About a Blog

In his early collection of miscellaneous writing Paperweight, Stephen Fry includes a column from The Listener called Absolutely Nothing At All, about… writing a column. He prefaces it in the book with the excuse, “Journalist friends tell me that columnists are allowed to write one column of this nature once in their lives.” On the assumption that bloggers get the same allowance, here we go…

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I’ve had this post largely worked out in my head for several weeks. It’s been sitting there with half a dozen others, gestating, waiting for me to have the time to sit down and type it out. But if you’ve been monitoring activity on this site over the last few months, you will have surmised that such moments, those quiet half hours to polish off something as relatively trivial as a blog post, are getting harder and harder to find. Only this morning I had to batten down the hatches against the brewing panic of several looming deadlines at work; whilst kids and garden, the occasional foray into the world of leisure activities, and obtaining sufficient sleep all take precedence at home. Of course, I’m not alone in feeling these external pressures, and yet other academics manage to blog with alarming frequency. Which has got me thinking a bit about the why of my blogging, but even more so about the how, and I thought I’d share some conclusions.

Even four years and more into this blogging experiment, ideas are not (yet) the limiting factor I thought they would inevitably become. Certainly I have enough to maintain a much more respectable posting frequency. They hit me from all sides - from reading or conducting new research (perhaps less often than I initially assumed); more often the process of being a working scientist, a person, and a dad. A while back I published a 'placeholder' post (so perhaps I’ve already used up my allowance? Come to think of it, I’m sure I’ve written about blogging before too… Oh well.) with a list of things I planned to write about. Several of those are still to be finished, and many others have formed since.

So ideas come, and fortunately, because the net of my memory has always been pretty fine-meshed, they tend to remain in its cod-end and are usually still there when I finally get around to hauling them on deck for closer examination. As the net ages, though, holes are more frequent, and I decided I need to back up to external memory. For tiddlers, little scraps of ideas, I set up a ‘blog ideas’ project in Things, a task management app from Cultured Code that I use for my general to-dos. Things syncs nicely between devices: I stick a one line memo into my ‘blog ideas’ project on my phone, and there it is on my desktop when I eventually sit down to write.

Then we come to writing itself, and the search for a nice word processing package, the modern version of the search for the perfect stationary, or the perfect desk position, in the writer’s list of procrastination activities. I have settled, for the blog anyway, on Scrivener from Literature & Latte. Scrivener is actually designed for writing big and complex projects, and lends itself very well to scientific papers (allowing nice split views of notes, manuscript sections, figures and analyses). But I’ve used it much less for that than I thought I would. Instead, just as in Things I have a ‘blog ideas’ project with a load of component documents filed under ‘ideas’ (where this is now), which Scrivener lets me view in various ways - I particularly like the corkboard. Then there’s a second set of documents under ‘final versions’ (to where this will move in due course). It works nicely for me, and is a logical way to transfer my ideas from Things to somewhere I can write them up.

Ah, writing them up. That’s where the process slows right down. The trivial explanation for that is I’m busy, and blogging is low priority - it’s important to me, but not as important as other facets of my life and career, and it seldom reaches the levels of urgency that demand immediate action. But, as mentioned above, plenty of academic bloggers, all of them as busy as me, manage to find that hour or two a week to sustain their output. So, whilst busy-ness and other priorities are important, for the main cause of slow output we have to confront the ‘why’ of my blog.

When I started to blog, it was an outlet for the frustrated writer in me; frustrated by having to conform to the norms of formal scientific discourse in most of my writing. I wanted to write differently, and I wanted to write well. Moreover, I wanted to use the blog to experiment, to learn to write better. I still try to keep to these original objectives. I want to write with precision: to use the correct word if I can (something that used to come more easily; now I find myself frequently fishing around at the bottom of that net, feeling the perfect term slip through my fingers…). I want to match tenses and styles, to write with clarity, to eliminate errors; in short, to avoid cliche. And just to throw this in, so it may haunt you too - Martin Amis wrote somewhere that you should never begin two consecutive paragraphs with the same word (three in a row is acceptable, if intentional). I cannot not notice that now, in my own writing and that of others.

Writing, then, is something I take reasonably seriously, something I work at. After writing a post, I put on my editor’s hat, and edit. I try to cut the fluff - ironically this post looks like ending up longer than the 800 or so words I usually aim for. I proof read and try to spot errors and imprecisions (doubtless some will remain in this piece; they always do…) One of the most used apps on my phone is a dictionary - I use a cheap one, Advanced English Dictionary from jDictionary, which has its quirks but is pretty comprehensive. I look up every word whose definition I doubt - and sometimes those I’m sure of, just in case.

I try, then, to publish reasonably polished posts. I’m much less interested in churning out ideas as soon as they occur to me - I use Twitter for that. (Though I do the proofing and dictionary thing there too. Yes, I know…) - although I often read posts of that nature, and find them interesting and useful. And don’t get me wrong, many academic bloggers seem able to write high quality posts with a frequency that I find humbling. I can only suppose they need rather less sleep than I do.

Well, that’s me. As I said at the outset, the ideas keep coming, and every so often one will get processed. In the meantime, thank you for your patience.

On British Values and British Nature

‘Pride’ has always struck me a peculiar and entirely inappropriate way to express your feelings about your homeland. After all, the accident of having been born somewhere is hardly something over which you had either any choice or any control. But for all that, I’m certainly happy enough to call Britain ‘home’; and despite having had the good fortune to visit some wonderful parts of the world, and to work with people from many different countries, I have never seriously considered settling anywhere else. The one - fantastic -  extended period I did spend out of the country, as a student in France, made me realise how many things I do appreciate here. So I take a pretty personal interest in all the talk over the last few weeks about ‘Britishness’, ‘British Values’, and so on. Some of this talk is good natured - possibly triggered by sporting rivalries, although I am not aware of any recent sporting events of note - or well-intentioned commemorations of events from world wars I and II. Some stems, no doubt, from the imminent vote on Scottish independence, and from the rise of ugly nationalism in other parts of the country too. All of it is fanned of course by politicians, such as the minister for education who has his own peculiar views of what British values do, and don’t, imply for the way we teach our kids. Typically, if you’re properly British, the narrative goes, you should know the dates and the exploits of Great Men (and occasional women) from our Glorious Past.

My interest is not, however, particularly in such debates - if you want to read about them simply google “British Values” and take your pick from the 3/4 million hits returned. Rather, it is in something that these debates - and associated phenomena, such as the much ridiculed UK Citizenship Test - omit, but which for me is a key factor that roots me to this place. That is our natural history, in its widest sense - from the seacliffs and grouse moors to the buddleia and valerian cheering up neglected walls (and hungry pollinators) throughout my city right now.

The heros of this British narrative include the likes of Gilbert White and John Clare; key dates include 24th April 1932. But really this is not a narrative of ‘Great Men’ and their deeds. Rather, it embodies a set of values including a sense of curiosity and wonder at the natural world. These are universal, nor British; but understanding a little of the natural history of the nation to which fate has assigned you is as good a link as any to its deeper culture. Once gained, it’s an understanding - I would argue - that has the potential to enrich almost any interaction with the wider world. And what’s more, this ought to be within the reach of everyone, regardless of means.

‘Ought to be’; but is it? Debbie Coldwell, a PhD student with Karl Evans here in Sheffield, has been trying to find out how people interact with green space within urban settings, and in particular whether ‘nature’ has any impact on these interactions. Part of her study involved asking people to identify from photographs a set of twelve common species - birds (nuthatch, starling, linnet, blue tit), mammals (water vole, fox, hedgehog, mole), and plants (dandelion, daisy, wood sorrel, yellow rattle). Of the almost 300 people she has asked to date, no-one has yet identified all 12; the top score remains 10. But while most people (around 2/3) can identify between 4 and 8 species, almost 1 in 6 people could identify none at all.

Fancy, you might think, not knowing what a dandelion is, or a fox or a hedgehog. I just find that terribly sad, because without this basic knowledge of plants and animals you’re missing all of the culture wrapped up in them, documented for example in the Floras and Faunas Brittanica of Richard Mabey and Stefan Buczacki. I’ve written before about the profound effect that British wildlfe has had on my own life. I think I’d go so far as to say that I don’t think you can fully claim to embody ‘British Values’ without scoring pretty high on Debbie’s test.

Becoming a UK Citizen involves a 45 minute test on modern British life based on the book Life in the United Kingdom: A Guide for New Residents. This book promises information on (among other things) the values and principles of the UK, traditions and culture from around the UK, and the events and people that have shaped our history. Our natural history is, you will note, entirely lacking. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to introduce immigrants to our country to a range of the kinds of animals and plants that every child ought to be familiar with?

And shouldn’t it be our responsibility to ensure that every child is indeed familiar with these too?

What students want - or what students need?

You can tell from the contrasting expressions on the faces of academics around the department that it’s exam marking deadline time. The harassed anxiety of those with piles of scripts still on their desks is balanced by the smug relief of we happy few who are done and dusted. For me, then, it’s a time to reflect on my teaching, which has led me to an interesting conclusion. Let me backtrack a little. I’ve been lecturing on our level three course, Conservation Issues and Management, for a few years now. Early on, I took the decision to record and then podcast my lectures (if you’re desperately interested, they’re available here). This seemed a great idea to me - it’s incredibly easy to do (although becoming less so with every update of Keynote and Quicktime…), and (not to be sniffed at) it avoids the need for me to prepare any supporting material for the lectures, apart from the slides themselves.

Moreover, the students seem to love it. Over the years I’ve had some great feedback which - driven as we are by the need to do well in the various student surveys - is a valuable outcome. But, I’ve noticed a trend. More or less whatever exam question I set, a proportion of the essays basically regurgitate my lectures, covering all the same topics in pretty much the same order. Clearly, students are using my podcasts for revision - which is great, it’s what they’re for - but, more than that, they’re memorising them. Which is not so good.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I quite like my lectures - though their content continually changes as my own understanding develops, and as new research is published. But they are not an answer to any exam question I've ever set, and reproducing them by rote will get you a moderate mark at best (assuming you do it accurately). Our marking scheme puts a heavy stress on independent reading - i.e., of stuff that wasn’t covered in the lectures - as well as on maintaining a strict focus on the question, rather than writing every damn thing you know…

All of this ties in with the idea that simply re-reading material is a pretty ineffective way to learn (see for example this paper or this blog post) Real understanding is hard work, and goes beyond memorising. Students themselves need to take some responsibility for this (and of course many of them do), but it has also led me to question whether, in giving students what they want (my podcasts), I’m actually doing them a longer term disservice.

It would be a brave move to stand up in lecture 1 and announce that “no lecture materials will be provided, you’re on your own, and no, you may not record my lectures” and I’m sure that’s not necessary. But I may need to revisit my podcasting strategy. One option is to do shorter podcasts of key points - more work for me, of course, but it’s the route taken by my colleague Tim Birkhead, who was 2013 UK Higher Education Biosciences Teacher of the Year, so knows a bit about all this.

Either way, I probably need to rethink the balance between getting gratifyingly nice feedback on the post module forms, and pushing the students to fulfil their potential in their exams.