Unfortunately, these expensive practice sessions don’t seem to go well. My first such assignment was to write “reflections” on a “lesson plan” for a seventh-grade English class. The teaching student had given me some notes, and I had to translate these into the pedagogical jargon used in her textbooks. The idea seems to be that you have to say, as obscurely as possible, what you did with your seventh-grade kids and what you think about what you did:

Preliminary Lesson Formulations: My objectives were to integrate lesson content with methodology to expand students’ receptiveness and responsiveness to the material and to one another by teaching them how to disagree with one another in a constructive way. The class will draw up a T-chart covering “Disagreein

The post Read Abigail Witherspoon’s article ‘This Pen for Hire,’ originally published in Harpers Magazine, June 1995. You only need to read up to the line break in the article (page 5): first appeared on Writeden.

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