Gene Kellogg, The Vital Tradition: The Catholic Novel in a Period of Convergence (Loyola, 1970). Important older survey of the 19th- and 20th-c. Catholic novel tradition in France, England, and the United States. (Amazon [secondhand])
Theodore P. Fraser, The Modern Catholic Novel in Europe (Twayne, 1994). Same topic as above, only with more Europe (Scandinavia and Germany) and less USA. (Amazon [secondhand])
Thomas Woodman, Faithful Fictions: The Catholic Novel in British Literature (Open University Press, 1991). Still same topic, only all Britain and no Europe (or USA). (Amazon [secondhand])
Thanks to an inside source, we have obtained a preview of several upcoming issues of Chronicle Vitae. Below are some of the more exciting topics, guaranteed to speak to the needs and experiences of American academics everywhere.
1. I've just received tenure at Harvard. How can I best recover from my guilt?
2. Multiple fly-outs can mean major indigestion. Here are our five tips for maintaining your exercise regimen on the go.
3. My overwhelming popularity with the undergraduates aggravates my colleagues. Here's how I capitalize on their annoyance.
4. Dear forum: "I demanded more release time to finish my sixth book, and now the dean won't take my calls. What would you do in my place?"
5. Our doctoral program has had no job placements in the past thirty years. But cutting it would destroy the real purpose of a liberal arts education.
6. How one academic negotiated for the mahogany desk with brass hardware that she so richly deserved.
7. The case for mandatory faculty attendance at football games.
8. The case against mandatory faculty attendance at football games.
9. I'm a tenured full professor. The following pedagogical reforms will be really convenient for me.
I've been looking for a vocabulary to better describe how English Victorian Catholic fiction works. It's true, as Brian Sudlow has noted, that there is a "divine entente cordiale" between late 19th-c. French and English Catholic writers when it comes to the topic of secularism, but it's nevertheless still the case that in terms of its form, English Catholic fiction doesn't go down the same routes as its contemporary French counterparts.1 This is in large part because French Catholic Revival writing emerges in a majority-Catholic context (although, from the 1880s onward, one where Catholicism's establishment character is under increasingly harsh pressure), and is thus positioned simultaneously against not-good Catholic writing (however "not good" is to be defined), anti-clerical writing, and secular realism. Hence Malcolm Scott's point that the French Catholic Revival was at first self-consciously anti-realist, because realism (and, later, naturalism) were coded secular; when God appears in 19th-c. French realist fiction, Scott suggests, "we know that the novelist is displaying his conjuring tricks, enjoying his own ironic devices," not making a case for the operations of the divine in the everyday world.2 But English Catholic fiction appears in a literary field in which there is, as it were, no "outside": everything has already been staked out as Protestant territory. Protestants have their own providential narrative forms, their own appropriations of Biblical tropes and language, their own protocols for describing how God works in the world; even when Protestants rule things out of realist bounds, as in the case of mystic visions and miracles, they let them in through the back door via psychologization (see, for example, the dream visions in Alton Locke and Tom Brown's Schooldays), or allow them to run free in the Gothic. (One of the objections to both Scott's The Monastery and The Bride of Lammermoor was that they confused Gothic and realist modes.)
What Victorian Catholic novelists tend to do, then, is unwrite genres: the novel appears to be one thing, then turns inside out and becomes an entirely different kind of text. E. H. Dering, whom I have derided at some length, is nevertheless doing precisely that. He takes the sensation novel and transforms its shocking events (child swapping! murder! bigamy! wills! etc.) into moments at which divine grace becomes momentarily visible when human beings attempt to thwart it. Similarly, to use my favorite example, Laetitia Selwyn Oliver's Father Placid appears to be a Gothic, but when Catholics "read" it, it becomes a miracle tale. After thinking about this for a while, it seemed to me that I needed to look again at Gilles Deleuze's and Felix Guattari's Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, which defines the concept of "minor literature" thusly: "the deterritorialization of language, the connection of an individual to a political immediacy, and the collective assemblage of enunciation."3 That is, minor literature is a "minor practice of a major literature from within" (18), by authors who must write in the dominant language that is at the same time not theirs; is always political, not "individual" (17) in its concerns (or "universal," perhaps?); and not defined by a "literature of masters" (17), singular great authors, but by that "collective" of voices. Now, Deleuze and Guattari phrase this definition in terms of language and style, whereas I'm talking specifically about genre. The Catholic novelist is at ease in the language, but not in the form. But I think that appropriating minor literature in this fashion (which is the sort of thing Deleuze and Guattari approved of, rather than otherwise) is one way into thinking about what makes Victorian Catholic fiction not-Protestant, but also not-French Catholic Revival.
1 Brian Sudlow, "Catholic Realism: Common Ground between French and English Catholic Writings," Chesterton Review 35 3/4 (2009): 575. Sudlow pursues this point at more length in Catholic Literature and Secularisation in France and England, 1880-1914 (Manchester, 2011).
2 Malcolm Scott, The Struggle for the Soul of the French Novel: French Catholic and Realist Novelists, 1850-1970 (Macmillan, 1989), 29.
3 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana Polan (Minnesota, 1986), 18.
J.G. Lockhart, Valerius: A Roman Story (Blackwood, 1821). Three-volume first edition of this historical novel by Sir Walter Scott's son-in-law (best known for his biography of Scott). (eBay)
Emile Zola,The Dream, trans. Michael Glencross (Peter Owen, 2005). Part of the Rougon-Macquart cycle. A young woman in love with a wealthy man finds herself inspired by saints' lives. (Amazon [secondhand])
David Blackbourn, Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Knopf, 1994). Studies the phenomenon of Marian apparitions via reports of events at Marpingen in 1876. (Amazon [secondhand])
Michael Wilks, ed., Prophecy and Eschatology (Blackwell, 1994). Collection of essays on apocalyptics, Biblical commentary, Biblical chronology, etc. (Amazon)
Of the making of Sherlock Holmes pastiches there is no end. As there is clearly a market for mock-Sherlock--mocklock? Let's go with Fauxlock--this is hardly a surprise. But as I've been none-too-subtly complaining in my year-end roundups, the results are frequently formulaic at best, endless repetitions on the same theme and the same tropes. Michael Dibdin's The Last Sherlock Holmes Story proved premature in its titular prediction. Sherlock Holmes pastiches are endlessly citational, forever returning to choice Holmes quotations (the game is so frequently afoot), forever revealing cases long-concealed for the sake of national security, forever complaining about the London fog. Even the mashups have begun to rehash old territory--Sherlock Holmes meets Dracula, Sherlock Holmes meets Jack the Ripper. The recent exceptions to this rule have been either straightforwardly parodic, like Kim Newman's The Hound of the D'Urbervilles, or thoroughly revisionist, like Michael Chabon's The Final Solution and Mitch Cullin's A Slight Trick of the Mind--although I also like Robert Ryan's Dr. Watson series, which marginalizes Holmes and sends Watson off to WWI. What Newman, Chabon, Cullin, and indeed Ryan have in common (in common with Dibdin, for that matter) is that their works acknowledge, whether consistently or in passing, that they carry a heavy burden of readerly Holmesian expectation on their backs--a burden not necessarily lightened by endlessly cobbling together bits and pieces from Doyle's corpus, which begins to look rather like a corpse. (Appropriately enough, it appears that there are multiple self-published Holmes vs. Frankenstein novels out there.) To wax Bloomian (Harold, not Leopold), these authors understand that they're a bit belated; the most interesting Holmes pastiches are often strong misreadings, not zombie reanimations.
Which brings me to Laurie R. King's and Leslie S. Klinger's anthology Echoes of Sherlock Holmes. Refreshingly, this is not a straight-up Holmes anthology, but an anthology of Holmes refracted, updated, alluded to, and otherwise revised. This is not, in other words, Holmes as something out of Walking Dead. Dana Cameron's "Where There Is Honey" features badly-broken versions of Holmes and Watson, both of whom border--indeed, frequently cross the border--on criminal; unlike Dibdin's Watson, an honorable man who turns a monster into a national heroic myth, this Watson recreates himself along with Holmes in his "moral tales" with their "model heroes" (47). The question of Holmes-as-mythos also arises in both John Connolly's "Holmes on the Range" and David Morrell's "The Spiritualist": in Connolly's tale, Doyle's skill has made Holmes and Watson so vivid that they enter into a living afterlife of sorts once Holmes is killed off, leading to complications when Doyle brings him back; in Morrell's more serious tale, Holmes' "ghost" (95) confronts Doyle over the psychology behind Doyle's obsession with spiritualism. In both stories, Doyle-the-author finds himself faced with the paradox that successfully murdering his most famous creation only reveals his total lack of power over Holmes' future. A ghost Holmes of sorts returns in Jonathan Maberry's "The Adventure of the Empty Grave," in which someone who is clearly Holmes visits Watson at Holmes' (empty) grave under the guise of Poe's Dupin, one literary character incarnating himself as another. Watson, hopeless, brings back Holmes to life for himself by rereading his own case notes; that he fails to identify the real Holmes in front of him is appropriate enough, but his inability to see a way out of the situation, with "so much left undone" (307), suggests how Holmes-the-character enables the reader to fantasize about a universe in which all can be set right. This Holmes-function, as it were, returns in Anne Perry's "Raffa," which explores the mythic Holmes from a different angle: an actor playing Holmes finds himself looking for a little girl's kidnapped mother. In succeeding, the actor discovers the secret of Holmes' success--namely, that "Sherlock Holmes would always be [here], because he would be needed" (178). The promise of comfort in the Holmes stories arises again in William Kent Kruger's "The Painted Smile," featuring a small boy, disturbed by his mother's new relationship, who discovers his own agency in identifying entirely with Holmes; faced with a Moriarty, the boy determines to engineer a suitably Holmesian conclusion. (By contrast, Cory Doctorow's "The Adventure of the Extraordinary Rendition" subverts this trope entirely, as Holmes and Watson wind up very much at Mycroft's mercy, with no definite end in sight; similarly, Denise Mina's "Limited Resources," whose narrator is not quite trustworthy, has a Holmes figure for whom detecting is pain rather than pleasure.) Holmes and acting intersect again in Hallie Ephron's "Understudy in Scarlet," in which a middle-aged actress who has been trying to move into directing discovers shenanigans on the set of A Scandal in Bohemia; here, the actress' insights lead her to a post-Holmesian destination, with women openly taking charge instead of surviving via a combination of men and subterfuge. On the same lines, Tony Lee's and Bevis Musson's graphic tale "Mrs. Hudson Investigates" has fun centering the marginal characters and, more seriously, playing with the original tales' gender stereotypes: despite Watson's condescension (complete with patting her on the head near the end!), Mrs. H out-detects all the men and engages in Holmesian fisticuffs, leaving Watson and Lestrade to pursue a hitherto-undisclosed romantic relationship.
Both "Understudy in Scarlet" and "Mrs. Hudson Investigates" further represent this collection's interest in female detective figures. (It's not so interested in thinking about race, with the notable exception of Gary Phillips' "Martin X," set in a politically-corrupt mid-70s New York; its African-American John "Dock" Watson is every bit Holmes' equal.) The Holmes canon is notoriously short on significant female characters of any sort; here, though, they take over operations, usually out-doing the men. Most of the detecting women aren't professional detectives, although the female Holmes of Hank Phillippi Ryan's "The Adventure of the Dancing Women" is a struggling ex-geology teacher turned private investigator. Ryan's citations to the Holmes tales are amusingly ironic, as only Holmes' Watson seems to be familiar with the canon. Catriona McPherson's "The First Mrs. Coulter" is closer to "Mrs. Hudson Investigates" in that its protagonist is an ex-actress just hanging on as a lady's maid, but like "The Painted Smile" and "Raffa," it also suggest how identifying with Holmes is not just comforting, but empowering. Meg Gardiner's "Irregular," starring a female equivalent to Wiggins, both dramatizes how the socially marginalized see more than they let on, and quietly criticizes the canon's cavalier attitude to its street urchins; another female Wiggins appears in Deborah Crombie's "The Case of the Speckled Trout," as a young woman on her gap year learns about attention to detail. Similarly, Tasha Alexander's "Before a Bohemian Scandal," introducing the woman, highlights the system of social and sexual exploitation that leaves Irene Adler struggling to hang on to whatever agency she can find. Holmes is referenced only briefly in Michael Scott's "The Crown Jewel Affair," in which a powerful madam out-investigates the local police force, but like "Irregular," the story develops a canonical trope--that the poor and criminalized classes know and see everything--to its logical conclusion. Overall, a thoughtful return to Holmes.
Friday evening, I discovered that Allan Armadale had made an excellent start on chewing through the router's power cord. Thanks to his fine contribution, I lost all home internet access until this afternoon. My students were strangely unimpressed by this excuse, no doubt because it sounds vaguely reminiscent of the dog eating one's homework; the tech who delivered my new power cord thought it was hilarious, so at least someone was entertained. I wasn't entertained, but then, my views are not paramount in this household.
Now, it occurs to me that my momentarily unwired situation no doubt calls for one of those trendy thinkpieces about how being disconnected enabled me to Find Myself Again and to Experience the True Meaning of Life and to Slow Down and Enjoy the Everyday Pleasures of Living. I will concede that I did do a fair amount of reading and writing, no doubt to the great joy of my editor. But, you know...
...I didn't Find Myself Again, because I wasn't lost;
I'm old enough to think that life doesn't have a True Meaning;
and personally, I would enjoy the Everyday Pleasures of Life more if I had access to a reliable weather report.
Similarly. Much of the apparatus for doing scholarly work is now online. Want to check a reference? Look up something in a database? Reread something in GoogleBooks? Can't do any of that without internet access. My writing would have proceeded more quickly if I could have accessed primary and secondary materials from home. How about grading those student papers that you collected in an electronic dropbox, the better to save the trees? Can't do that without the internet either. (OK, I'm sure many of my academic readers wouldn't be in mourning about that.) What about something basic, like transferring your work from one computer to another via the fluffy cloud? Nope--time to revisit the thumb drive.
Perhaps, come to think of it, I did Find Myself: I found myself wishing that I had internet access so I could continue doing those things I wanted or needed to do.
J. M. Neale, Tales Illustrative of the Apostles' Creed (John Masters, 1862). Example of one subgenre of religious fiction: the short-story sequence designed to break down creed, prayers, etc. into manageable chunks. More about Neale here. (eBay)
As a break from contemplating my participation on what are about to be five committees this semester--I seem to have missed the memo about full professors being able to say "no" to things--I decided to read some Catholic fiction. Louise Imogen Guiney was primarily a poet, and the somewhat awkwardly-titled Lovers' Saint Ruth's: And Three Other Tales (1895) was her only real try at prose fiction, published a few years before she relocated to England. The collection might as well have been subtitled "Three Other Tales of Sacrifice," as all four short stories explicitly address self-sacrifice in its various forms, ranging from the innocent but utterly misguided ("The Provider") to expiatory substitution ("An Event on the River") to sanctified patriotism ("Our Lady of the Union") to well-meaning but problematic (the title story).
"Lovers' Saint Ruth's" and "The Provider" seem to have struck contemporary reviewers as Guiney's most successful attempts, perhaps because both of them imagine how self-sacrifice can run aground. Whereas the tales in the middle see characters abandon themselves fully to a goal that they undertake with no hope of reward--the Union soldier who gives his life for a God-given cause; the wealthy man with a past who gladly pleads guilty to the crime his previously-unknown illegitimate son committed --the first and last tales feature characters who want to sacrifice themselves fully, but misjudge their efforts because they confuse the worldly with the sacred. "Lovers' Saint Ruth's" is, as Alex Murray argues, a tale filled with "gaps and misunderstanding"* in terms of the present narration--an Anglo-Catholic priest, the descendant of the story's seventeenth-century characters, talking to his visiting American friend--but the plot itself is filled with things unspoken. Lord Richard, "almost the only Langham with a conscience" (4), senses some sort of doom for his family; having secretly returned to his family's ancestral Catholic faith (they only have their possessions because a previous Langham apostasized), he woos the beautiful Eleanor, who out of love for him becomes a Catholic. Symbolically, the lovers pledge themselves by the wreck of Saint Ruth's chapel, not by the new Protestant church, an "architectural hodge-podge" (5) whose physical ugliness embodies Protestant degeneracy as much as the ruined chapel embodies Catholicism's tenuous place in early modern England. But before they manage to negotiate both sets of fathers, neither inclined to allow a marriage, Eleanor is abruptly assaulted and raped; the horrified Lord Richard immediately marries her in order to keep her from public shame--deriving less from the rape and more from his bringing her back to his own house, which makes the situation look like a deliberate assignation--and keeps her secret forever, although Eleanor's "reason was shaken" (12). To make matters worse, Eleanor becomes pregnant as a result of the rape, meaning that Lord Richard can only maintain the facade by accepting the child as his own. What follows from this is deeply ambiguous: Eleanor (quite understandably) loathes the child, and both she and Richard conclude that "a curse was upon them, and that they must endure it, and accept the torture of that alien child's presence for some purpose hidden from human eyes" (14). The clerical narrator, though, argues that this position is "mistaken" (14), and the boy's development into a strong, exemplary adolescent is core to the story's great paradox: Ralph, the hated child of violence who dies at thirteen, would nevertheless have been worthier of inheriting the estate than the legitimate son Vivian, who turns out to be an irreligious wastrel. In fact, both of Richard's and Eleanor's legitimate children turn out to be worse than useless, leading to the family's slow moral decay over several generations. Far from becoming a locus of English Catholic authenticity and cultural authority, the Langhams subside into moral nothingness (it's no accident that the narrator's later conversion sees him becoming a monk, ending that line of the family altogether). Ralph, who inherits neither his biological father's criminality nor Richard's no-conscience gene (as it were), can be transformed into a true Catholic gentleman, but cannot maintain the Langham family line; Richard's biological children, deprived early on of both father and mother, lose their faith altogether, but succeed in reproducing. Richard's sacrifice for Eleanor fails, I think, because both he and Eleanor are responsible for transforming Ralph's innocence (announced on his tombstone, when it is too late) into the "curse"; Richard makes the lesser sacrifice (lying to preserve Eleanor's respectability) but neither he nor his wife can make what, on the terms of the collection's two successful sacrifice tales, would be the greater one (loving Ralph). The cult of biological continuity wins the day over the more important promise of spiritual inheritance.
"The Provider," the other failed sacrifice tale, addresses the same cultural anxieties about child suicide as does Thomas Hardy's contemporaneous Jude the Obscure, and for the same reason. Twelve-year-old Hughey is the oldest child in a deeply impoverished Irish family, already marked by multiple deaths; the family's move from pastoral poverty to its darker urban counterpart triggers Hughey's growing self-consciousness about money. There is the "fine monument" to his father, the "enforced luxury" of a sister's funeral, the "costly" nature of his baby brother's chronic illness, and the ever-pressing demand for "rent" (95): domestic sufferings become all the more terrible because they carry a price tag, and each family member turns into potential negative value. By voluntarily leaving school and going out to work, Hughey translates himself, in his own eyes, from the loss to the profit side of the accounting book. But his obsession with money, which leads him to fall prey to a banking con, leads him to tell a "masterly lie" (105) about the amount of money he is making, the better to keep up his investments. His unrepentant sin, no matter how charming it seems in context, signals that his act of sacrifice has gone off the rails. Like Richard and Eleanor, his sacrifice tilts towards the worldly, insofar as his dreams are entirely (and understandably) about rescuing his mother from want; in fact, though, his fantasies about becoming his mother's "deliverer" (107)--an obvious trespass on Christ's territory--interfere with her health and comfort, insofar as he does his best to ensure that nobody else understands the true nature of their situation. Self-sacrifice turns into innocent self-aggrandizement, even though, we are assured near the end, "he had never in his life hugged any thought whose interest centred in himself" (119). His obsession with money-making climaxes in his critical evaluation of the children's value: "Oi've been a-thinkin' wan reason of ut is she has too many childher. 'Tis good little Rosy is with the saints. Childher all eats and wears clothes, and isn't much use" (113). Reducing children's lives to a harsh calculus of consumption without profit, Hughey tips the story straight over into Little Father Time territory--although he ultimately elects to kill only himself, without taking one of his sisters along with him. This sad child's parody of Christ's passion, which Hughey prefaces with "the sign of faith" (122), accomplishes nothing, and his mother dies within a few hours. This makes the story's title all the more bleak, inasmuch as his remaining siblings are now orphaned without a provider. In that sense, the story is on a continuum with "Lovers' Saint Ruth's," but at the opposite end: whereas Eleanor and Richard are psychologically constrained by aristocratic notions of honor, Hughey is equally in thrall to the cruel, all-or-nothing demands of urban poverty, which reduces human beings to sullied cash.
* Alex Murray, "Recusant Poetics: Rereading Catholicism at the Fin-de-Siecle," English Literature in Transition 56.3 (2013): 362.
Robert Pollok, Helen of the Glen (Robert Carter, 1841). Two Covenanter orphans grow up and face various temptations, until the sister (of course) manages to bring her brother back to the right path on her deathbed. (eBay)
Gabriele d'Annunzio, Pleasure, trans. Lara Gochin Raffaelli (Penguin, 2013). New translation of d'Annunzio's 1898 novel, following the decadent adventures of a womanizing Italian aristocrat. (Amazon)
Dominique Fortier, On the Proper Use of Stars, trans. Sheila Fischman (Emblem, 2008). Historical novel about the doomed Franklin expedition, moving back and forth between Sir John Franklin's experiences and his wife's. (Amazon [secondhand])
Diane Hoeveler and Deborah Morse, eds., A Companion to the Brontes (Blackwell, 2016). A...companion to the Brontes, in which I have an essay. (Contributor's copy)
Richard Griffiths, The Reactionary Revolution: The Catholic Revival in French Literature, 1870-1914 (Constable, 1966). Study of the development of a self-consciously elite Catholic literary culture in late nineteenth-century France. (Amazon [secondhand])
Now that I've relinquished my temporarily peripatetic existence (a bit of home renovation necessitating my exit), I'm back to work on my two companion articles--one at the formatting phase (as in, I've been formatting and reformatting it for hours on end), one at the writing phase. This led me to look back at the last time I wrote about literary companions, which, by some coincidence, turns out to have been a decade ago. ("Back in the dawn of blogging time...") It seems to me that there are now even more publishers attempting to muscle in on the companion business, fighting Oxford and, in particular, Cambridge for market share. My completely unsubstantiated hypothesis about the phenomenon of companions, companions everywhere, has something to do with the United Kingdom's Research Excellence Framework: that assessment system's requirements for "outputs" appears to drive the appearance of not only companions (home to many articles), but also edited collections and conference proceedings. (It would be interesting to see a comparative study of UK publishers bringing out conference proceedings vs. North American ones.) That is to say, scholarly genres compatible with producing the required number of outputs (four).
After spending yet more time writing for companions, some other aspects of the form jump out at me:
1) The demand for uniformity. Companions are frequently designed to maximize the resemblances amongst all their essays in terms of method and structure.
2) Restricted citations. I've encountered works cited maximums on more than one occasion, whether directly (e.g., no more than twenty-five or thirty sources) or as a side effect (the works cited page included in the word count maximum). This has begun to trouble me a bit: I appreciate that the guidelines prevent multiplying citations to the point of confusing students, but it also means that, in practice, important works of scholarship may have to be shafted if more than one person has written on the same topic.
3) Who is the audience? The answer to this question remains murky. Astronomical prices mean that most companions will never find their way into anyone's personal library (or even, depending on the university library's funding, into a higher ed library). Cambridge tends to make their books accessible enough, price-wise, for classroom use, but such courtesy cannot be counted on. Moreover, some companions appear to be pitched too "high," scholarship-wise, for students, yet too low for academics. Negotiating the audience problem can be fairly tricky, especially if the topic is on the esoteric side.
The Daughter of Adoption, ed. Michael Scrivener, Yasmin Solomonescu, and Judith Thompson (Broadview, 2013). New edition of Thelwall's 1801 novel set in and after a slave rebellion in Haiti. More about Thelwall here. (Amazon [secondhand])
Sarah Perry, The Essex Serpent (Serpent's Tail, 2016). Neo-Victorian novel set during the fin-de-siecle, featuring the fraught romance between a female naturalist (skeptical) and a clergyman (believer). (eBay)
Jeffrey von Arx, ed., Varieties of Ultramontanism (Catholic University of America, 1998). Collection studying the Ultramontanist policies of various cardinals in both Europe and the USA. (Amazon [secondhand])
It's always useful to know what faculty responsibilities are at different types of institution. This is what I'm doing this semester as a full professor at a small (8000+ students) regional comprehensive in the SUNY system:
1) Teaching: Three classes, two of which are new preps. The two undergraduate courses are both fully enrolled (one is overloaded); the graduate course, which I was thrown into belatedly because the instructor moved over to an interim admin position, is, alas, not fully enrolled, but it's required for graduation and offered only once a year, so it couldn't be cancelled. The grad seminar has messed with my schedule a bit, as it was already populated when I inherited it and therefore couldn't be easily moved from Th evening to a M or W slot.
As part of my teaching load, I hold four office hours per week.
2) Service: Four assignments. Within the department, I'm chair of the Appointments, Promotion, and Tenure committee (1), which means that I also belong to the Executive Commitee (2); in addition, I'm serving my second term in the College Senate (3). As part of my senate position, I'm also on a university subcommittee (4). If prior experience is any indication, the senate subcom will meet just about every week during the Spring semester, but relatively infrequently during the Fall. Senate meets every other week, exec com once per month, and APT in bursts depending on the personnel actions calendar. In the Spring, I normally wind up on one of our very short-lived awards committees for various prizes and scholarships.
3) Scholarship: I'm currently finishing article #2 of the four to which I'm committed this year. Article #1 will return for final proofs sometime next month. Article #3, also in process, currently co-exists with a revise-and-resubmit that I'm, well, revising and resubmitting. (Article #4 is already drafted.) I've agreed to do a longform book review of a monograph out in November, and more capsule reviews for Choice are presumably in the offing. And once all the articles are out of the way, I need to get back to Book 3 1/2.