Tweeting about #academicwriting in June

(Oodi, Helsinki City Library, Helsinki, Finland)

During the month of June, I tweeted about academic writing every weekday.

So, what did I learn about the way that my research term actually works from my tweets?

I learned that there was less reading than I’d assumed, and rather less reading than I’d planned, and that more writing happened. I’m sure that some of this was related to approaching deadlines, but it was really useful to see how closely my research term is related to actual writing.  

I also learned this period of still-Covid conference related travel takes way more time, energy, and patience than was required previously. To justify the resources required, the conference really has to be worthwhile; and, fortunately, the one I attended was crucially important for my research. And, somewhat surprisingly, I did tasks during June, that were related to teaching that won’t happen until September and spent time with both undergraduate and graduate students.

Tweeting about what I did each day helped keep me accountable. But, more importantly, it provided me with an opportunity to engage with other academics who were mostly also on their research terms and with another space to think and talk about academic writing.

In August, you’re welcome to continue following me on social media. I invite you to switch over to my Instagram account, @upalongernl, where I’ll be posting a daily photo from my Artist Residency at the Icelandic Textile Centre, @textilmidstod

June 2

In June I’ll tweet #academicwriting everyday (Mon.-Fri.). Plans include conference travel, grant writing, and an article. And email. There’s also a creative (weekends only) project. Designated by my university as my research term, let’s see this it goes

June 3

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Some thoughtful reading & notetaking from Thomas Wilson’s Rural Politics in County Meath, Ireland (2013). Now a walk and some fresh air to consider the relevance for these ideas for my article and writing in progress

June 6

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Some readings, meeting with a graduate student & preparing a conference paper for @ReproFutures. Am enjoying Fertility Futures Interview Series with @ReproSoc & listening to episodes in advance of conference

June 7

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Writing today facilitated by a brisk, cold walk with my walking group. Listened to a Fertility Futures interview @ReproFutures @ReproSoc, wrote for a couple of hours, and previewed a film for fall teaching. And email

June 8

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Appointments, errands, and intermittent reading, writing & editing. Booked trail trave l for @ReproFutures conference. On my way to Tampere

June 9

Editing conference paper to convey argument in way that includes theoretical & methodological contributions. In 15 mins. It’s a challenge!

June 10

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Carved out a dedicated hour for grant writing that slid off my plate this week. And preparing for my first still-Covid international conference. Travel days ahead

June 13

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Three flights & train travel. There will be no academic writing today

June 14

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Bit of scoping out of conference venue & city, an online seminar, thanks to faculty skills developed in the pandemic – & some longhand strategizing because, anyone have a power cord for a MacBook Air?

June 15

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Full day of conferencing & lots to think about. Thanks to the tech team @ the conference for the loan of a power cord

June 16

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. I’ve begun to think about a new project. Ok, so it’s a sub-set of my existing research & seems manageable. It’s excitingly new. Did I need a new project? How did it find me?

June 17

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Conference presentation @ 9:00 am & my day is ending at 11:00 pm. No academic writing was done today

June 20

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. I did some editing & reediting of the draft of a grant application. But what seems more significant is the space where I wrote. Oodi (Helsinki City Library) reconceptualized the library #newlevel

June 21

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Wrote 360 new words, deleted 150 words, moved words left to a new section, imported text from another document, moved imported text, deleted imported text, wrote 200 new words. Deep sigh

June 22

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Now going into second hour of delays while sitting on runways. Airport delays: 2, academic writing: 0

June 23

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. This morning’s travel began @ 3:40 am. Knowing when it’s time to say that writing resumes tomorrow

June 24

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Jet lagged, but it’s sunny & warm so I’m taking the day as Finnish midsummer. Yup, this is three days of not writing #changedcourse

June 27

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Important decisions about abortion also made in Malta, Spain, Germany, Poland, Northern Ireland & UK. For those of us who research & write about reproductive justice, this is just Monday

June 28

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Long day at my desk today, some reading, some writing, and some working through ideas that aren’t yet clear. Do you know who else is writing in June? Grad students. Read some of their writing today too

June 29

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Took a deep dive into the databases today & spend the day reading & writing. Joined @AbortionBooks_ for a discussion of the current book & current events. Next month’s title is in the @MUNQEII library.

June 30

Tweeting about #academicwriting in June. Some writing, some reading, copying and collating travel receipts.  Also advising with an undergraduate students, a Gender Studies major. Great to hear how excited she is about beginning #MemorialU in the fall.

Why “a basement full of yarn” Matters (More)

As a part of the US Senate Judiciary Hearings, Supreme Court nominee, attorney and jurist, Ketanji Brown Jackson was asked what she does to relax. No one writes all the time. Not even when you’re writing judicial decisions. Ketanji Brown Jackson invited the Senator who asked the question to join her in the “basement full of yarn” she uses for knitting, crocheting, and fibre arts. This question wasn’t intended to be a moment of lightness or respite from the hearings’ more serious considerations. It was a serious question. It highlighted the well roundedness of Brown Jackson’s candidacy, and as questioner Senator Hirono suggested, demonstrated someone “who is able to be creative in their approaches.” 

The intent of the question in this process highlighted the importance of different ways of seeing things and ways of thinking that demonstrate responsiveness, flexibility, and pragmatism. It might have been one of the most important questions that Brown Jackson was asked.

It’s near the end of another pandemic year and I’m feeling tired. I’m tired of hearing about numbers. I’m tired to hearing about Covid-related numbers and I’m tired of the endless stream of numbers that are calculated to try quantify research, writing, teaching, and their monetary value to universities.

One of the problems with universities’ slide towards performance metrics (and all universities seem to have jumped aboard the rapidly moving train that counts everything – words, grants, money, impact factors, etc.) is that they measure the wrong things, and then it’s assumed that these measures indicate something important. The problem is that they don’t measure anything particularly important and they don’t demonstrate creativity, or responsiveness, or flexibility, or pragmatism.

As an example, calculating numbers of students in classes doesn’t necessarily indicate how engaged students are inside classrooms and outside of them. It doesn’t measure the quality of what students learn. Assigning course offerings based on the number of enrolments doesn’t consider what students and faculty want to know and understand, what makes them curious, or even why it might be beneficial to ask these questions. Calculating the numbers of majors in a discipline doesn’t indicate anything about the interactions among majors and interactions with faculty and staff in ways that build valuable communities in institutionalized settings. Measuring the number of journal articles published says relatively little about the contributions that ideas make to a field of knowledge. Determining the numerical impact factor of a journal doesn’t indicate if people value it, (although they know that someone else values numbers). Totalling the number of grants and the money generated from those grants says very little about how research is regarded beyond universities. University rankings don’t tell us anything about how students benefitted from university education.    

There’s an irony to all of these numbers: the more of them that there are, the fewer meaningful insights they’re able to provide.

In universities, it seems, numbers count more than wood, or clay, or paint, or yarn, or people, or ideas, or communities, or places. 

As the end of this lengthy term approaches, I’m planning to try and ignore all the numbers that continue to be thrown my way and the rhetoric about what they allegedly ‘tell us.’

I’ll be spending more time in my own basement full of yarn.

Still Moments in Writing

Lots of well-intended guides to academic writing encourage regular practice. We’ve heard it before: writing is a muscle. It needs to be exercised. Regularly. And, there’s some truth to this. Writing regularly can help overcome the fear of the blank page. It can direct the focus and quell those little voices that worry that the words might not come. Writing regularly can facilitate the movement from one project, to the next, to the next and can gather energy and momentum. It can provide that rush that we know what we’re doing and that we’re actually doing it.

There are lots of reasons to keep the writing muscle moving.

But, constant momentum can also be frenetic. It can be quick, whirl in circles, and spin out of control. A few words can become too many words and not all of those words may be organized around a coherent framework or a clear set of ideas. Too many words can become muddled. Too many words can become incoherent words. And, often, by the time that we realize that they’re as muddled as they are, we’re feeling too attached to let any of them go.

That’s why writing, like reading, needs still moments.

I’m not referring to writing blocks, as those times when writing just doesn’t happen. To be honest, I’ve never experienced a writing block. Not yet anyway. I have experienced times when I’ve not particularly motivated to write and when I don’t write as well as I could, but I haven’t experienced times when I can’t write.

We might think about still moments as intentionally taken pauses where the writing has to stop in order for it to continue. Sometimes, still moments only last for a moment. Other times, they might occupy a longer period of time. Still moments are when we have an opportunity to think about what we’ve written. They’re moments to figure out what we know, what we don’t know, and if it matters. They’re moments to contemplate taking our ideas in a completely different direction, or abandoning them all together, (which is something that we rarely discuss in terms of writing, a secret silence.) Still moments in writing are intentionally taken moments of indecision.  Because indecision is so often uncomfortable, our urge, is to resist stillness with more writing. 

I’m having one of those still moments in my current writing project. I’ve been writing about it, on and off, since my sabbatical last year and it’s still in pieces. Some of the pieces make sense. Other pieces make less sense. I’m not yet sure that it makes sense altogether. Going through the exercise of putting more words on the page might help me to feel, temporarily, like I’m doing what’s expected; but, it’s probably not going to help me sort this all out.

It’s time to accept that this project needs a still moment. It needs to occupy some space in my thoughts while I’m walking, while I’m reading, while I’m doing yoga, and while I’m doing all those other things that aren’t actually writing.

The lesson here is patience, which also happens to be a handy lesson for the current state of the pandemic.

Reading Seamus Heaney

The most meaningful reading that I did during my sabbatical year was Seamus Heaney’s collection, 100 Poems. 

I didn’t set out to read poetry during my sabbatical. This collection, (or any other collection of poetry for that matter), wasn’t included on the ambitious list of tasks I aimed to complete. But, Jackie Lyman, a Dublin-based librarian and someone who’s has helped me with research previously, urged me to take up the challenge: 100 poems by Seamus Heaney.

Surely, I could spread 100 poems out over 365 days?

When I began reading, I knew three poems by Seamus Heaney. They are probably the same three poems that many people know. I knew very little about Heaney himself. But, by the end of the year and the end of the collection, I felt like I knew him better. His poetry offered glimpses into the everyday, and sometimes, mundane activities of his life, wandering in gardens, embarking on ferry crossings and on bus journeys, and listening to music. I imagined Heaney, in crowded rooms, sitting quietly, composing lines of poetry in his head. 

First I read the poems aloud. Then I challenged myself to write down what I thought I understood about them. (Full disclosure: I’m still skimming the surfaces of his mythological references). I jotted down my thoughts in notebooks. By the end of the year, three notebooks sat beside my volume of Heaney’s 100 Poems. 

All of them, green notebooks. 

“Be advised my passport’s green./

No glass of ours was ever raised to toast the Queen.”

The fact that all of the notebooks (my passports to poetry) are green was a happy coincidence. 

Reading Heaney’s poems brought many unexpected surprises. During a year of uncertainty and lockdowns, it granted me permission to wander through the townlands where I’d spent two previous sabbatical years, and where I’d have otherwise spent a considerable amount of time during this sabbatical. It brought back memories of places, feelings, and sights – the shadow of the sun across the fields, bold wallsteads, and bouncing lambs. But Heaney’s poems don’t confine themselves to tourist-brochure depictions and there is also fear, unnecessary deaths, body bags, and retribution punishments.

“The stones of silence.”

Heaney’s deep immersion in the natural world and its hedges and harvest bows were a relief on days when even venturing outdoors felt risky. And the poems came with their own place-specific vocabulary to which dictionaries just don’t do justice.

Heaney’s poems are full of people. I met many of them during a time when I wasn’t meeting anyone else. He introduced his family – his mother, father, brothers, wife, and children – along with a rich network of other poets and artists. As the pandemic world became uncomfortably small, I tagged along (in the literary sense) with Heaney and his family on picnics and night drives. I accompanied them on excursions to Donegal, to the Blasket Islands, and to Wicklow and on holidays, (many of them working holidays, I’m sure), to Spain, England, Greece, France and the United States.

Poems written after Heaney’s stroke, (this particular collection was assembled posthumously by his family), seemed to speak directly to the fragility of the newly afflicted pandemic world. 

The closest I got to Seamus Heaney’s legacy was by way of a virtual conference that was to have been held in Derry, Northern Ireland, about an hour away from Heaney’s birthplace. It’s now the site of Seamus Heaney’s HomePlace and it has been added to my list of places to visit when travel becomes safe again. 

I was beyond excited when Mary Heaney, Seamus Heaney’s widow, welcomed the conference attendees virtually. And I have the screenshot to prove it.

Amidst all of the other stressors over this past year, I enjoyed the quiet early morning contemplation of a new poem. I was reminded just how broad scholarly work should be. And I was reminded of the benefits, which are so easily forgotten, of stretching across assumptions about disciplinary boundaries and their specific genres.

What I acquired was far more than an appreciation for Heaney’s poetry. I met new people and travelled to new places. My world felt larger at a time when it was being made smaller.

I know with certainty which collection of Heaney’s poetry I’ll be reading next.

Making Reading Visible

Reading List, Sexual and Reproductive Health among Asylum Seekers

Last April we were still feeling the immediate effects of March’s not-so-graceful slide off the rails. At the time, I suggested that it could be fruitful to re-evaluate the measures of academic productivity and ask what work was possible or desirable under these (still current) conditions. But, rather than taking time for reflection, it appears, a year onwards, that we’ve just steamed ahead. It’s mostly been expected that the same scope of activities should take place (but virtually) and that they’re possible at the same previously unreasonable pace.

When I look around for pandemic-acknowledged accommodations, I see relatively few of them. 

I wrote over the past winter, but not at the same pace as I might have otherwise. I wrote most days. I met deadlines. I met one writing deadline on a Friday and another one on the following Monday. I made more writing deadlines and I met those too. Writing happened amidst all of the ‘too muchs’ and the ‘too fews’: too much screen time, too many Zoom meetings, too many overlapping Zoom obligations, too many unnecessary email messages, too few truly important exchanges, and too few clearly communicated messages that acknowledge the unequal effects of the pandemic for scholarship and scholarly writing. 

I’m switching gears. From here on in I’m using the remaining few months of my sabbatical to prioritize the least visible part of my job: reading.

When I meet people who don’t work in academia they surmise that I must spend a lot of time reading. This common perception doesn’t reflect how little attention is actually paid to reading in academia. In fact, there are only two other times that I can recall when I’ve purposively set aside a significant amount of time for reading. One was when I was preparing for my PhD comprehensive examinations and reading was exactly what I was supposed to be doing. The only other time was during a sabbatical eighteen years ago. I permitted myself an entire summer of reading as preparation for the early phase of writing a book. So, again, exactly what I was supposed to be doing. 

Unsurprisingly then, there’s lots written in the academic blogsphere about scholarly writing, but a lot less about scholarly reading. In one often cited and frequently recommended academic blog, I had to scroll back through eight years of blog posts before I could find a frank discussion about the importance of reading for academic writing. 

This begs the obvious question: if reading isn’t important, for whom are we writing?

There are at least three reasons to make reading visible: first, reading is work; second, reading is important because it isn’t writing; and third, reading is the space where we continue to learn about ourselves in relation to our research.

It’s work to struggle against the dominant ‘reading-is-not work’ rhetoric that lives inside our universities and our heads. Reading is work even for those who are prolific readers. It’s even more work for those who have struggled with reading and by dismissing its significance, we’re dismissing their accomplishment. Reading is one of the ways we’re a part of larger conversations, how we understand who’s in the conversation, who’s not in the conversation, and what’s at stake. Similar to everyday conversations, reading has a background, is loaded with cues, and requires close attention, and an understanding of nuance. It takes work to decipher it and energy to engage with it. A long day of reading can leave you feeling exhausted. But, it can also leave you buzzing and feeling exhilarated. 

Reading is important because it isn’t writing. We write, we take breaks, we stop writing, we resume writing, we write on and off, and we write more, and we write less. It’s a muscle that can be over exerted. In academia, we’re skilled at giving each other writing advice, but we’re far less skilled at taking reading seriously. So what if we read, as researcher and blogger Helen Kara suggests (‘Shut Up and Read’) in the sun lounger? So what if we read in the bath? So what if we read in the middle of the day? And so what if we read all day?

Reading helps us to learn about ourselves in relation to our research. We’re almost always writing with readers in mind and we tailor our writing to their future reading. When we write, we doubt ourselves. We edit ourselves. We censor ourselves. There are stops and starts to craft an articulate phrase, correct our sentence structure, and reorganize our ideas. When we’re reading, someone else has already done this work for us. When we’re reading we’re freer to think things over, to question, and to venture down new pathways without feeling misled. This is where we really learn about what truly interests us. 

It’s not a coincidence that readers of popular fiction occupy the #bookstagram real estate. 

#bookstagram is how book titles, reviews, recommendations, and ideas are shared on Instagram and the fact that this might have to be explained to academics already says something. We’ve left this space to readers of popular fiction and we barely populate the space or suit it for our own purposes. We don’t share what we’re reading or try to demonstrate how reading is connected to scholarly writing. But, what if we occupied this space too? What if we openly shared our titles, our reading lists, and our honest reviews, opinions, and ideas with other scholarly readers? 

What if we made reading as visible as people often assume it to be?

What if we just started by showing up in #bookstagram space? What if we made reading visible? What kinds of scholarly communities might we be able to create, foster, and enhance?

Some Things that Make Writing Better

My travel plans for spring, summer, and fall (so far) are stalled. Instead, I’m figuring out what makes writing in place better: 

warm socks, beginnings, focus, patience, coffee, biscuits, glasses, confidence, slippers, a positive attitude, quiet, sunlight, listening, laughter, warmth, health, encouragement, walking, permission to start over, yoga, more coffee, inspiration, writing partners, learning from mistakes, birdsong, affirmation, sharp pencils, joy, time, libraries, humility, sleep, space to spread out, unlimited word count guidelines, updated software, fresh flowers, my favourite coffee mug, a pet nearby, Arial font ©, hope, more coffee, permission to fail, enthusiasm, kindness, Sharpies©, calmness, permission to create, flexibility, lunch breaks, sunbeams, reflection, an uncluttered desk, clarity, more coffee, rest days, extended library loan periods, coloured highlighters, persistence, a plan, the regular visits from the neighbourhood cats, a soft blanket, Post-It notes©, acceptance, a new notebook, the delete key, reflection, acknowledgement that writing is work, understanding, friends, compassion, energy, realistic ideas about how much writing is possible, forgiveness, a good stretch, more coffee, rests, small rewards, low expectations, editing, water, a nice view, affirmation, a new project, a full ink cartridge, a rough draft, soup, Rodney at computing, permission to edit, supportive feedback, an end goal, recognition of ‘good enough’, novels, setting priorities, more coffee, a writing group, an open window, a plan, tranquility, light, other writers, ideas, an open mind, a room of one’s own.     

Academic Writing in a Global Pandemic

The global pandemic has produced its own ‘productivity’ rhetoric. Time away from classrooms, offices, libraries, and archives is often assumed to translate into more time for activities that academia measures as productive – more teaching and supervision, more meetings, more writing, more publishing. Of course, the gendered assumptions that underpinned this mindset were exposed quickly. But, they also continue to be ignored and those who take on the bulk of this under appreciated work will experience its detrimental effects for a very long time.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about a new writing routine to suit (Warning: overused expression here) “these unprecedented times.” Six months on, you’d think that I’d have a new routine for academic writing in the global pandemic.

Not so.

I’m still figuring it out, and at best, I’m trying to develop some general principles to guide my academic writing during my sabbatical year.

‘More writing’ isn’t on that list.

There are  good reasons for this. Writing is an intensive activity. It requires planning, concentration, and focus. It consumes a lot of energy. This is a moment to practice adaptation, not precision planning. Or precision execution. We’re all limited in our ability to plan. Will I be able to meet a quick publishing turn-around, take up invitations, or travel to conferences in 2021? I have no idea. Some days, my concentration and focus drift. My energy comes and goes. Sometimes, I’d just prefer to direct it towards limiting my social media use.

The guiding principles I’m developing are entirely my own and aren’t intended to suit other researchers or their circumstances. They’ll include reassessing priorities, slowing down, writing alongside others but spending less time at the keyboard, and doing other things. Well, perhaps not travel, or at least not immediately.

I’m not doing scientific, virus-related research, so no one’s life hangs on what I publish or when I publish it. (In fact, most academic writing isn’t a matter of life and death, but you might now know this from the way that some academics talk about their careers.)  As part of my sabbatical appointment, I’ll be writing alongside a newly established, virtual group of Research Associates. I’m sorry that I’m unable to meet them in person, but am looking forward to writing with them and hearing about their research in a shared, adapted virtual space. I’m planning to limit the time I spend at the keyboard so when I’m there it’s because I’m focussed enough to write. I might also be thinking about my writing while I’m walking, meeting with my book club, joining Zoom workshops and other virtual events, and relaxing.

For all intents and purposes, we’re still in the midst of this pandemic and I’ll be using this time to (Warning: another overused expression) establish “a new normal” and to practice adaptability.

 

 

 

 

Research Term Underway

 

My research term is already underway; please check back here in September.

 

“Lapsed Ordinary”

 

March slid off the rails and it’s still sliding.

To paraphrase the poet, Seamus Heaney, we’re in a situation of “lapsed ordinary.” Nothing seems ordinary. Everything feels extraordinary. And, yet, the ordinary continues to be insinuated and even demanded in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

How is this even possible?

Why not declare a moratorium on the pressures of productivity measured through academic publication? Some research has already become impossible under the current conditions, and the longer and more indeterminate this situation is, the more difficult all research will become. If we can’t research, what is it that we’ll be writing up for publication?

In the part of the world where I live, moratorium isn’t a word that’s thrown around lightly and there’s still a lot of emotion attached to it. But, it offers a useful way of reframing internally and externally held expectations about productivity in academic writing during this time of lapsed ordinary. A moratorium, (as many Newfoundlanders can tell you when it applies to cod), is supposed to be temporary. It’s supposed to allow for a readjustment until a time when it’s possible to return to the expected ordinary. A moratorium doesn’t necessarily mean that we’d have to stop thinking, reading and writing, although some people might choose to do this, or be forced to do this. A moratorium would simply mean that we didn’t have to try to squeeze our stalled research activities into an already tense and indeterminate period of time, for the satisfaction of others to tally it all up.

I don’t think that the idea of a moratorium on the pressures of productivity is going to be a ‘hard sell’ to the book publishers and scholarly journals that have already openly readjusted schedules, demands, and expectations. (Thanks for those who’ve recognized that not all tasks can be completed at home, that not everyone can work seamlessly in their homes, that stress affects health, and that employee health matters). Dismally, I see no foreseeable end to the insensitivity of productivity pressures on social media that are thinly disguised as announcements, (“I’m hesitant to do this, but I’m thrilled to be able to announce…”).

The only appropriate question to ask about possible consequence is ‘what might be the consequences of not recognizing this as undue pressure?’

There’s little that should be said about the pressures of productivity in academic writing in the midst of this pandemic. Much of the writing and publishing that’s going on now can wait because once this crisis has transformed, from what it is now into whatever it will become in the future, we’re all likely to be having very different conversations with one another.

 

 

Dear Winter

 

Dear Winter,

Thanks very much for meeting me at the airport on my return from Australia. I was able to stash the sun hat, flip flops, and sunscreen in exchange for the parka, winter boots, hat, scarf, and mittens so that you would recognize me at the airport. I hadn’t realized that our visit would begin so abruptly.

The conference was good, the weather in Australia was lovely, but the sun was really busy with bush fires there. I passed along your regards and she’s wondering why she hasn’t seen you or heard from you recently.

I saw so much of you during your January visit and then you left in a whirl. I appreciate that you didn’t have it out with the electricity board on your departure allowing me to stay warm and have some time for writing, reading, and thinking. Your visit was certainly a memorable one and a six-day state of emergency was declared when you left. There was over 70 centimetres of snow left behind; much of it was in the driveway. There was a lot in the streets too and it took a full week for the city to clear it away. I had to shovel snow away from the dryer vent so that I could wash the sheets on the spare bed and they’re now ready for your next visit.

I wrote for about four hours a day during the state of emergency. It was still and quiet, but with the windows covered in snow, the light was a challenge. I also did what many others did: I watched Netflix, perused the back corners of the pantry cupboard, and caught up on social media to commiserate with the people whose storm-related hardships were more difficult than mine. Every day, I spent time clearing snow from the driveway. I also moved up the appointment to have snow tires put on the car.

Your visit gave me time to get started on my books-to-read shelf. I hadn’t imagined that I’d get through it so quickly and I’ve already started s books-to-order list for the end of the winter term.

I’ve seen less of you this month. I know that you’ve spent some time in February hanging out in Ireland and Northern Ireland with your friends, Ciara and Dennis. Your rain, sleet and snow caught many people there off guard.

I expect that you’ll be back in March. I’m especially anxious to hear about your plans to travel outside of Newfoundland (I hope) during April, May, and June.

Until March,

Katherine