Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
A chapter titled “Voyage” follows, opening with an in-milieu commentary about Out Island civic structures. It moves thence to Fitz rising reasonably well rested and returning to Thick, whom Web still attends. After an exchange that leaves Web smiling, he departs, and Fitz confers with Dutiful through the Skill about Thick, who wakes in nascent illness. Dutiful gathers him back into his cabin, although Thick goes reluctantly, and Fitz tends to Thick further as Dutiful’s “Witted coterie” attends on him.
Much better for Thick, this attitude… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
After the meeting, Swift is left with Fitz, Web offering insight about him as he departs and Fitz sets Burrich’s son about errands. Matters do not go well, and Swift is dismissed at Chade’s suggestion; the assassins and the prince confer about Thick afterward, Fitz noting the assistance of Nettle, and a pattern of attention and attempted soothing settles upon them.
In a Skill-dream, Nettle vents anger at Fitz for the message he had her convey to Burrich. The words had touched him deeply, sending him toward Buckkeep. Fitz attempts to explain himself to Nettle without revealing too much, and matters proceed. Fitz continues to work with Swift and seeks without success to confer with Web, and he discusses the Wit with Dutiful and Chade. Chade bristles at the topic somewhat, but he relents.
I’m not entirely sure what to make of the chapter as I reread it this time. Part of me wants to read it as something of a commentary on age, particularly on Chade’s part–he lampshades it, certainly, and there’s other justification in it. Burrich’s reported behavior also suggests something of such a reading. The idea is foggy in my mind, though, as I write this, and I have to wonder if it is simply an issue of my needing another cup of coffee as I read again.
And there’s the possibility of narrative necessity. The present chapter does gloss a lot…
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here!
The following chapter, “Voyage of Dreams,” begins with a translation of a scroll regarding the Wit before moving into Fitz’s travails attending on the vehemently seasick Thick. The ship’s crew mocks Thick relentlessly, but nothing can be done lest worse repercussions follow, and Fitz comes to realize that Thick’s outpouring of Skill is having unintended effects for all aboard.
Fitz pleads through the Skill for aid, learning to his surprise that Swift had taken ship along with them, and Chade and Dutiful come at length to assist him with Thick and confer. Chade notes his work to hinder the Fool’s departure from Buckkeep, and Fitz muses over the machinations with some regret. And ministrations towards Thick progress to little effect.
Later, as Thick sleeps fitfully, Web joins Fitz in his vigil, the two conferring about theology for a bit before Fitz asks Web about Swift. The conversation prods Fitz, and Web withdraws, leaving Fitz to realize what he has done and finding some shame in it until he is joined by Riddle. The two confer, Riddle reporting news from the guard company; matters deteriorate among them as among the ship’s crew.
Fitz reaches out to Dutiful and Chade for assistance again, the three conferring and finding there is little they can do for their companion. Fitz grows increasingly concerned for Thick and the situation, and Web approaches him again. After a prickly exchange, Web offers to watch Thick; Fitz, authorized to do so, allows it, and he marvels at Web’s insights and fretfully considers the state of affairs aboard ship.
Settling in to sleep, Fitz finds himself again assailed by Thick’s Skilling. He is not the only one, Nettle having entered the dreamscape in which Thick has enmeshed them, and she rages against Fitz for her brother’s absence despite his promises to her. She agrees to assist with Thick, despite her anger at him, and accepts a message to convey to Burrich. Through her Skill in dream, Nettle calms Thick, dismissing Fitz’s assertion of her magical prowess.
I have noted before that Hobb makes much of verisimilitude in the mundanities of her setting, referencing her own comments to that effect. The introductory blurb on the present chapter is another instance of her doing so, and one that speaks to my medievalist self. One of the challenges that faces scholars of medieval literature is that relatively little survives. Little enough was produced, given the difficulties of making text happen. Materials fade over time, physical objects decaying with the passage of years–and then there is mischance such as the Cotton Library fire, which resulted in much loss (about which some information here). It’s not necessarily something that a general readership will consider, but it is something that many readers of fantasy literature–there’s a lot of overlap with medievalists–will have in mind. Seeing it in print adds to the authenticity of Hobb’s narrative world for me, something else I appreciate about her writing.
As with some earlier comments, what follows is lightly adapted from materials I’d generated for teaching. The institution obliged then-current APA standards, which I retain here. I continue to hope people will find it useful…
The environment in which written communication exists is a complex one, consisting of many parts that connect with one another in myriad ways. No single model can encompass all of the complexities—at least, not and remain a useful model—so that which appears below is necessarily incomplete. It does, however, usefully highlight a number of points that bear in on the kind of writing students in first-year composition classes—and others—are asked to do.
True even for this. Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
A Simple Model
At its simplest, the environment of written communication can be conceived of as containing three elements:
Writer
Text
Reader
That is, there are the writer, the thing written, and the recipient of what is written. It is a sensible model, one easily accessible, and one that fits the dominant motif of triplets that seems to pervade rhetorical study. It is only a starting point, however—and no advancement comes to those who remain at the beginning.
Experience teaches that matters are not so simple as they might initially appear—and one of the early complications is that things inevitable get in the way. One term that might usefully apply to such things is interference, literally “that carried in amidst” or what intrudes from outside to inhibit or hinder the easy development, transmission, and receipt of the written message.
Interference can apply at all points of juncture. That is, it can come into play wherever any of the parts of the environment of written communication touch. In that sense, it is like friction, in which all mechanical actions lose energy—and interference, indeed, interferes with the message coming to be, getting where it needs to go, and being understood.
The writing model, with the complication of interference introduced, then becomes:
Interference
Writer
Interference
Text
Interference
Reader
While it might seem strange to note interference before the writer, it is often the case that things get in the way before the writer begins to write. Perhaps the writer is hungry or thirsty, tired, or subject to other physical demands. Perhaps the writer is instead distracted by family concerns or other work that needs to be done. Perhaps the writer is experiencing the commonplace of writer’s block, daunted by what writing lore calls “the tyranny of the blank page.”
The last begins to be something that appears between the writer and the text, as well. And there are other such interfering concerns to find. Perhaps the writer seeks to type out a paper, but the keyboard does not work—or a cat walks across it or even sleeps upon it. Perhaps the pen to be used is out of ink, or the pencil’s lead breaks. Perhaps the calligraphy brush sheds its hair, or the paper tears. A cup of coffee overturned certainly keeps writing from occurring as might be desired.
Or perhaps the writer needs to find some particular word, but cannot recall it. Perhaps a turn of phrase reads awkwardly, and staring at it to figure out how it might be fixed stalls the fixture of words to the page. Or some bit of knowledge needs finding—and it eludes or else leads to the research rapture described so convincingly by Pigeon (2013). Or any number of other things could intrude between the writer and the text, no less than in between the world and the writer.
Some of the writer’s concerns will apply to the reader, too. Readers are afflicted by hunger and thirst and lust and fatigue; they are enmeshed in concerns of family and work; they are distracted by other things. Perhaps they lack contextual knowledge to make sense of what is written, whether in being unfamiliar with the intellectual underpinnings of what is written or in not knowing what words are used—and in trying to find out, they fall into their own instantiations of research rapture. Or, again, any number of other things can intrude, coming between the text and the reader.
Another set of lecture notes forecasts one of the additional complications that can intrude into a model of written communication: varying levels of readership. There are other such concerns, as well, expanding on the writer, the text, and the readership—about which more below.
Such complexity. Much wow. Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com
A More Complicated Writer
Clearly, without a writer, there will be no text, and so no reader, because nothing to read. Yet the writer is not a unitary entity. As other lecture notes suggest, the writer exists within a network or framework sketched out by demographic factors—and pursuing those leads to an even more complex model of written communication than can be reasonably presented here. But what can be presented here are concerns borrowed from literary study (itself a refinement and extension of writing study, to be sure), namely those of the authorial personal and the narrator.
The authorial persona is that set of attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors adopted by the writer for the purposes of undertaking the act of writing. The concept emerges from that of performativity, the idea that people take on roles as if acting when doing the various things they do, adapting or attempting to adapt to social situations in conscious or subconscious hopes of navigating them successfully. Plainly, people act differently with different sets of people in different circumstances—and all of those acts are roles played, rather than the real person playing them.
Writing is no different. When they set out to write, writers approach the task with notions about what writing is and what writers are and do, and those notions necessarily constrain them in some ways and focus their attentions in others. What those constraints and foci are depend upon the writer’s background and experience, certainly, and they act as a particular lens or filter through which the writer writes. That they come between the writer and the text may make them appear to be interference, but in that they enable to production of a coherent, cohesive work of writing, they are facilitative rather than interfering.
The narrator is, to make things simple, the voice through which the words are spoken. It is the specific perspective through which the text and its information are presented, and it will emerge from the narrative persona and its consideration of audiences, materials, and circumstances. Discussions of narration typically focus on personal perspective—that is, is the narration first person, giving an embedded account of events, or is it third person, giving a dissociated account—limitation—how much the narrator knows, and how much the narrator shows—and reliability—how much the narrator can be trusted. Scholarly writing typically seeks to deploy a mildly limited reliable narrator—it says what it knows and what it does not know, and it tries to convey its ethos.
Whether scholarly writing adopts first or third person, however, depends on the discipline and purpose. Some fields—typically those in “hard” sciences and areas that emulate them—strive for objectivity and so draft their prose in third person. Others, chiefly among the humanities, work with personal concerns in any event, and they acknowledge that much of their work comes from direct experience—so they make use of first-person perspectives.
One Textual Complexity of Many
Other lecture notes make mention of paratextual concerns. That is, they note, however briefly, that the situation of words conveys meaning no less certainly than do the words themselves. Any number of such concerns can receive attention, and for sound reasons (McLuhan, 1964). A few are likely to attract attention for first-year writers.
One such is medium, the venue through which the text is presented. Whether a text is physical or digital, whether it is a book or magazine, a newspaper or a journal, a blog or a database article, matters in terms of how it will present its ethos—as well as in other ways that can be meaningfully explored elsewhere.
Another is the quality of the page. Whether the text is physical or digital, the quality of the page on which it appears influences its ethos—as well as the access readers have to it. Both impact how its meaning will be received.
Similarly determinative of access are the characteristics of the type. Size, color, font, and other such formatting concerns call attention and dissuade it, bespeak importance and its lack, and even allow those who have visual learning differences such as dyslexia greater or lesser access to the words.
Other visual features such as pictures, diagrams, charts, and graphs also influence what meanings emerge from the text and for whom they do. Their presence or absence, as well as their quality if present, should be considered in addition to the overt information presented.
Complicated Readership
Other lecture notes also, following Johnson-Sheehan (2014), make mention of a four-fold readership: gatekeeper, primary, secondary, and tertiary. The first of these, gatekeepers, introduces several points of complication—in addition to each level of reader imposing its own, as noted above.
Any number of gatekeepers can come between the text and its expected primary and secondary readers, as well as the uncountable tertiary readers that could take a look at the text. One such might be a translator, who work to bring the text from its original language into a target language—and the translator’s background will influence what words and phrases are used to render what, changing the words presented and therefore the text as a whole. Also, the translator will possibly have advisors, whose advice might well also change the words given.
Another gatekeeper, more common than the translator, will be the legal advisors associated with the production of text. The intervention of lawyers is amply attested; little can be added here, save to note that they do come into the matter.
Also more common, and more needed, is the editor of a text. Whether the writer serves to edit her or his own text—and many do—or another editor entirely looks at the piece, someone will (or ought to) look at the text to ensure that it conforms to expected usage standards—whatever those may be.
Additionally, there is the publisher to consider—as well as the publisher’s advisors. They decide what gets out and how, and even self-published works will have such decisions made about them. The decision to permit or bar access is a mighty one, and it must also be considered.
And then, of course, what happens for the primary reader once the gatekeepers have let the text through, as with any other juncture, can interfere.
A Working Model
At the end of such discussion, then, but not at the end of what can be considered, a model of written communication can be looked at thus:
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
The next chapter, “Departures,” opens with in-milieu commentary from an older Skillmaster before moving into Fitz’s conference with Chade in advance of their departure regarding Web’s knowledge of Fitz’s identity. They talk of Web and the formation of a de facto Witted coterie in Dutiful’s service–including Web, Civil Bresinga, and the minstrel Cockle, all of whom are set to accompany the Prince to the Out Islands, to Chade’s vexation.
Unfortunately not available to Fitz…but available at HEB, whence this image used for commentary; thank you for supporting the Kerrville economy.
Fitz calls on Hap, finding him hard at work in his apprenticeship and applying himself diligently, if in the hopes of renewing his relationship with Svanja. That done, Fitz secures his sea-chest aboard the ship on which he will sail, the Maiden’s Chance, and emerges to find Lord Golden attempting without success to take ship. Fitz is spotted by Golden and is chagrined at his part in the deception that has led to Golden being barred from accompanying Dutiful to the Out Islands. He also muses on its effects as he makes his final few preparations for departure before finding his bunk for the night.
Asleep, Fitz encounters Nettle in dream again, and they confer about Swift’s promised return and about Tintaglia. He wakes from a nightmare soon after and prepares himself for the day, not long afterwards being made to stand and wait as the various departure ceremonies take place. The party making the trip to the Out Islands is described in some detail, as is the billeting of said party. Thick’s discomfort at the travel soon manifests in others via the Skill that pours forth from the little man, and Dutiful soon Skills to him that he will be assigned to attend Thick. Reporting to that duty, he muses bitterly on “The adventure of travel by sea.”
As I reread the chapter this time, I was minded of a change in nomenclature from the Farseer Trilogy to the Tawny Man. The former uses the term “Outislands” where the latter uses “Out Islands”; similarly, “Outislanders” and “Out Islanders.” Words matter, not only in novels, and not only in this part of Hobb’s work, and I have to wonder what it is the shift in term, small and subtle as it is, signifies. There has to be something–despite the claims of some who would argue that the curtains are blue always and only because the curtains are blue; each word in the text is chosen, placed deliberately, and adjusted by consideration between author and editor, and both respond to the situations in which they have lived and do live. The curtains could easily be red or white or absent, so that even if the author is not consciously aware of a reason to make them blue, the author is responding to a context in which a curtain is or ought to be blue. Similarly, for the nomenclature to change indicates a context in which it ought to change the way it changes. Understanding it is not necessary to enjoy the story, of course, but it does not necessarily preclude that enjoyment, either–at least, not when it is done well.
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
And happy Sousa Day!
The following chapter, “An Exchange of Weapons,” opens with a passage ostensibly written by Fedwren of Hod, Weaponsmaster at Buckkeep late in Shrewd’s reign. It turns to Fitz’s consideration of his possessions and work to secure them against his absence and his trip to the Outislands as part of Dutiful’s guard. He is interrupted in the work by Dutiful, to whom he gives the sword that Verity had wielded and given him just before entering his dragon. At the gift, Dutiful bids Fitz wait; he departs and returns with Chivalry’s sword, and Fitz considers the blades as he and Dutiful handle them. To Dutiful he remarks that he appreciates the gesture of being given his father’s sword, but he cannot bear it, noting the reasons why he cannot. Dutiful accepts the reasoning but makes a substantial gesture in reply that moves Fitz.
Some of this kind of thing… Image from the Oakeshott Institute, used for commentary.
In the wake of the exchange, Fitz reaches for some connection to his late father, but finds none. Sleeping, he finds himself drawn to Nettle again in dream, and the two confer about a dilemma she has, having illicitly helped Swift come to court against his parents’ wishes. Tintaglia intrudes into the dream, assailing Fitz until dismissed by Nettle, and Fitz wakes.
In the morning, Fitz breakfasts in one of the castle gardens, where he is approached by Starling. She suspects that her husband is unfaithful, and the two commiserate for a time. After, Fitz heads to the Queen’s Garden, where Swift awaits him; he rebukes the boy for his deceit and sharply sends him home.
I am taken, as might be thought, by the titular exchange of weapons. Sentimental as I am, I cannot help but be moved by Dutiful’s assertion to Fitz that “when I take your father’s sword from you, I will return my father’s sword to you”; it is a boyish thing, perhaps, but it is one that bespeaks a shared experience of growing up cared for but without a parent (although, as in many things, Dutiful has a far easier time of it than Fitz–but then, he isn’t the protagonist, really). And it may be that I remain boy enough to appreciate such things boyishly, though that might come as a surprise to many.
It is not a secret to everybody that I live in Texas–or, indeed, that I grew up in the midst of the Lone Star State. I’ve made much in my online life of being Texan, even if I wasn’t born in the state, and so it should come as no surprise that I mark Texas Independence Day–today, in the event, y’all.
The banner of the republic state in question. Honor it. Image from the Texas House, and so public domain.
The thing is, growing up in Texas, living in Texas, and being the person I am, my feelings on the matter are…complicated. Having attended school in the Hill Country in the 1980s and 1990s, and not in one of the major cities it claims–Austin and San Antonio, even if neither one of them is all the way in the area–I was steeped in the “traditional” lore of the Republic of Texas, that it broke away from Mexico in response to the tyrannies of Antonio López de Santa Anna, working to ensure the freedom of the brave settlers who had come into the region to make their fortunes through the sweat of their brows and the work of their hands, and that it later joined the Union as a peer out of recognition that the promise it shared with the United States was best served by confraternity between it and the several states.
(No, the rhetoric isn’t an exaggeration. Nor is the usage; Texan English admits of such terms as “confraternity” and “tump” in equal succession and measure, the juxtaposition being one of the typifying features of the dialect / accent.)
As I got older and had occasion to learn more, to speak with more people, to read more deeply and thoroughly–and not seldom in the hands of those who were writing then or in the pages that were printed then–I became aware of the amply-attested problems of the revolutionary impetus (the freedom was for white colonizers, rather than indigenous peoples already suffering or African-American populations yet enslaved because of ongoing evil), as well as the faltering socioeconomics of the nascent republic. And, of course, living in other parts of the United States as I have, and interacting online with a great many people whom I respect and admire, I have been exposed more directly to the disregard in which many hold the Lone Star State.
Certainly, there are problems–a lot of them, and large ones, several of which are in Austin and in Washington, DC (if they’re not heading to Cancun when Uri visits or encouraging book-burnings in rural communities)–in the state and with the state. There’s a lot of bass-ackward thinking here, and a lot of it’s belligerent in several senses of the term. It exerts an outsized influence on the rest of the United States, rather than being willing to leave well enough alone; Texas’s purchases do a lot to determine what textbooks are available, after all, and bills its legislature passes get used as models for other places, usually for ill.
There is good here, though. The Lone Star State makes a lot of good, influential art and culture–and no, not only in Austin, although I (begrudgingly) concede that a lot does come from there. And even the stereotypes of the state–into which many, many people lean, and lean hard–are often durned good things. A willingness to work hard and hazard the self, an insistence on honesty in word and deed, a sense that you oughta be polite all the time and friendly as much of the time as you can, an appreciation for the beauty of the natural world and for the arts, the underlying belief that we are something and that we can do it–they’re part and parcel of it, and they’re of value.
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
The next chapter, “Trepidation,” begins with an in-milieu vignette regarding the White Prophet Hoquin before glossing more of Fitz’s preparations for travel. He reviews the information he has about the itinerary he faces, which will include a visit to the port city of Zylig, where the Hetgurd–“a loose alliance of Outislander headmen”–sits, before a call in at Wuislington on Mayle and thence to Aslevjal. Fitz also frets about those who will remain when he is away. And he is disturbed from his reverie by the quiet, unexpected entrance of the Fool.
Lots of this going on… Photo by Eva Elijas on Pexels.com
Fitz and the Fool talk together, Fitz noting his concerns for Hap and the two finding themselves at ease with one another until Fitz recalls his plan to keep the Fool from taking ship for Aslevjal. Their talk turns to performativity, the Fool noting that he is not merely one thing, but that each role he plays is simply a revelation of a part of himself. The subject to the Fool’s impending death is treated, as well, and Fitz rails against it as the Fool lays out his bequests.
After the conversation with the Fool, Fitz gives his lesson to Swift, the boy once again nearly belligerent about his magic. The lessons go awkwardly, as does Fitz’s self-castigation afterward. And he finds himself calling on the Fool again, summoning him to the Skill lesson with Dutiful, Thick, and Chade. He finds him drunk and maudlin, but he drags him along through the secret passages anyway, surprising his students with the visitor’s presence. But the Fool is welcomed in and joins the practice as best he can–which is not much, in the event, until the Fool applies his Skill-silvered fingers to where they had touched Fitz before. Fitz is rocked by the experience, and Chade dismisses most from the lesson to confer with Fitz and the Fool. The talk does not go well, with Chade and the Fool exchanging sharp words about the need for dragons in the world.
The Fool makes his courtesies and departs, and Chade rails about him to Fitz in his absence. For his part, Fitz, observes that he has hardly been consulted about the choice the Fool and Chade seem set to have him make and makes his own exit, back to the hidden workroom. There, he finds a gift from the Fool, and it gives him pause.
The bit about the Fool’s roles being parts of himself put on display brings to mind Whitman’s Song of Myself: “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself. / (I am large. I contain multitudes.)” I’ve noted before, several times, that others write of performativity in Hobb’s Elderlings novels more eloquently than I can; as before, I recommend the sources on it in the Fedwren Project. But, thinking about it, the Fool’s assertion makes sense. I am not quite the same in person as I am online, after all, and even online, I show different parts of myself to different communities in which I participate. Similarly, I do not show to my daughter the same parts of myself that I show to my mother, nor to my mother all the same parts I show my daughter, and I show neither of them so much of myself as I do my wife. And that is as it should be. The Fool simply does it…more. But that is part of the purpose of fantasy fiction (and other forms, to be fair), to enhance things to as to show them more fully and allow their deeper exploration.
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
The second chapter, “Sons,” opens with an in-milieu historical gloss of the foundation of Buckkeep by a settling Out Island raider named Taker. It pivots to Fitz’s continued preparations to accompany Dutiful to the Out Islands, including his tutoring in the Out Island language and his instruction of Swift. The latter grates on him somewhat, not least because the boy continues to be almost belligerent about his Wit, and Fitz seeks out Web. Getting to him alone takes some doing, but Fitz achieves it through indelicate means, and during their conversation, Web lets Fitz know that he knows his true identity. He also agrees to teach Swift–if Swift seeks him out–and extends the same offer to Fitz.
Lots of this, yes. Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Unsettled, Fitz makes to mull over the matter and goes in to Buckkeep Town to distract himself. There, he meets with Hap, who admits to him that he is falling in with Svanja again, despite her clear perfidy. He notes the likelihood that he is being deceived, but also notes that he cannot help himself. The two talk together as amiably as might be expected, and they part in familial love. Afterward, Fitz walks through the town, considering changes, the prospects of unpleasant travel, and the looming confrontation with the Fool over his not going to Aslevjal.
Fitz notes that the reputation of the Fool as Lord Golden has grown obscene and prodigal. He puzzles over the changes to his friend, even in an already flamboyant persona, musing that some are merely covers for his intent to go to Aslevjal and to maintain information on Bingtown and points south. After witnessing an exchange that bears in on Lord Golden’s finances and being seen by the man himself, Fitz returns to Buckkeep alone.
A couple of points attract my interest in the present chapter. One is the encyclopedic entry at the beginning. I’ve commented on Hobb’s use of the device before, several times, and I note that the story is not dissimilar to that of the entry of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes into what is now England–or, indeed, the Danes centuries later. Indeed, it’s a point worth remembering that many, many peoples live now where others lived before, and they maintain kinship with those where they themselves came from. It’s not always easy or comfortable to remember, of course, and it does tend to run afoul of nationalist assumptions and assertions, but there it is.
The other, and this is eminently affective, is the exchange between Fitz and Hap over Svanja and Hap’s apprenticeship. I am not so far removed from the experience of being a teenager as I should like to be as keeps me from recalling it–including the strength of hormone-driven infatuation and the equally hormone-driven anger at people not sharing adolescent certainty. Nor am I so far removed from Fitz’s experience of seeing one’s child doing something…inadvisable…and being unable to prevent it (at least without taking steps that are themselves…objectionable). Again, I feel for the characters involved–which is to the narrative’s credit. Readers are supposed to feel for the characters, after all…
It happens from time to time that I look back at work I’ve done in the hopes of finding some new work to do. Sometimes, I look back and find that I’ve moved on for good reason, that the backward look is a waste of my time and effort, that there’s not much for me in what a friend describes as a country from which we have all emigrated. Sometimes, though, it works, and I’m able to find places where I might be able to do some work of interest. Those are more pleasant events, even if they are fewer than I might like them to be.
I keep copies of my work for just such reasons. Image is mine and of my work.
One such example inheres in the image above, which is the slightly-edited typescript of a conference paper I gave some years ago, when I was still at work on my dissertation and still held the hope–the expectation, really; I was sure I’d be among the few exceptions to the rule of college teaching work–of a tenure-line job. I remember that, after giving the paper, I’d thought it’d been well received, and so I’d meant to take the usual next step with such things: developing it for publication.
That’s how it’s supposed to go, really. A person has an idea about a text or group of them and drafts a short piece to get that idea out onto the page where it can be seen decently. At that point, they look over it and check to see if it’s actually worth further development; it isn’t always, really. If it is, the academic will then often do the initial work of fleshing out the idea. For me, that usually means (because I do still do some of the work) looking at the primary source material for evidence supporting the idea. It also often ends up meaning a short paper–longer than the initial draft, which usually runs a page or two for me–comes out of the work. Mine commonly come out between 1,200 and 1,500 words, plus citations, which is publishable in some journals and is a good length for a roundtable talk.
At that point, paths vary. If the piece seems sound enough to send to one of the journals that publishes such short pieces, it goes there (if after at least one outside reader looks at it, as is the case for me–one of the benefits of having a wife I met in my graduate program). If there’s a roundtable that will take it, it gets submitted there. More commonly, it gets reviewed and expanded into a conference-length paper, usually some 2,600 to 3,250 words (plus citations). Such was where the paper above had been when I gave the long-ago talk, and a good conference paper will provoke comments and questions from audience members that can be used to expand and refine it into a journal-length paper–which usually runs double or more the length of a conference paper. At least in my field and in my experience, and I’m not alone in it.
Typically, when I go through to look at where and how a paper will need expansion, I follow the patterns I use when I am drafting and revising work in any other context. That is, I stub out where I think what kind of thing needs to go, and I highlight it so that I can see it quickly on review. I try to be consistent in the highlighting color; I use teal for that purpose, not only in my more academic work, but also in my creative endeavors and in the templates for my freelance work. Doing so helps me to know at a glance what I’m looking at, which helps me focus on doing the work rather than having to figure out what work I need to do.
It’s a concern.
When I look back over the work I’ve done, seeing the highlighting waiting for me betokens promises. Some of them, I very much need to act upon; leaving the messages for myself that I leave is tantamount to promising myself that I will return to the project in time. Some of them are aspirational; they show that there is more to do, more that can be done, and that I can do it. They show hope, and hope is always something worth having.
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
In the brief prologue, “Battling Fate,” Fitz opines briefly on the White Prophet religion before pivoting to his own place in it. His repeated encounters with death are glossed as part of the Fool’s efforts to force the world into a better course, and Fitz notes the presence of an opposing force targeting the Fool.
Looks familiar… Image from Goodreads, used for commentary.
The first chapter, “Lizards,” opens with a brief comment from Fitz that notes the Fool’s assertion that death awaits him on Aslevjal and his request that Chade ensure the Fool would not travel to the Out Islands with Dutiful to fulfill the betrothal challenges the Prince and the Narcheska had exchanged. It moves then to the return of spring to Buckkeep and the lightening of Fitz’s mood as he prepares to meet with Swift in the Queen’s Garden. The boy arrives and presents himself as he has been directed, and the two begin to feel one another out. Swift discloses skill with a bow, and he notes having made a sharp break with his past, which Fitz–as Badgerlock–takes in stride. Swift’s near-belligerence about the Wit, however, earns him some chastisement, and he is dismissed sullenly so that FItz can clandestinely meet with Dutiful, Chade, and Thick for their Skill instruction.
Fitz’s tutees are described as the four sit to practice their magic together. They report minimal success with a practice assignment, but Thick and Dutiful both report having dreamt of a blue dragon in the night. Fitz elucidates Dutiful’s report to Chade, Thick contributing some information, as well, and Fitz notes his supposition that the dragon in question is Tintaglia. They converse further, FItz and Chade speaking at some length after the training session ends. Chade notes his worries for his intelligence efforts, and the continuing threat of the Piebalds is noted. Fitz offers aid, and Chade makes another play for Nettle, despite Kettricken’s earlier words on the matter.
I write this in the wake of Winter Storm Landon (#TexasFreeze) having frightened those of us who remember Uri’s visit to Texas. The thought of returning spring is a welcome one; like Gandalf as “The Ring Goes South,” I could stand to have warmer feet. The thought of dealing with a surly teenager is…less welcome, much less one who seems bound to press the spirit of things with the letter of them; I find myself feeling for Fitz once again. Too, being pressed by many tasks…once again, I know I should not be reading with affect, but I seem unable to help myself. Perhaps it is the pleasure of being able sit and read again…
Elliott RWI 