The Permissive Archive

Do you like archives? Of course you like archives. All the best people like archives.

To celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Centre for Editing Lives and Letters (CELL), my PhD colleagues and I are organising a one-day conference on archival research dealing with anything in the period 1500-1800. It’s at Queen Mary, University of London, on 9 November 2012 (which is a Friday, so you can come and make a weekend of it in glorious Olympics-free London). We’d love you to join us! Yes, you. The lovely person reading this on their computer screen. There will be papers, and stellar refreshments, and dancing girls… (maybe not the latter, unless I have too much conference wine).

The Call for Papers is below – the deadline is 31 July, in just over two weeks time. So please get sending! And registration will soon be available. Please check out our conference website at and the CELL website at for more information.

Meanwhile, a comic answering a question I’ve been asked a few times…

And the Call for Papers:

The Permissive Archive, Queen Mary University of London, 9 November 2012

For ten years, the Centre for Editing Lives and Letters (CELL) has pioneered original archival research that illuminates the past for the benefit of the modern research community, and beyond. To celebrate this anniversary, in early November 2012 we will be holding a conference examining the future of the ‘Permissive Archive’.

The scope of archival history is broad, and this conference seeks presentations from a wide range of work which opens up archives – not only by bringing to light objects and texts that have lain hidden, but by demystifying and demonstrating the skills needed to make new histories. Too long associated with settled dust, archival research will be championed as engaged and engaging: a rigorous but permissive field.

We welcome proposals for papers on any aspect of early modern archival work, manuscript or print, covering the period 1500 – 1800. Topics may include, but are not limited to:

  • The shape of the archive – ideology and interpretation
  • The permissive archive: its definition and its past, present and future
  • Alternatives to the permissive archive
  • Archival research as discovery or construction
  • The archive which challenges or disrupts
  • Uncatalogued material – how to find it, how to access it, how to use it
  • New findings
  • Success and failure
  • Broken or dispersed collections
  • The archive and the environment
  • The archivist and the historian
  • The ethics of the archive
  • The comedy of the archive
  • Order and anarchy

Please send 300-word proposals to Deadline July 31st.

Submissions are not limited to the 20-minute paper. CELL will be holding a workshop on the use of archival materials, and we are keen to hear from scholars with ideas for alternative presentations such as group sessions, trips or guided walks. Submissions will be peer-reviewed by Professor Lisa Jardine.

You can also download a PDF of the Call for Papers here

Get a new plan, Stan

Blackadder: Am I jumping the gun, Baldrick, or are the words “I have a cunning plan” marching with ill-deserved confidence in the direction of this conversation? 
Baldrick: They certainly are. 

(Blackadder the Third, ‘Nob and Nobility’)

Nothing good in academia happens without a plan.

I am telling myself that, repeatedly, because the time has come to start writing a new chapter. I’m having the usual excitement/anxiety I get when I realise I’ve probably done enough research to get writing;  I start thinking ‘OK, this is it. This is the CENTRE of the whole THESIS and I have to NAIL IT’. (I think that every time. I imagine I’d have trouble writing if I was like ‘eh, this argument’s pretty incidental to the stuff before it, to be honest’).

Said performance anxiety is particularly high this time because:

  1. I’m going into my fourth year soon, I really should start treating this as the home stretch and, y’know, sprinting.
  2. Writing my last chapter felt like attempting several simultaneous acts of keyhole surgery, whilst playing baroque music on a harpsichord, in a blizzard.

I am aware that what I was actually doing was writing some stuff about history and books, and printing it out, and looking at it. Actually, I think a lot of the problem was that I couldn’t understand why it was knotting up my brain so much.1 I’m quite happy with the finished chapter, and a little perplexed by how deceptively simple it looks from this end of the telescope. But I’m going to try my damnedest to make things a little easier on myself this time.2

Hence the plan. I suspect a lot of confusion and soul-searching could have been avoided if I’d been a bit more strict with myself about planning. Because, as I say, nothing good in academia happens without a plan. No good lectures, no good seminars, no good papers, and certainly no good monster chapters. I’m going to leave seminars to one side right now because teaching is too important for me to treat it here as a sideshow to the business of writing, but suffice to say that I had the above realisation following a reading group in which I presented some letters to a bunch of nice folk I know very well and man, I should have made an actual plan for that.

I have precious little advice and few words of dubious wisdom this time. Instead, I’m going to blather about the many ways in which I am just a bit rubbish at making and sticking to plans for things I write. You can stop reading now if you want, I won’t judge you.

Anyway: teaching plans, no problem. I might deviate from a seminar plan or just outright ignore it if the class goes in another interesting direction, but it’ll be there and I’ll know it well and refer to it. I have a far more complicated relationship, though, with chapter outlines and so on.

I usually do at least attempt a plan of some description. I tend to fill them with jokes, weird shorthand, and vaguely aggressive notes to myself, just because that’s how I write when I’m thinking and planning. Which is more-or-less fine, except that quite often a supervisor or two will want to read what I’ve planned, and then I have to spend ages making it fit for consumption by a person who isn’t me. Even I’m a little too embarrassed to send a senior professional colleague a document that says ‘Even if I don’t do much this poem is angry doggerel gold’ and ‘Subtle this the hell up. And play nice’.3

Another, more serious, problem is that my plan-making process tends to go something like this.

  1. Start making plan.
  2. Enthusiastically plan first bit in some detail.
  3. Become increasingly vague as plan progresses.
  4. Spend rather too long coming up with snappy titles for the different sections.
  5. Get bored with planning.
  6. Decide to start writing because hey, let’s see how it goes.
  7. [Optional if planning in manuscript] At some point during or after points 1-6, lose piece of paper on which plan is written.

And the third and most serious problem is that as soon as I get into the writing of a piece – particularly if it’s a long piece, like a chapter – I find myself ignoring the plan. It just never quite works when I start writing stuff down. About a third of the way through I’ll begin to know what I’m doing and then I’ll be able to plan the rest, or at least sketch it out. But that opening third is not the most pleasant of experiences.

I suspect that struggling over and reworking and essentially writing through the difficulties (structure-wise, argument-wise, etc) of my chapters is a crucial part of the process for me. I think-write, always have done, whether I’ve written a detailed plan or not. The best things I’ve produced have often been the things I’ve been just about ready to tear my brain out over, repeatedly. At the same time, I’m not so wedded to some idea of the mystical ‘process’ by which I call down my chapter-writing muse that I’m not willing – eager, even – to keep on working at methods of making it a bit less psychologically draining.

The plan I have made for this coming chapter is better than most I manage. I have planned half of it, and have a basic idea of the argument of the second half. And, well, screw it, I’m going to give writing the first half a go, because I imagine that it will swing off in some unexpected directions pretty quickly so I should just get going and find out what those directions might be. I’m also hoping that maybe, maybe, the plan will help even if I don’t stick to it.

In fact, I’m wondering whether sticking to the plan actually isn’t the point at all.

Some of the best seminars I’ve taught have been ones that have headed entirely off-piste. You can’t go off-piste, though, unless there’s a piste. And a chairlift to get you up the mountain. And I have never been skiing in all my born days and should shut up about it now.

But what if the plan that nothing good in academia happens without is not actually a plan you stick to? Surely sticking to your initial plan for anything that takes a writing, researching, playacting-out, defending, hating, sobbing over, contradicting, negotiating process is like actually staying with the kid you march home from primary school one day and inform your mum you’re going to marry. It might work for a tiny minority of fortunate-but-presumably-not-fond-of-variety people, but for the majority of us some combination of fate, practicality, personality, and perhaps eventually sexuality manage to separate us from the people that were our One True Loves for a Week in Year 2, while the appeal of the awesome Lego skills/Ninja Turtles backpack/ability to do the best handstands in the class that first drew us to them fall by the wayside of our developing psyches. I mean, the ‘our’ thing is an ineffectual stab at comradeship here because I was over there reading something. But kids do this, right?

Anyway. That child with the Ninja Turtles backpack or whatever probably grew up perfectly nice, but you’re probably not with him or her. They’re doing their thing, you’re doing your thing. Plans got changed.

See, they weren’t bad plans, necessarily, but the process of living changes how you want to live. And thus it is, perhaps (she says, hauling it back to the topic) with academic stuff. You plan so you know where to start, where you might head after that, and (eventually) where you were going to go so that you can decide to head off in a different direction.

Writing, at least in my experience, will almost always sabotage itself. Writing helps you notice and think things about texts, events, and arguments that you don’t necessarily get by just reading and thinking about them. I usually disagree heartily with each plan by the time I’ve finished writing, so surely I should stop beating myself up about the fact that I never stick to plans. Some people progress intellectually by disagreeing with others; I apparently, progress by disagreeing with Past Kirsty. That idiot.

1. I suspect it was a case of Too Many Books. Lots of little pamphlets, dancing before my eyes…

2. My brain, immediately: ‘Hah. Good luck with that.’

3. Actual quotes from my current chapter plan. I’m not sure why I need the instruction to be nice.

Lies, damn lies, and annual review forms

In my most recent meeting with my supervisor, he made an observation that I think I’m going to come to regard as fateful.

‘There comes a time in a PhD’, he said, ‘when you have to stop lying’.

It wasn’t quite as devastating as that appears. My supervisor has a knack of couching criticism in the nicest and most enthusiastic of terms – so that quite often I come out of meetings feeling suspiciously buoyant about my work, only to be brought down to earth abruptly by the notes written on the hard copy (though said notes are very useful, and far nicer than the notes I write to myself, which are mostly swearing and occasional odd cultural references that I put in to make Future Kirsty smile, even as I heartlessly give her lots more work to do). But he did let that line hang for a moment, before explaining. Probably in response to whatever facial expression I was attempting. I’m not sure what the appropriate facial expression is in such a situation, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t doing it.

Anyway, what my supervisor meant, in essence, was this:

Before you start a PhD, you lie wildly.

You lie about everything. You would lie about the colour of the sky, the number of hours in the day, your own age and gender, and that holiday job you once had in in a pudding factory if you thought it might get you funding.1

Most importantly, you claim things along the lines of ‘In this thesis I will analyse everything ever written about the 1620s and 1630s, ever, in any language’.2

This is acceptable in a research proposal because research proposals are a tissue of half-truths and outright, shameless falsity, and everyone writing one and everyone reading one is aware of this fact. You have to state what you’re going to find out, for crying out loud. If you knew that you wouldn’t have to do the research. What a research proposal actually tells the reader is these three things:

  1. I can string a sentence together.
  2. I can conceive of a project with a shape to it. Which bodes well for whatever project I end up with in a couple of years’ time.
  3. I know which books I am going to start off reading.

By the time you finish your first year the lying has got, if anything, worse. This is because you now know a few things, and – as we’re all aware – a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. By the end of your first year you will probably have read a lot of things you don’t agree with, and written angry screeds against various straw men.3 Your project has probably turned into something significantly different to that you started out with, but is unlikely to be much less ambitious.

During second year, things start to change. You begin to get less sure of your work (or, if you’re me, not sure of your work at all). You begin to see how little you’ve done and how much you still have to do, more clearly than before. There’s still a treacherous, unhelpful little voice of assurance in your head, though. I can do this. I can write about all the texts written in the whole of the 1620s and 1630s. OK, maybe I’ll be a bit sensible. I’ll cancel the Spanish classes and concentrate on texts in English. That oughta narrow things down sufficiently. In short, assurance, ambition, and the amount of knowledge you’ve gleaned thus far collide in your head in a way that is singularly unhelpful to anyone. You can vaguely see how much you still have to do, and are dumb enough to believe that you both can and actually have to do it. At this point you may make quite serious plans to run away and join a kibbutz.

I’m going to stop writing in the second person now because it’s annoying me. That’s something I’ve done in my third year, by the way. I mean, I wasn’t writing my earlier chapters in the second person – my annoyingness doesn’t quite stretch that far – but I realised that just because I started doing a thing, or said I would do a thing, doesn’t mean I actually have to do it if it’s unrealistic or if it isn’t working. I scrapped a whole chapter because a. I really wasn’t sufficiently interested in the texts to write it, and b. I could justify scrapping it. It felt a teensy bit wrong and also quite liberating.

I’m still a bit unrealistic (you should see my ‘plan’ for the chapter I’m researching now) but I’m trying to combine it with a certain amount of practicality. Reading around topics as much as possible, but accepting that each 20,000 word chapter has to concentrate on a constrained range of texts and issues. And then just writing down what I can write down, as simply as possible. How did it take me three years to get to this level of self-awareness? I’m not sure. Give me a week and I’ll have forgotten all these hard-earned lessons again.

This is what my supervisor meant. Or, as he put it, ‘You have to stop saying what you’re going to do, and say what you have done, and what you can do in the time and space left’. (I’m paraphrasing. My memory is not that good).

This exchange resurfaced on my mind this weekend because I had to do my Annual Review Form. I imagine all universities have these.  You have to fill out a lengthy questionnaire, describing what you have done, and what you’re going to do, and how your project intervenes in the DEAR GOD I AM LOSING THE WILL TO LIVE JUST TYPING THIS. The purpose of this exercise is, basically, to check that you haven’t buggered off to that kibbutz.4

So, my point – I tried not to lie. I did. Alright, mainly I tried not to be as snarky as I wanted to be. It’s not my fault, I carry the Dad Humour gene. I cannot react to sincerity with sincerity of my own, there’s something that short-circuits it out of me. Ask me a direct, serious, sincere question, and watch me squirm as fifteen different bad jokes, but not one real answer, occur to me simultaneously. Anyway, I suppose if you don’t think of oversimplification as lying, then my Annual Review Form this year was a model of truthfulness.  But the problem with finally getting to the point where you sort of know what’s practically possible with a thesis is that you also know how impossible it is to explain these things fully in a small space. Not that this wasn’t a problem before. It’s always a problem. I’m feeling it especially keenly this year as I bumble towards the end (please God) of the project, though. Most of my introduction will be about how my project intervenes in various critical contexts, and I know myself and my work too uncomfortably well now to think I’ll be able to do that with brevity. So instead of lies of commission, my Annual Review Form is packed to the gills this time with lies of omission.

That’s academia I guess, or indeed any job that’s vaguely complicated. Negotiating a thousand subtly different iterations of that moment when someone in the pub says ‘So, what do you actually do?’

1. Hello, Regional Mini Cheesecake Manager role!

2. Or actually, if you’re me, you claim you’re going to do something really quite wildly, embarrassingly different to what you actually end up doing. I call it ‘intellectual development’. Ahem.

3. You will want to keep a few complimentary terms like ‘excellent’, ‘wide-ranging’ and ‘ground-breaking’ up your sleeve for when you come to edit these bits.

4. Or to my bolthole of choice, the French Foreign Legion.

Should add, just in case: My CV has always been disappointingly free of lies, or indeed of any imagination whatsoever. It’s a pretty boring read. Most of my sad minimum-wage-or-below jobs aren’t even on it nowadays, due to their negligible relevance to the world of academia. This includes the pudding factory job, in which I got up at 5.30am every day to perform a role which could have been performed by a mechanical arm. Moral of the story: it’s cheaper to employ an undergraduate student than it is to maintain a machine. Also, mini cheesecakes are nasty.