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DAY 7 | On all good things in life: A feline perspective and a psittacine postscript

4/5/2015

By Daisy (cat of Barbara Tesio) & Rosie (parrot of Georgina Barker)

On goat’s cheese, pigeons, and all good things in life. A feline perspective.

Daisy here.

Should there be anyone among you readers who hasn’t yet been harassed by my human’s fanatical and obsessive picture showing, I happen to be one of the EdJoWriWe organisers’ cat. To be honest with you, I think I can positively say that I did actually contribute to the organization of this project. And so did my feathered fellow Rosie. Actually, without our fundamental fluffy and feathery support, you, my dear EdJoWriWe writers, wouldn’t have been able to colonise 19 George Square armed with your laptops, hectoliter of coffee/ tea, and wagons of biscuits (I believe that Hobnobs and Jaffa cakes were the two great favorites. Personally, I don’t understand all this fuss about biscuits. Pigeons are much tastier).

I am trying to concentrate while writing this post, but my territory has temporarily been invaded by the family of my other human (the musically gifted one – when the other one sings in the shower she sounds like one of the crows I’ve been trying to catch in the garden). The invaders’ unstoppable flow of Doric chat is disturbing my ponderations. Aye, it is hard. Scots are not born to be quiet – life lesson learnt from sharing my flat with one of them.

Italians aren’t a quiet race either. Other lesson learnt from the other human. She gets especially loud when she curses several deities for leading her to choose a PhD path. She storms around with her notes and her books, scaring the other human with her dramatic Scandinavian-related, nonsensical existentialist speeches. This week though, the Italian human is calmer. I believe that the Canadian humans who came to rescue her and her fellow PhD writers from the abyss of procrastination, have played an important role in the improvement of her mood. I also believe that gathering the aforementioned PhD researchers in the same place for seven days in a row – providing them with a reasonable schedule and a few workshops on how not to commit suicide after setting off down the path of academia – has been a beneficial experience for all of them. Which is a great improvement for me as well, as the more stressed they are, the more annoying they become when they come over to admire and cuddle me (they do weird voices and regress to a childhood state that has often made me wonder about their mental abilities).

I hear from my human’s stories (yes, she does talk to me. Often.) that EdJoWriWe, particularly in the *quiet* room, has also offered important bonding moments, with participants sharing their thoughts about PMS symptoms, Russian space stations, PhD procrastination dramas, and precisely when a stripper can be defined as classy. The human stared at me while reporting those questions – she seemed especially concerned with the last one. She said that those were existential questions that only my feline Zen could answer. I stared back at her, licked my paw to show concentration, and then rolled on my back doing my cute face. This usually leads to my human’s heart meltdown, followed by a very pleasant rub on my belly, and in extremely lucky instances, even involves some treats (usually Sainsbury’s salmon satchels, my absolute favourite). This time I got luckier. The human gave me a bite of a delicious goat’s cheese sandwich that she had sneaked out of 19 George Square (shame on her!). I believe that one of the EdJoWriWe participants, who every so often kindly comes to feed and adore me when my humans are away, has already written extensively about the divine combination of goat’s cheese and peppers. I must just add that the taste would be dramatically improved by the addition of a few pigeon feathers. I will leave you with this consideration. And I will add for your feline voyeurism a picture of myself disrupting my human’s work.

One last thing. Well done EdJoWriWe writers. You have worked hard, I gather. You shall now relax and be proud of your work. Then you may come and adore me and my progeny, if you fancy. Remember: Sainsbury’s salmon satchel.

On biscuits, pizza crusts, and all good things in life. A psittacine postscript.

Dearest Daisy – Rosie here. I write to you here, at a distance, to be certain (mostly) of my safety, as what you have to say apropos of pigeons causes me some concern.

But I must say – how very right you are! And how felicitously you express yourself! You are undeniably correct when you say that our humans could not get by at all without us, let alone mastermind a project on such a grand scale as EdJoWriWe. Mine managed a bare three days without my constant presence and guidance before she broke down and carried me to 19 George Square to assist her with her organising duties.

Now, I admit, when my flock-partner first spoke with me about taking over the organisation of this EdJoWriWe affair I did not look upon the idea especially kindly. I have spoken out before about my displeasure with her behaviour last EdJoWriWe (see my earlier call for help on this blog, below). But she was so insistent that she wanted EdJoWriWe to run again, and claimed – convincingly enough – that no one else could be prevailed upon to take it on. So I agreed, at length, to support her in the endeavour.

My decision to allow her to proceed has led to still more aberrant behaviour on the part of my flock-partner, as she seems to have brought one of her co-organisers into our nest. This devotion to duty, whilst admirable, ruffled my feathers no small amount to begin with. But since this co-organiser has proved largely unobjectionable (despite her strange penchant for talking about eighteenth-century porn), and my flock-partner has been in unusually good humour of late, I have adapted, and will now, I think, be sorry to see the new flock member go now EdJoWriWe has finished and my flock-partner has no further need of her aid.

Accompanying my flock-partner to her post, I was, naturally, much admired, and when I was not touring the other rooms, devotees visited me in the Music Room, where I was sitting in state. Especially admiring were the Canadian humans you mention. This did not surprise me, as they had flown many miles to see my splendour (you mistake their main purpose in coming to EdJoWriWe, Daisy, but never mind). The blonde Canadian was particularly impressed by my preening skills – I pride myself on keeping my flock-partner’s head and facial feathers looking presentable. Moreover, I hear I became somewhat of a Twitter sensation during EdJoWriWe. I am sorry to bring this to your attention – I don’t recall seeing any Tweets featuring you. But then, as a bird, I am of course more suited to Twitter fame than a feline.

On one point, Daisy, you are astonishingly and badly wrong, however. Biscuits are NOT less tasty than pigeons (what appalling tastes you have!) – biscuits are in fact the food of the feathered gods, and our EdJoWriWe humans were very right to stock up on them for the week so people could bring them to me in tribute. Yum. And saving the tastiest, breadiest, crustiest parts of pizza for me in the culminating jubilations of the week was, of course, only my due, and far preferable to this ‘goat’s cheese’ or these ‘Sainsbury’s salmon satchels’ you apparently favour. Some cats have no concept of the finer things in life.

But I will second you on one more thing: congratulations, EdJoWriWe writers. Graced by my presence, you wrote much, and you wrote well.

Squawks of pride,
Rosie.

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DAY 4 (retroactively) | On Happy Writing

3/5/2015

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Lapham’s Quarterly, Spring 2012

By Georgina Barker (Russian Literature)

“The place we have been happiest working? Paris. So how do we recreate Paris in Canada, on campus at UVic?”

Lisa and Mary Elizabeth introduced the group to the concept that maybe being happy writing means being productive writing – rather than what many of us do, which is punish ourselves until we write. I think you all know the score: ‘I can only leave the office / library / this concrete box I’ve locked myself in when I’ve written X words’; ‘When I’ve finished this section I can finally eat’; ‘Just finish this paragraph and *then* I can go to the toilet’ (I have excellent bladder control).

These sorts of techniques have seen me through countless essays – and countless sleepless nights. But if I learnt anything from how ill this made me in my undergrad degree, it was that on a long slog like a PhD I needed to look after myself better. But I still thought that getting words on the page of necessity involved a little bit of suffering.

So ‘Happy Writing’ came as somewhat of a revelation. It took a day or so of pondering until I thought of where I have been happiest writing academically: the Clifton Lido in Bristol, where I hammered out my Masters thesis in a month and a half, sat outside for much of that time, tucking into Syrian lentils and ice cream, nattering with resident Russians, and dipping myself in and out of the pool, jacuzzi, and sauna as required. I was not only happy, but extremely productive.

So, how can I recreate the Clifton Lido in Edinburgh? Seriously, how? (I’m still trying to work that one out.)

One thing I know is that I have definitely been happy – and productive – in my writing this week. The nice, calming yet relaxed surroundings; the sense of being surrounded by like-minded and like-goaled friends; the time outside, some of it energetic, some of it less so; the excellent food; the music room with its diverting and delightful sounds, conversation, and company – I think this has approximated my Clifton Lido pretty closely. But with less water.

By Eystein Thanisch (Celtic and Scottish Studies)

I find it quite difficult to come up with a single situation in which I have been happiest writing. My written work tends to develop quite slowly, in fits and starts, and with many redrafts, so there are few situations which I can identify as very successful writing sessions in and of themselves.

There have been some situations where I have been very happy even though I was writing. Both EdJoWri-Weeks spring to mind, as does a certain week back in my first year (January 2012). I was staying a week with my girlfriend in London. She would spend each day at law school and I would spend each day in the kitchen of her flat, in a tower high over Tottenham, working on an article, chatting to her flatmates, and making food for when she came home. It was a very peaceful few days. I wasn't worrying about anything; I don't remember experiencing the unproductive anxiety around writing that can easily affect me – perhaps because I was far away from my usual environment and even far from the ground. The article eventually turned out well (it is 'in press', as the euphemism has it).

To replicate these circumstances in everyday work, I might try removing myself from other distractions or finding somewhere new to write from time to time. I know someone who only managed to finish her Ph.D thesis after being dispatched to Abu Dhabi for her work. As Lawrence says, the desert is clean.

By Lara Arnason (Chinese Studies)

When Lisa and Mary Elizabeth told us about how helpful it can be to work under conditions that attempt to reproduce “happiest writing moments,” I did some thinking about what my happy writing moment might be. I immediately felt discouraged. Memories of writing my thesis were all coloured with pressure, frustration, and self-doubt. I felt discouraged – how could I find a happy moment to reproduce if all I could remember was years of repeated deadline-based struggle? All I could hear was the reader on my shoulder telling me “this is bad, this is all bad, you’ll never make a clear article out of this”.

After facing this perfectionist malfunction all day yesterday, I gave up and went to a café. I tried to find my argument through bullet points written with paper and pen. As I started writing, my happy writing moment came to me! I suddenly remembered the feeling of writing a poem or a letter from a fabulous café. I used to do this quite a bit – go to a café, notebook in hand, imagine myself the next Hemingway or Lorca, and I would write something Very Important.

It seems I had forgotten that academic writing is also creative writing, and can also be fun and Very Important. After a bit of handwriting yesterday, my ideas suddenly seemed to have a life of their own. An hour and 2 A4 sheets later, I had my argument entirely mapped out. It wasn’t even painful! I daresay I even enjoyed it.

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DAY 6 | Draft and redraft

2/5/2015

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By Olivia Ferguson (English Literature)

Illustration to 'The Whitsuntide Present for Little Masters and Misses' (1782-83)

The librarian is famous for his beard. Periodically he rises from his desk and moves around the margins of the room, to shelve a book or to command silence.

No headphones buzz. No phones ring. The room is warm, a welcome refuge. Like primary-school children, we hang up our wet jackets and take off our snow-choked boots before we enter.

Every day, the librarian restocks the bowl of Werther’s Originals he keeps for students, and we each take one as we leave--reverently, silently, nodding to his deputy behind the desk.

I’m in the first year of my undergraduate degree, and I want to study literature, but instead I’m skiddling around on the edges of it, taking elementary courses in syntax and Latin and sociolinguistics. Next year I’ll sign up for the long slog from Cædmon to Coetzee--but for now, I’m just happy to be here.

This is the Birks Reading Room, on the McGill University campus, in the city of Montréal, in the province of Québec, Canada, the middle of winter. Thick layers of library insulate me from the world outside. Enormous dictionaries, still not big enough to contain all the words in existence. Stained glass and lamplight and wood panelling. Readers perched on their books hour after hour, their work sustained only by silence, slow time, and the occasional toffee.

This is what I imagined academia would be like.

***

Four years later, I’m working in a university building in Edinburgh, redrafting an essay to submit to an academic journal. My fellow writer keeps interrupting me--and I keep interrupting her, with questions: what did Tiberius do on Capri, what’s a better word for ‘emerge’ here, what’s for lunch? People come in and out of the room, with more questions.

The door bangs. We feast on soup and bread. Music plays continually. My fellow writer demands Bach’s Coffee Cantata, for the third time today. It begins, Shweight stille, plaudert nicht (be still, stop nattering).

The street outside provides another soundtrack. Snatches of conversation and distant traffic and someone playing the drums, badly. Everything smells of curry. And there’s a parrot.

This is not what I imagined academia would be like.

And yet, on the laptop screen before me are some paragraphs about literature that make more sense than anything I’ve ever written before. I have a sense of purpose: a story to tell.

Here at EdJoWriWe, I’m surrounded by other writers; all of us are busily working, but rarely with our heads down. We hum and Tweet. We argue. We gaze into space. And somehow, writing is happening. Good writing. It’s very strange. It’s not what I expected.

But that’s EdJoWriWe for you.

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DAY 5 | Two ghosts, several generations of wasps, and knowledge ever old, every young

1/5/2015

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By Eystein Thanisch (Celtic and Scottish Studies)

The Guardian, December 2013

Setting: the Quiet Room (G22), 19 George Square. Time: somewhen between the e-Grieg-ious composer puns, the circulation of historical pornography by one of the ‘EdJo masters’, the high-quality academic writing, and the in-depth feedback. The window wasn’t open - but something moved through the room anyway. Papers rustled, blinds twitched, the door opened and closed again. Thoughts were stirred. Naturally, thoughts first turned to ghosts. It’s an old building, after all.

Furthermore, we’re all quite used to negotiating presence and absence. Some of us study the past: out attention is locked on something lost forever and existing only in scattered fragments. But even for those of us in the room more concerned with the present or even the future, we have betaken ourselves to the blank environment of a room, in a university, with not much more than chairs, tables, and wifi therein to consider the meaning of phenomena that are mostly quite far away. For this, incidentally, we are extremely grateful to the organisers, the ‘EdJo Masters’.

It is not as though our environment is featureless, however. It is spring and new generations of wasps continually find ways of entering the room (they have, for the most part, been humanely escorted from the building). Street singers’ voices waft to us through the gardens. We ourselves eat, tire, and have our daily, self-determined targets to meet. We manspread and we exercise. So much is old and unchanging, yet time does not stop, and the wasp accidentally crushed by the closing window reminds us that it can bring about sudden, inexplicable violence. We are in the middle, creating our own permanent monuments of script, like Ham’s pillar.

I journeyed through the building to the Music Room. Someone once characterised music as glorifying mortality, making beauty and meaning out of the passing moments that lead inexorably towards our deaths. It turned out that there was a ghost there too, although this ghost was not flying by, leaving only thoughts in its wake. This ghost lives in George’s teapot. Whenever tea is poured from this pot and however adroitly this is done, brown tea (?) stains spot the sides and spout of the pot. Is s/he struggling to get out? Or feasting on the tea, as s/he will for evermore? Ut poeta dixit: ‘music is a monster that needs feeding’. Or is s/he simply winking gently with reminders of the past, reminding us that stains, blotches, imperfections can be legitimate aspects of our identity, that they are meaningful?

As we strive to produce or improve our articles and thesis chapters, it sometimes doesn’t feel that way. Personal identity is one thing but academic writing is about something more than ourselves. Lisa and Mary Elisabeth have been giving us excellent advice all week, but I was particularly struck by today’s discussion about reader-centred prose. Essentially, our academic writing should be about the reader and not about self-expression or a pure, philosophically sound treatment of the subject at the reader’s expense. We their “guides” must “make them smart”, we must make whatever material or subject meaningful to them and make them masters of it. Our mastery comes not from what we can claim but from what we can liberate and make communal.

Are we carving pillars that will withstand the Deluge or shall we, as authors, diminish and become like ghosts, our sudden breaths and cryptic tea-stains examined, interpreted, and a world already being made new? Or will there be a day of resurrection when all, authors and readers, students and masters, the quick and the dead, are equal?

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DAY 5 | NEWSFLASH

1/5/2015

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Just in (ok, 6 hours ago...) from the scriptorium in 19 George Square: Our first participant completed her article today, precociously ahead of schedule! Congratulations, Su!

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DAY 7 | On all good things in life: A feline perspective and a psittacine postscript

DAY 4 (retroactively) | On Happy Writing

DAY 6 | Draft and redraft

DAY 5 | Two ghosts, several generations of wasps, and knowledge ever old, every young

DAY 5 | NEWSFLASH

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