Early Modern Notes

Last night, I nearly posted a disgustingly self-indulgent post about how much I have to do once I finish this research trip in November. Except, of course, when I read the blogs of most academics out there, I know perfectly well that I don’t. I have, if you don’t know, a totally cushy post-doc fellowship that means I get to do my own research for three years. I could get away with not teaching at all if I really wanted (although it’s strongly encouraged; and I do in fact want to teach, even though it still scares the crap out of me), and I get to choose how much and when (hence being able to disappear for six-month research trips); I don’t have to deal with administrative baggage or jump through the usual ‘new staff’ hoops.

Yes, I do have plenty to do once I get home. But - even allowing for tiredness and the being just-back-in-London effect - that hardly excused the alternately whining/self-congratulatory tone (ie, generally sounding like a spoilt brat) of last night’s almost-post. I don’t have dozens of different things to juggle; I don’t have thirty-plus hours of teaching/admin work to get through before I can get to research and writing; I don’t have children or a partner to worry about/clean up after/try to civilise. With the possible exception of getting all my research material from this trip sorted into some kind of order (!), none of my winter tasks are going to be at all uninteresting (they include preparing a new course, which I’m looking forward to, and thesis-book revision).

I think the trouble with having got this fellowship is the nagging worry that I don’t really deserve it, that I’m not doing enough to justify having it… etc. Which is also a deeply self-indulgent thing to say, but is at least honest.

It doesn’t help that I usually enjoy research (in an odd love-hate sort of way), but this time I just can’t find much enthusiasm - the ‘what might I find today’ anticipation of my PhD research seems to have disappeared. And I have no idea what I’m going to write next, which unsettles me a lot. I’ve never experienced writer’s block, but I’m anxious that that might be about to change. I’m certainly finding it quite impossible to do anything ’serious’ while I’m in London, and not simply because nearly all my books are in Aberystwyth (although that doesn’t help).

I need to be home. (I know millions of people love city life; I’m not one of them.) I need to be doing those tasks and keeping myself occupied. I need to be writing new stuff, not just reworking old material. (I’m never quite sure, by the way, whether to look on my blogging as a good thing that keeps my writing muscles exercised, or as something that’s distracting me from doing ‘real’ work. Although I really think it has kept me sane this summer.)

So please forgive me these few moments’ indulgence; it won’t happen too often, I swear. (I have some nice things planned for you all in coming days…) And if you want to administer some foot-to-arse-region tough love in comments, go ahead.