#english dissertation Help

[philzokman]

ive decided im gonna publish a novel before i leave for uni (like 10ish months) for the pure reason that i think it would be very very very funny

[13oddbeetles]

When your classmates peer review your work and critique your stylistic choices even though your paper is grammatically and academically sound just becuase you dont sound like a stuffy researcher who fills their pages with jargon in order to sound superior

[ID: a person with red eyes on all fours absolutely obliterating a tiny dude by shaking him]

[henry239]

https://www.theassignmenthelpline.com/coursework-writing-services.html

[llyfrenfys]

I have made some Welsh LGBTQ+ Prints!

P'nawn da! Today is the day I'm finally launching my Welsh LGBTQ+ prints for sale (find them here). Like with my dissertation, they're pay as you feel (min. £2 plus postage) and I can post them to the UK, US, EU and Canada! Designs include the 2017 Gilbert Baker flag with the stripe meanings in Welsh and English, the map of Wales featuring my pride redesigns of the historic county flags of Wales, lesbian redesign of the Cardiff flag and a brand new design featuring 12 pride flags with the names of each in Welsh and English. I have 5 of each print in stock!

If you're new here or didn't know, unfortunately I experienced several major life changes this year which have really affected my finances (hospitalisation, long term relationship ended, emergency house move, job loss due to employer discrimination and a family member diagnosed with a terminal illness. For more details see this post). In order to help support myself I'm offering these prints for sale while I search for a new part time job. At the time of writing, I only have enough money in savings to cover 2 more months of rent and bills (not including food), so anything you can spare will help me afford food and keep doing what I love. I also have a patreon if you want to support me there.

I have also got my 47-page undergraduate dissertation on the development of Welsh-language terminology between 1972 and 2022 available here as pay as you feel (even £1!). Any support is hugely, hugely appreciated.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Ma'am R and Aitana ideas I had while trying to work through my dissertation ethics forms:

When they got married, Aitana didn't really think much about the role the royal family plays. She was just so consumed with love for R that it didn't even matter. But she accompanied R to Wimbledon and was just so floored by the way that everyone stood and clapped when they arrived

All the British media suddenly so interested in women's football even more than before because Aitana is still playing and just the heaps of money that are going into coverage of Liga F (no more DAZN!)

R calls Rufus the puppy her and Aitana's son to everyone that will listen. Aitana tells her to stop humanising the dog but then finds herself doing the same

Aitana sitting on the throne with her two Ballon D'ors after R and her got tipsy during a party and did a mini photoshoot in the throne room together. They barely have any memory of the night afterwards but the picture ends up as R's phone wallpaper

Greece is their favourite holiday destination because that's where they got married and they're always going back. The paparazzi keep trying to get pictures but R and Aitana make a game out of running from them

Aitana loves R in her military uniform. After uni, like her brothers, R went into the military but trained as a medic and Aitana loves that the most out of the everything. It really gets her going

R got married in her military uniform as well so Aitana was the one in the dress for their 'official English wedding'. R wasn't meant to turn around until Aitana was at the altar but she couldn't help herself and watched Aitana's slow walk down the aisle. She didn't look away at all

Even though it's not protocol, R insists everyone greets Aitana first at official functions

Rufus attends all official functions as well, usually in Aitana's arms because she's worried that he'll hurt his paw on something and he hates wearing boots to protect them

[charliejaneanders]

Here's a Tumblr post that I can link to that explains all about my novel Lessons in Magic and Disaster, which comes out August 19.

Lessons is about a young trans woman named Jamie, who is a PhD student in English lit. She's also a witch! Jamie has learned how to go into the abandoned places, where people built stuff that's being reclaimed by nature, and cast spells to make her life better. (Plus other people's lives.)

Jamie decides to teach her mother Serena how to do magic.

(Image: Daderot/Wikipedia).

Serena has been living in an old one-room school house in the middle of nowhere for the past several years — ever since her wife died and a bunch of other bad stuff happened.

Jamie thinks that learning about magic will help her mom to feel powerful and start wanting things again. She wants to help bring her mother back to the world. But there's a lot that Jamie doesn't know about what happened to her mom back in the day, and the baggage that Serena still carries.

The novel has a lot of flashbacks to Serena's past as a lesbian activist in the 1990s and 2000s, including protests against the bombing of a lesbian bar, and other actions. And we see how Serena met her wife, Mae, and how they eventually had a child, Jamie. And how Serena and Mae dealt with raising a trans child in the 2000s and 2010s.

This storyline is so full of joy and coziness and family and love — Serena starts out as kind of a feral queer who is just messing around, but then she falls deeply in love and has to grow up in the process of building a family. Serena goes to law school and becomes an attorney, while Mae does a million jobs, including being a pro domme.

I really loved researching a million things about queer people from the 1990s to the 2010s, and it really drove home how much the struggles we're having today are exactly the same as back then.

There's also a third storyline in the book! Jamie, the main character, is writing her dissertation about 18th century literature. Jamie becomes obsessed with a mysterious novel called Emily which was written by an anonymous woman in 1749.

(Emily is a fictional book that I made up, but all the stuff I include in Lessons in Magic and Disaster about how amazing the women authors of the 1730s and 1740s were is true. They were incredible. I was taught in college that Jane Austen was the first great lady novelist, and that was a lie. I found out so much great stuff researching this book.)

Following the trail of Emily eventually leads Jamie to discover hints about a mysterious scandal that happened in the 1730s. And the scandal involved Charlotte Charke — who was a real person, but I made up the scandal in question. Charlotte Charke was an actor who usually performed in men's clothing, and she also lived as a man offstage. When she couldn't get work on the stage, she did men's jobs, and she married a woman who stayed with her for most of her life. (I'm using "she/her" pronouns for Charlotte because that's what she used when she was alive, but she was very clearly transmasc.)

That's Charlotte in the picture above, wearing a totally fabulous pink outfit — she often played a foppish, overdressed man on stage. And pink was a manly color back then.

Anyway, we start to realize that the same struggle for liberation has been going on for CENTURIES. And also that maybe the author of Emily knew something about magic... something that can help Jamie and her mother in the present.

So that's what the book is about. I ended up doing so much research and even writing a ton of passages from a fake 18th century novel, plus tons of letters from the 18th century. And I had a blast writing all the scenes where Jamie tries to teach Serena how to bend the universe a little. There are parts of this book that still make me laugh, and other parts that still make me cry, when I re-read it.

You can read the first two chapters (which form a self-contained story), over at Uncanny Magazine.

If that sounds good to you, you can pre-order it anywhere. If you want a signed/personalized/doodled copy, you can pre-order it from Green Apple Books (they ship all over the USA). If you pre-order it — please do, it really helps so much! — then you should definitely submit your receipt so I can send you some extra goodies in August.

Thank you for reading this whole thing! I'm very excited to share this book with you. <3

[fatehbaz]

hi i love your blog and the stuff you've shared has been really invaluable for me writing my dissertation right now! i was wondering if you've ever read anything interesting about police horses, or perhaps horses working for the state more generally? apologies if you've already made a post about this and i've missed it.

Nice. Don't know if your dissertation is specifically about horse histories; if so, then I'd imagine you already know much more than I do. So I don't know how much help I can be.

I've posted about the history of police horses in Australia before, which is just excerpts from Stephen Gapps and Mina Murray, in their "From colonial cavalry to mounted police: a short history of the Australian police horse" (The Conversation, 28 July 2021; "Horse Patrol" aka "Mounted Police" formally established 1825 after Wiradjuri war, used to round-up escaped laborers and attack Aboriginal communities as crucial force in colonial admin in 1830s culminating in Waterloo Creek Massacre.)

I've made some references to US participation in British campaigns of Boer War. (Apparently there was a micro-industry of the New Orleans port shipping 110,000 horses and 81,000 mules on 166 voyages via 65 British steamships for a cost of like hundreds of thousands USD per month for three years to help Britain.)

Similarly, Steve Hewitt and others write about Canadian mounted police and their role in national power in the Great Plains; twentieth-century counter-subversion; monitoring labor strikes and Indigenous/student dissent, etc.

"The Masculine Mountie: The Royal Canadian Mounted Police as a Male Institution, 1914-1939" (Hewitt, Journal of the Canadian Historical Association, 1996)

Riding to the Rescue: The Transformation of the RCMP in Alberta and Saskatchewan, 1914-1939 (Hewitt, 2006)

"Fashioning farmers: ideology, agricultural knowledge and the Manitoba farm movement, 1890-1925" (Hewitt, Journal of Canadian Studies, 1997)

"Canadianizing the West: The North-West Mounted Police as Agents of the National Policy, 1873-1905" (Mcleod, The Prairie West: Historical Readings, edited by Francis and Palmer, 1992)

---

Guessing you've already considered this, but a relevant thing I've read might be Breeds of Empire: The 'Invention' of the Horse in Southeast Asia and Southern Africa 1500-1950 (Greg Bankoff and Sandra Swart, 2007), about "the 'invention' of specific breeds of horse in the context of imperial design and colonial trade routes" and "the historiographical and methodological problems with writing a more species or horse-centric history." There was an earlier influential paper about imperial use of horses by Swart, ""The World the Horses Made": A South African Case Study of Writing Animals into Social History" (International Review of Social History 55:2, 2010).

Last year I read Bellweather Histories: Animals, Humans, and US Environments in Crisis (edited by Susan Nance and Jennifer Marks, 2023), and there was an interesting chapter on horses by Marks: "Chicago's 1872 Equine Influenza Epizootic and the Evolution of Urban Transit Technology."

---

Have you seen Jagjeet Lally's "Empires and Equines: The Horse in Art and Exchange in South Asia, ca. 1600-1850" (Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 35:1, 2015)? It covers Mughal state power and aristocratic prestige as tied to horses, but also refers to the later utility of horseback mobility in East India Company and British power consolidation.

I used to be in a Central Asia-specific program-type thing and there was a long list of academic writing, most if it not in English, about horses as essential for statecraft in Mongol, Persian, Mughal, Chinese, and Ottoman contexts. So I know that there's a huge amount of writing on the subject, but I did not retain much of it. Jagjeet Lally's bibliography here is helpful. This also brings to mind Alan Mikhail's work The Animal in Ottoman Egypt (2013) and Under Osman's Tree: The Ottoman Empire, Egypt, and Environmental History (2017). Though horses aren't the main focus, they're essentially about "animal labor/capital."

---

I think I've seen that you've interacted with my old posts about Sujit Sivasundaram, Rohan Deb Roy, and Jonathan Saha on "interspecies empire"? Saha's most recent stuff includes writing in:

Biocultural Empire: New Histories of Imperial Lifeworlds (2024); Colonial Dimensions of the Global Wildlife Trade (2024); "A Historiography of Great Animal Massacres" (2024); "whiteness, masculinity, and ambivalent British Justice"; imperial use of elephants and "animal agency, undead capital, and imperial science" (2017); Subverting Empire: Deviance and Disorder in the British Colonial World (2015); imperial use of cattle and other livestock in "animals and the politics of colonial sensitibilites" (2015). Sivasundaram covers a lot of that (animality, criminality, imperial imaginaries) but also oceanic thinking.

---

Also thinking of:

The Horse in the City: Living Machines in the Nineteenth Century (Clay McShane and Joel A. Tarr, 2011)

And The Herds Shot Round the World: Native Breeds and the British Empire, 1800-1900 (Rebecca JH Woods, 2017). Though its not really about horses (mostly about sheep and cattle for dairy/meat).

---

But I know there are little niches:

(1) British frontier policing in Australia ("mounted patrols" in campaigns against Aboriginal peoples and keeping them on rangeland labor sites). (2) British metropolitan and urban settings (police horses in industrializing London, patrolling rural periphery during enclosure law era). (3) The settlement of the Great Plains of the US (especially origins of Rangers, the Fence Wars, and policing West Texas). (4) The Spanish colonization of Mexico and especially the Rio Grande Valley (horses in maintaining state power on the northern/desert frontiers; Spanish/Mexican states and Comanche/Apache mobility in southern Great Plains). (5) Argentina's state-building in the Chaco. (6) And then all of that material about Mughal, Mongol, Ottoman horses.

(Also, most recently, I did that annoying silly satirical retelling of horse-drawn sleighs as progenitor of vehicle and pedestrian laws in industrializing Amsterdam, and it alludes to how horse-drawn carriages were important affordances to wealthy aristocrats which shaped industrial urban space in Europe; I don't know much about it, but I know there's a fair amount of lit about both horses-as-vehicles and mounted police in early nineteenth-century Europe.)

Though I'm not really familiar with most of that. In trying to formulate thoughts about "carceral archipelagoes" and "frontiers," I've previously seen titles about the utility of telegraphs, railyards, and police for US power consolidation. But when horses/cattle get involved, I've been scared/disturbed by just how much of that literature seems to be directly produced by "police department museums," "police science" journals, or former police-superintendents-turned-pseudo-historians in their retirement years who study their own noble profession as a novel curiosity.

But I imagine you know better than me if this is true. So please put me back in my place if I've got the wrong impression!

It's my impression that, more recently, the advent of critical animal studies, multispecies ethnography, and critical geography has meant there's a lot of new stuff to check out.

[its-luna-noel]

fluctuations of the mind | jason todd x reader

02. wilde

summary: working at the local library while you work on your phd thesis seems like the perfect fit. you don't expect it to bring your childhood friend back to you after over a decade. now that you have him back, you refuse to let him go, no matter the challenges you face together.

contents: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, english phd student reader, fluff, angst, smut, drinking & drugs, past abuse, trauma, mental health issues, mental instability, ptsd, depression, suicidal ideation, classic literature, dark academia

word count: 2.4k

chapter 2/? (probably 20ish) prev chapter | next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hello! specific content warning for this chapter: drug use. thanks for reading!

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

~

It’s quiet between you and Jason for a few moments as you both sip at your drinks. You’re keeping your eyes on him, making sure he doesn’t either up and run or just disappear into thin air like he did last time.

You weren’t lying when you said you won’t let him leave again.

“So,” Jason soon asks around his mug, “how’s school going?”

You shrug a little. “Good.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s all I get?”

You huff playfully, your own smile curving your lips. You gaze at him for a moment, examining him. You like seeing him smile. “It’s really nice, actually. I’m starting my research and writing the thesis for my dissertation right now, and I’ll have it approved by my advisor in a few weeks.”

“What are you writing about?”

“Crime and Punishment.”

He hums, eyes lighting up. “Dostoyevsky, huh? What’s your angle?”

“Not a hundred percent sure yet, I’m still looking at sources. Something about the psychology of murder through his writings or something.” Your eyes shift away, suddenly shy.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your foot under the table, “don’t be embarrassed. It’s okay not to know what you’re writing yet. You’ve got time.”

You offer a weak smile. “Anyway, what have you been up to?”

Jason blinks, seeming surprised you asked about him, which is silly because of course you did. You want to know everything about him, want to know what he’s been up to since you were kids.

“I, uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have an…internship.”

You chirp, “Oh, cool! What kind of internship?”

“Uhh,” he says again, and you’re not sure if he’s embarrassed to admit it, “I can’t…really talk about it. Signed, like, an NDA and stuff….”

“Oh.” You deflate a little; you won’t lie, it disappoints you, to have secrets between you. But you understand that, in this, he doesn’t really have a choice. “I get it.”

He nods, seeming relieved. “But I, uh, I’ve been reading a lot. Like, a lot. So whenever you need a friend to talk literature with or bounce ideas off of, let me know.” He smiles again.

You can’t help but smile back. “Sounds great. Maybe we can have a two-person book club.”

He chuckles, sipping at his tea again.

You pick up your own mug and realize it’s empty. You suppose that this is as good a time as any to call it a day and head home; you have class in the morning, and a commitment to get to tonight on your way home.

“Well,” you sigh, glancing at the time, “I think…”

“Time to go?” he asks. He sounds a little disappointed.

You nod, your expression mirroring his. “I have errands to run. But…can I see you again?”

“Of course, bug,” he says. Like it’s not even a question. “Whenever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you tease. Then you gesture to his pocket. “Can I give you my number?”

He nods, digging it out of his pocket before tapping away at the screen. You recite your phone number for him, and you feel bright and content for the first time in a while as he promises to text you.

Before you leave, you wrap him up in a tight hug. “Missed you, Jay,” you whisper, squeezing him.

He squeezes you back. “You too, bug.”

And you turn and walk down the street, humming happily to yourself as you go.

~

Jason knows he shouldn’t follow you.

He knows this, and yet here he is, trailing after you up on rooftops, helmet in place and leather jacket pulled around his shoulders. You left the coffee shop smiling, seeming so happy, just because you got to see him.

“Can I see you again?” you asked hopefully, and all he could do was say “Of course,” because he couldn’t bear to disappoint you.

As he watched you walk away, a pep in your step as you turned to walk home, he groaned and rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. Then he jogged to his car and grabbed his helmet, switching out his winter coat for his leather jacket before following after you.

And now he’s tailing you, watching you walk home, still bundled against the bitter cold of Gotham City winter.

You live in Cherry Hill, you told him when he asked. Made it out of Park Row now that you receive a stipend for grad school along with working your job at the public library.

In all respects, you’re a success story.

So why does Jason feel like there’s something you’re not telling him?

He hops from roof to roof, his footfalls silent as he watches you from above, watches you tuck yourself into your coat and hurry along the sidewalks. You look over your shoulder every few moments, and Jason’s heart aches to think that you haven’t grown out of your Park Row habits of always watching your back wherever you go.

But then he sees someone in a black hoodie emerge, and his body tenses.

The person, a tall, slim figure, heads straight towards you, and Jason’s hand goes to the holster on his hip, quickly freeing the gun. He doesn’t aim it, not yet, but he watches you closely to make sure this stranger doesn’t make any sudden moves.

The figure makes their way over to you, and you lift your face, and Jason can see from this distance that you’re not scared. In fact, you seem to be expecting this person, whoever they are. He squints, trying to see you more closely, to see what the hell you’re doing with a random stranger in the street–

And then two small baggies exchange hands, and it finally dawns on him. You’re making a drug deal.

He rocks back on his heels, stunned. Memories of watching his mother – or, the woman who raised him – do the exact same thing, buy from shady figures in the street and bring substances home to smoke or shoot up in their dingy old apartment in Park Row. He remembers the night when it all became too much and swallowed his mother whole, leaving her dead in that same apartment. Leaving her body for him to find. Leaving him to pick up the pieces.

And you know that.

You know what it was like for him to have to bury her. You know what it was like for him to go through watching her slowly kill herself, slowly drown herself, slowly take herself away from him. You know what it was like for him to turn to crime, because he was desperate, because it was all he had.

You know that, and yet here you are, going down the same path she did.

And Jason finds that he’s angry. He’s furious with you, furious that you would do something like this when you’ve seen the consequences, when you’ve seen what it does to the bystanders. Once again, he’s going to be collateral damage to somebody who only cares about themself, who only wants to numb the pain and doesn’t give a shit who it hurts.

So once the deal is complete, and your hands are tucked into your jacket pockets, hiding the little baggies there, Jason drops down onto the fire escape above you with silent feet. He calls out, voice modulated through his helmet, “You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.”

You just about jump out of your skin.

You whirl around on your heel, searching for the source of the voice, and when your eyes find him, massive and imposing on the fire escape, your eyes narrow.

You’ve never been one for heroes, if that’s how you view him; Jason knows this, just like you know better than to get high and start down a path you can’t help but drag others down.

You gesture towards him, towards the guns on his hips. “What?” you ask, grimacing up at him. “You gonna shoot me for buying some weed?”

Jason can’t hold back a scoff at the idea. There’s that nasty attitude he thought you’d grown out of. “It’s a slippery slope,” is all he says in return.

You scoff, shoving your hands deeper into your pockets, like you’re trying to hide away your sins. “A little weed never killed anybody,” you snap back. “Don’t you have a patrol in Park Row you’re late for?”

Jason’s jaw tightens; so you know of him, the Red Hood. You know his territory, that he’s the vigilante of your old neighborhood, watching out for those who can’t protect themselves. 

He replies, “Maybe weed hasn’t. But what’s in that second baggy of yours?”

Your eyes dart away for just a moment. Just long enough for him to know he’s right.

He grabs the metal banister and leaps over it, dropping to the sidewalk beneath. Then he takes a step forward, then another, until he’s in front of you. No longer dressed in the thick winter coat he was when you went out for coffee and his face fully covered by his helmet, he’s not concerned about you recognizing him.

He puts his large hand in your coat pocket, feeling the heat of your body through the fabric, and grabs the two bags.

One is, indeed, a few grams of bud, already starting to stink through the bag. The second, though, is a white powder, something he’s familiar enough with. He hums, voice low and threatening as he raises his eyes back to yours. “Coke? That your poison of choice?”

You grit your teeth, hands balling into fists, but your voice is calm and even when you speak. “Sometimes. What’s it to you? I didn’t think you were involved in the War on Drugs.”

He scoffs again, tossing the baggies onto the sidewalk. They sink into the thin dusting of snow that covers the concrete. “Hey, if that’s what you’re into, far be it from me to judge. But maybe you should use that brain of yours before you end up in deeper shit, with track marks up and down your arms.”

You scowl at his words, but stand firmly planted in place. He has to hand it to you; you’re stubborn enough to keep your eyes on him, even while your precious drugs lay there on the ground.

He takes a step back, eyes on you. You still don’t move. Maybe you’re not as desperate for a fix as he thought. “What’s even the point?” he wonders aloud.

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t know what it’s like,” you say, “to need to escape. Clearly you don’t, or you wouldn’t be asking me that question.”

Jason glares at you through his mask; what do you know about needing to escape, compared to him? Sure, you grew up in Park Row, and you saw some shit, surely. But nothing you could go through could match what he has.

He thinks about how he buries himself in his work, in his violence. How he lets himself get hurt just for the pain, just for the subsequent mental numbness it brings.

Surely you have to know that someone like him, a monstrosity like him, has to numb the pain, too.

And so he takes another step back, shaking his head, like you’re a lost cause, because maybe you are. Maybe you’re not the little bug he used to know anymore; maybe the two of you have irrevocably changed and will never be able to meld back together like you once did. Like Dorian Gray, maybe you were hiding hedonistic acts behind a pretty face.

Not that he’s not hiding his own secrets and violence under the helmet.

“Make sure you know your sources,” is all he says next – he doesn’t let a single thought slip otherwise. “Don’t want to find a body littering Cherry Hill one day.”

And with that he’s gone.

You’re breathing heavy, shoulders heaving as you stare after his shadow disappearing into the early night that plagues the winter in Gotham. Your hands are shaking, though you’re not sure if it’s anger or fear or whatever else you’re feeling in this complicated tangle in your mind.

You crouch down and pick up your two baggies from where they lie on the ground, now covered in snow. You shake them off and wipe them on your coat before stuffing them back in your pocket, grumbling wordlessly to yourself as you turn and stomp your way towards your apartment.

You triple check the door is locked behind you. Old habits die hard.

Then, once you’re safely in your apartment, in your quiet environment away from the grunge of Gotham City – and away from the opinions of its overzealous inhabitants – you sink down onto the couch and toss your drugs onto the coffee table.

You sit and stare at them for a long moment, thinking.

Then you reach down and grab your swishers, and you start rolling.

It’s a mindless task, almost second nature now, with how often you’ve done it. It allows your mind to wander, to think about your day, your interaction with Jason and how much it meant to you.

How much you’ve missed him.

But it also brings back bad memories, memories of Park Row, of what he left behind when he disappeared. Memories of darkness swallowing you whole until you weren’t even sure you were human anymore.

And sometimes, maybe those thoughts continue to stick.

So once your first joint is tightly rolled, you light it up, resting it in your ashtray as you roll the rest for next time. Allowing yourself to sink into the false peace that the drugs start to pull you into, the temporary reprieve from the memories, the anxieties, the low thoughts that threaten to pull you under.

That’s something that Red Hood surely will never understand.

And then you think of Jason, and what he might think, if only he knew. Now, instead of just drowning out your memories, you’re drowning out your guilt, too.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next

(taglist: @corpsedogs, @lulawantmula)

[silverquillsideas]

Hello! My friend is doing her masters research on BL fandom experience in India. It would be a great help if you could spare a few minutes to fill out this survey below!! ❤️

Please reblog and share!! ✨

[delightfullyquirkydoodles]

Okay, buckle up, friends and neighbours, because it's time for:

THE DOOPLISS DISSERTATION

(Obviously, you should take all of this with a HUGE chunk of salt, since I'm not only an internet-poisoned fandom blogger, but also a former English major with a penchant for over-reading.

Still, I spent a long time writing this, so I'd appreciate it if you gave it a read.)

So before we talk about Doopliss himself, I feel like we should talk about Creepy Steeple, since a lot of the topics I'm going to be touching on relate to the actual building.

Neither the original Gamecube version nor the Switch remake really bothers to explain what Creepy Steeple actually is.

None of Goombella's tattles say anything about the building's intended purpose. The name vaguely implies that it's a church of some kind -- in Japanese, it's called Odoron Jiin, or "Astonishing Temple" -- but that's still not very helpful.

Still, for the purposes of this analysis, I'm going to assume that it's meant to be a church.

This brings me to the Steeple's stained glass window, which shows a scary-looking Doopliss standing over some piranha plants.

From a design standpoint, I'm guessing that this detail was added to give the location a spooky vibe, but from an in-universe perspective, the implications are wild.

Like, who designed this? How long ago? And why? What the heck is it supposed to represent?

Unsurprisingly, the game offers no real answers, but I have a couple of theories.

The first is that the people of Twilight Town (or their ancestors, or something) created the window in Doopliss's honor.

Stained glass windows often depict saints or angels, so maybe the Twilighters used to worship him? Like, maybe Creepy Steeple was once dedicated to him and then, for whatever reason, the worshippers decided to leave?

It's not super likely, but I didn't want to rule out any possibilities. This is a weird freaking temple. Literally anything is possible, as far as I'm concerned.

My second theory is that Doopliss designed the window himself. He seems like a guy with a lot of spare time, so it's not too much of a stretch to say that he came up with the idea and then spent weeks building it by hand.

He could have also bullied the Boos into constructing it for him. I dunno. I just have this mental image of him pulling pranks on them and generally being a nuisance until they caved.

The bottom line is someone wanted to Doopliss's face to be front and center. And if that someone is Doopliss himself, then hoo boy, there is a lot to unpack here.

Maybe I'm projecting, but it feels like Doopliss is wrestling with some major self-esteem issues.

Despite being an incredibly powerful shapeshifter who somehow cursed an entire town, he seems very childish. He spends all his time watching TV and coming up with new jokes. He throws tantrums when he loses. He wears a party hat, of all things.

Based on that, I'd say that he's probably starved for attention. He's probably pretty lonely living in Creepy Steeple all by himself (doubly so if my theory about the Twilighters is correct).

I'd even go so far as to say that his scheme to turn the Twilighters into pigs is motivated by this need for attention. I mean, what better way to get people to notice you than to cause a town-wide panic?

I feel like the disguises he uses over the course of the main story also support this theory.

Though Mario, Zip Toad and Professor Frankly are quite different from one another, they all have one important thing in common: they're famous. Mario's a world-renowned adventurer, Zip Toad is a well-known actor and Frankly is a tenured professor whose students love him.

Doopliss even alludes to this after stealing Mario's body, telling him, "You're so popular around here! I just love being you!"

By transforming into beloved figures, Doopliss can get the attention he craves.

I also think that this is why he joined the Shadow Sirens. Sure, Beldam abuses him almost as badly as she abused Vivian, but at least she notices him. That's better than nothing.

The most conclusive piece of textual evidence is found in the epilogue. In her letter to Mario, Goombella explains that Doopliss has joined Flurrie on-stage in her production of "Paper Mario".

Obviously his shapeshifting abilities make the play a lot more realistic, but why would he bother participating in it at all? This guy was a villain for most of the game. Why would he suddenly decide to join up with one of his enemies?

Because, as far as I can tell, he's not a villain. Just a guy who's sick of being ignored.

I dunno. Doopliss's motivations have never been super clear, but I feel like there's more to him than meets the eye.

If you have any thoughts or ideas of your own, feel free to comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.

[crsssie]

and on and on, yeah we got the time

Word count: 1.2k || pt2 of on and on, || art creds: 30backyard (lofter)

summary: dorming is hell, so your boyfriend fixes that obv

"You know, Jay." You raise a brow as he does all of the heavy lifting, sliding your mattress on the ground into your shared bedroom in the new apartment. 

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Oh, god. Did you learn that while reading on ao3 again? Jesus." You grumble. "What I was going to say, though, was that you really... you probably could have called a moving company."

"Listen, lovely." He points. "You have me."

"Yeah, yeah." You sigh. "I love you too, Jay."

"Good, cuz I've seen how many weird fratboys make eyes at you on the daily, and I honestly think some of them need to get beat."

"Not like you couldn't beat them." You pat his shoulder. "Is that it?"

"Should be." He hums. "How do you like our place?"

"Can't wait to have all of my annoying ass textbooks slotted in the bookshelves that you decided were necessary while telling Bruce to remodel."

"Can't wait to have your dissertation plastered on the walls."

"Oh..." You mumble. "Our degrees... You plan on living here forever?"

"Just a little, maybe."

"Could we just throw the mattress off the balcony next time?"

"I mean, I'm not saying no..."

You find that Jason's still the biggest book nerd in college. His 4.0 is daunting compared to yours despite being in the same school as you, and it's just a little... terrifying. At the very least, all of his professors adore him. You find that it's at the very least — helpful. It's great that Jason's adored by your shared professors because when Jason accidentally lets slip that you're his girlfriend, it gives you a boost. You don't know how, but you end up relaying messages to Jason through your professors occasionally. You wonder just what kind of tactics Jason's employing to get on their good side an ungodly amount, but it's not your problem. Jason has the face card and the personality for it.

At the very least, when it comes to you, he does.

"Prof wants to see you at office hours." He hums. "English 102."

"Jesus, what did I do now?" You grimace.

"Probably that shitty essay you bullshitted."

"God." You mumble. "I truly need to get on your level."

"Thank you, sweetheart." He hums. "The art of knowing does not come easy."

"Yeah, yeah." You grumble. "We should get back to a book a week. Sorry, I mean I should get back to a book a week."

"You can start by catching up with me."

"M..." You pause. "How about... no."

"Well, your choice." Jason hums. "We're mid semester—"

"WHICH IS ANOTHER THING. WHY DID WE MOVE MID-SEMESTER??" You snap your head to look at him, annoyed. "Jay, baby."

"I know." He pouts. "But you hated that dorm too."

"Yeah, but now I have to change all of my mailing addresses. Again." You mumble. "I hate doing that. I don't know how many accounts I even have."

"At least you got all of your packages."

"I guess..." You sigh. "Well, at the very least... we own this place."

"We own the building."

"WHAT." 

"Correction. B bought the building and transferred ownership to me. I own the building."

"Oh my god." You mumble. "You truly are learning from the worst..."

"Worst being you?"

"Yes. Duh. How many times have I called B for a hundred dollars because I couldn't afford matcha?"

Jason holds back a laugh, closing his eyes as his brows furrow. "Matcha does not—"

"No, but B can spare it." You hum. "Don't worry. I pay him back with the abundance of gifts I bring with each travel."

"Which is on B's account." Jason pauses. "You know what? Yeah. Whatever. Eat the rich. I didn't steal his tires and strike gold for me to be telling you to go easy on his bank account."

You give him a thumbs up. "Well, I make my own as well. It's nice to not need to worry about tuition... but it's also a pain in the ass to not be able to make money here."

"At least you have a legal ssn and everything."

"Not."

"Not ssn. Sorry." He snorts. "Well, better than the goons in Gotham, I'm sure."

"Definitely." You hum.

Jason tunes out your rambling as he glances around the room. The couch would arrive soon, and the rest of the furniture (including the 4K HD TV that you deemed necessary in order to, and he quotes, "see men in 4k" on) would arrive soon. He wonders just what he would be doing had he not met you. 

Would his life have ended when he nearly lost his life? Would he have gone to find his mother had you not clung onto him and threatened suicide? Even then, you were insane. He glances back at you as you tilt your head at him, expecting an answer.

"Sorry, babe. Spaced out."

"I was asking if you wanted takeout for dinner."

"Maybe?" Jason pauses. "Sure. You wanna order?"

"There's a place downstairs that I wanted to go to." You hum. "Right out there."

"Hope that pizza is just as good as the one that Dick won't shut up about." Jason mumbles.

"You recon I could ask them if they take school dining dollars?"

"They don't."

"Wouldn't hurt to ask." You grin. 

"I'm not asking for you." He deadpans. "I'll search it on reddit for you, though."

"Mm... that works." You hum. "So... wanna tell me what was on that exam you took?"

"No."

"No?? Not even a clue??" You gasp, pretending to be hurt.

"You'll be fine."

"That 88 I got on my first exam begs to differ."

"You're my smart girl." He hums.

You grimace at him.

"Alright, alright. But you're paying for dinner."

"Bruce is, but yeah." You click on your phone, handing him the menu as you get cozy on the couch. 

Jason settles into a day to day with you, fingers interlaced with yours, placing grapes in your mouth as you rest, sigh breaking through your chest as you rest the book over your eyes.

"Tired?"

"Very." You hum. "How was your final?"

"I finished." He pulls another grape, pressing it to your lips as you part them to eat. "You're getting real lazy, sweetheart, you know that?"

"Yeah." You hum. "But you love me."

Jason pretends to think about it, tapping his chin as he puts the bowl down. "I don't know..."

"You're hand feeding me grapes and you're telling me you don't know if you love me?" You move the book from your eyes, raising a brow at him as you shuffle and lean on your elbows.. "Jason, beloved. If you tell me you don't know one more time I'm sending you straight to hell."

"By killing me?"

"Jay, baby?"

"Yes?"

"No." 

He reaches for the bowl again, breaking another grape off to give you.

"But you love me."

"Yeah, yeah." You sigh, taking the grape as Jason presses his lips to yours, giving you a quick kiss. You make a noise in protest.

"I love you more than words could express, sweetheart." He takes the last grape, slipping it past his own lips as you throw your head into the arm of the couch and groan.

"You cheeseball."

"Says the one who asked me out."

"I didn't even ask you out all that cheesily." 

"Yeah, but you asked me out."

"And you accepted it." You point. "Loser."

"Yeah, your loser."

"My loser." You sigh. 

[haleghest]

Hi!

I'm an undergraduate student writing a dissertation about the relation between autism, autism representation and the Star Trek fandom. I would appreciate if you could fill out my questionnaire.

I appreciate any help I can get, feel free to share it with others!

Wersja polska (Polish version): https://forms.gle/Kw2JgEVuFXQGUAF69

English version: https://forms.gle/cuFAy21fDPcU4nZ98

EDIT: the questionnaire is now closed!

[keeksandgigz]

Chapter 1: Les Usurpateurs

Part 1 of Words are Futile Devices- A Steddie x Reader Call Me By Your Name AU

Somewhere in Northern Italy, 1983

cw: ~3k words, no smut (yet), EVERYONE IS OF AGE!!!, a lot of unnecessary description for the vibes, reader is a bit of a cunt

notes: I'm back (I think)

Despite the lack of smut in this chapter, this and all my works are 18+ minors do NOT interact

There was something of a quiet intimacy in hearing the summer sparrows in the morning. Nothing but the gentle hum and chirp buried in the ripe peach trees. Thus marking the beginning of your yearly summer stay in Italy, of doing nothing but lounge around and savor the crickets at night, lying down on the couch of the villa your mother had inherited from her great grandparents. 

What you liked about your summers in Italy was that time seemed to go slower, at your leisure, spending it between the lake with your friends, the town just a short bike ride away or staying home buried in the pile of books you had brought over just to keep in your room, a bit overgrown, but unable to make it “too yours” because of the guests you’d have to concede your room to a mere four weeks after your arrival at the villa. 

Every summer, your father would host literature and art history students at the villa, aspiring professors, authors, archeologists, to help with their dissertations. They’d come with their american ways, obnoxiously disturbing the peace that you had created for yourself in the idyllic world you’d surrounded yourself into. Like that was a different astral plane you’d projected into, with the same friends as always, the same views, the same places to go. A different guest you’d have to surrender your room to for ten weeks, while you were banished to the communicating room, divided only by a shared bathroom. A small twin bed, an old desk and chair, a big enough window to let a good amount of light in, so you don’t suffocate and turn into a vampire. You despised that room. 

They always arrived on the first day of July, when the weather seemed to turn from needing a light pair of jeans in the evening  to clothes being unbearable. If you were in your room you’d limit yourself to a long enough shirt to keep you decent for the ghosts in the villa. There were no ghosts, but Giovanna, the housekeeper, would pop in from time to time to drop off your clothes– washed, ironed and folded. They smelled like citrus. 

You were reading The Count of Monte Cristo when the guest arrived. The rippling sounds of the gravel under the heavy tires of the car sounding like an alarm. You placed your book face down on the page you had been reading and ran to the window. Curious to see what the tide had brought this year. Maybe someone whose English wasn’t very good. Or some lunatic who could only stay inside because of his pollen allergy. You wondered what they would have looked like. Tall? Ugly? Obnoxious in the sense where you could hear them play shuffle and slam and bang doors and cabinets and drawers in the morning when getting ready? 

The car came to a stop in front of the door, right under the window of your room. The driver’s door opened, Giuseppe, the groundskeeper of the villa went around to open the trunk. Your heart thumped as you saw the passenger door open. It was a man. He was wearing a pair of white linen shorts, a blue flouncy short sleeve button- up shirt and gold- rimmed glasses. He pushed them up as he placed two hands on his hips, quickly removing one in favor of running his hands through his hair, styled and coiffed like he had not just come off an eight- hour flight. 

“You must be…” You’d heard your father say, placing a finger on his bearded chin, the name of the boy must have slipped him. 

“Steve. Piacere” the boy said, in an Americanized Italian, sounding like he had a hot potato in his mouth. 

“Ah! Steve, Benvenuto” your father said, bidding his welcome and shaking the boy’s hand. Your mother extended a delicate hand as well, introducing herself with a bright smile. At the same time, the opposite passenger door opened. Another boy. 

This one had long, frizzy hair. His face was framed by the bangs that stuck on his forehead. He was wearing a black t- shirt of a band you’d never heard of before tucked inside a pair of cutoff denim shorts held up by a belt, a chain clinking at the boy’s side as he stepped off the car. He wouldn’t let Giuseppe take his bags, insisting he could have done it himself. 

Your father followed the boy with his eyes as he carried what appeared to be a duffel bag and a beat up suitcase towards your father. 

“And this must be Eddie, then” your father said, as Eddie released his suitcase to shake your father’s hand. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” the boy said, and from this new angle you could see that he sported three chunky rings on his left hand and a chain necklace around his neck. Your father saw you peeking out the window and motioned for you to come down. 

“Shall we go inside? Show you around before dinner?” He motioned towards the boys as Eddie picked his stuff up once again and followed inside. You rolled your eyes. That was your cue to put on some pants and come downstairs. 

Your father’s office was just on the right at the bottom of the stairs, as you hopped down the marble steps. You heard chatter. 

“Oh there she is” you heard your father announce as you leaned against the doorframe of his office. You tended to dislike his theatrics “Boys, this is my daughter” the two guests turned around, reaching their hands to squeeze yours, as you firmly told them your name. 

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he said, fixing his glasses with his other hand. He was soft, but his handshake was firm. Hands bigger than yours. 

“You’re the archeology and history nerd” you quipped, a slight curl of your mouth followed it. 

Steve didn’t seem to like the name, as he let go of your hand, mouth in a straight line. Embarrassed. Put off. You needed them to know that they weren’t welcome here. 

“Hey, what’s up I’m Eddie” the other guy said. His hand was much more rougher and calloused than Steve’s, likely a guitarist. 

“You’re the soon to be failed author?” you tilted your head at him,

 you tilted your head at him, you heard your mother gasp, the indignation dripping from her mouth as she said your name. Eddie chuckled, a bit taken aback, but amused. 

“How do you like daddy’s money, hm?” It was your turn to be indignant. You heard your father snicker behind the boy, followed by Steve. Your hand brusquely retracted from Eddie’s, as your mother poured springs of apologies on your behalf. 

“She’s not like this, usually,” your mother said. Which was a lie. You were always like this. Rude, witty, sour. 

You heard the disappointment in your dad’s tone “Go show them their room” he said, an intimation for you to leave. 

“Make yourselves at home,” he said, before you guided them back upstairs. 

Eddie huffed up the stairs. You didn’t offer to take his bags, as he seemed to not need nor want any help. 

You opened the large pinewood door. 

“You guys are gonna sleep in here. This is my room, but it’s gonna be yours for the rest of your stay. I’m gonna be in the next room over. Unfortunately we’ll have to share a bathroom” You could see sleep calling to them, as their eyes opened and closed slowly at the sight of a made bed. 

Eddie dropped his bags and thumped on the bed, sleep immediately overtaking him. 

“You have to excuse him, this is the first time he’s traveled outside of the States,” Steve said, sitting on the bed, leaning to take his shoes off. 

“Nervous or what?” you asked, examining your bookcase in case you wanted to steal a book to take to your room. 

“Just not as lucky as many” Steve shrugged, laying himself down on the mattress “this is his big shot. If your dad likes his stuff it’s all uphill from here” Steve groans, voice full of sleep “thanks for lending us your room, let us know when dinner is.”

And that was that. The boy fell into the arms of slumber.  

And when Giovanna rang the bell to announce dinnertime, once again you peeled yourself away from The Count of Monte Cristo. You wondered if they were still sleeping. 

You wandered into the bathroom and towards the door as you shot a quick look at the two sleeping bodies on the bed. Eddie was snoring. You were unsure if you should have woken them up. 

You toyed with the bathroom door, swinging it between your hands. A grin decorated your face as you decided to slam it. Steve jumped awake, annoyed and scared. 

“Dinner’s ready” you muttered, reaching for the handle of the door. 

“I’ll pass, thanks” Steve said, shaking Eddie from his almost comatose state. The boy mumbled a semi- discernible “huh?” 

“Dinner, Ed. ‘m not going, but you can feel free to” Steve said to the other, but he just turned around and sleepily muttered an “‘mgood, thanks.”

“He’s good. We’ll apologize to your mother in the morning” Steve said, laying back down, ignoring you completely. 

Where’s my apology? 

You were thankful for the lack of guests at dinner. That way you were able to silently eat and then slither back into your room. Back into your book. Lulled by the crickets, and the whisper of the trees in the weak evening breeze. You ended up falling asleep. 

In the morning, Steve was already outside having breakfast with your parents. He looked like he had showered, but you didn’t recall the faint sound of the water running. He was wearing another pair of shorts, another flouncy shirt. Fumbling with a slice of toast, buttered with jam as he talked to your father about the morning paper. 

“This is gorgeous by the way” Steve admitted, looking around “your orchard?” he looked at your mother, who was smiling proudly at the compliment. 

“We grow a lot of fruit here, Giovanna makes apricot juice fresh every day” she smiled, biting into a slice of bread.

“You had a lot to say yesterday, now you’re a quiet little mouse?” your father teased, elbowing you lightly as you rolled your eyes. 

“It’s okay, she apologized” Steve said, an assuring look in his eyes “she didn’t mean that stuff. She told me, it’s just her welcome wagon” he chuckled, and you felt yourself grow red. Why would he save you like that?

Eddie popped out from the door, hair in a bun, changed out of his shirt in favor for a new one. 

“You should show them around some time, dear. Take them into town, maybe at the lake, I hope your father is not gonna keep them cooped up in his office for ten weeks” your mother giggled. 

“Yeah, no we’d love that. Maybe I’ll get some inspiration for the book” Eddie sat down at the breakfast table, between you and Steve as he fumbled with a soft boiled egg Giovanna had to crack open for him. Embarrassment was veiled on his face. 

You looked at his ringed hands, fumble with the small spoon. Did it always look so small? 

“We’re not gonna start until the beginning of the week, but I might ask you to go get some supplies into town today and take these two with you. Eddie’s gonna need some nice paper for his typewriter, won’t you?” your father gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder, at which he smiled. 

“Have another egg” your mother encouraged the boys. Eddie dug into the pot again, getting more confident with the way he spread the runny yolk on a slice of toast. Some of the runny egg dripped in between his fingers.

Just not as lucky as many.

Steve passed. “I know myself too well, if I have a second, I’ll just have a third and a fourth and a fifth and then I’m just gonna have to get rolled outta here” he joked. I know myself. Self- assured, cocky. You wondered what it felt like to really know yourself, to have everything figured out like he did. 

You lent Steve Giuseppe’s old bike, Eddie got an old one of yours, the squeaky rusted tires alerting the two strangers’ presence. You were afraid you would have been pressured into giving one of them your own bike, seeing as you had already surrendered all of your possessions to them. 

It was a pleasant day. Not too incredibly hot to be embarrassed if the two boys were to see you, face riddled with uncomfortable beads of sweat, breath heaving irregularly from the dry air of July. Instead, a nice breeze came through the mountains, as you debated on going for a swim later in the day. 

That’s what you liked about your summers there. A swimsuit was always the wardrobe of choice under your summer clothes, the freedom to subsist in a plane of existence where your obligations began and ended within the span of a few miles of green grass and honeysuckle flowers. 

The two boys followed you down the graveled road into town, which seemed to be deserted, families abandoning their houses in favor of driving to the beach for the weekend. 

You asked them if they wanted to get a coffee, as you dismounted your bikes and parked them in front of a coffee place. 

You sat outside as you sipped from your espresso cups. 

“So” Steve broke the silence “What does one do around here?” you put down your book, the device you so desperately tried to ignore them with, trying to drown them out. 

“Wait for the summer to end” you mumbled carelessly, going back to the words on the page.

“Ok and then in the winter you wait for the summer to start?” Eddie snickered. 

“Seriously though, what do you do here the whole summer?” Steve interrupted, taking you away from your book again, as you tossed it on the table. 

“I read, mostly. Play music, swim at the lake, go out” you huffed out annoyedly, reaching for the book. Eddie preceded you.

“Kafka? What happened to Monte Cristo?” he flicked through the yellowed pages.

“I finished it. How’d you know I was reading that?” you snatched the book back from his hands. 

“It was on your bed before I slammed onto it. You should read something a bit more substantial,” he said “Kafka isn’t gonna teach you shit, why don’t you read Dorian Grey instead?” it annoyed you how patronizing his tone was. 

“I read that last year, thanks for the help” you retorted, taking the book back from him with a roll of your eyes. 

“Your dad seemed to make it abundantly clear that you need to be nice to us” Steve intervened, whining like a petulant child. 

“Or what? You’ll snitch on me?” you snapped, the two boys looking at each other. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” your nose curled at the nickname, “we’re not your enemies or whatever you think you’ve made us out to be. We really don’t want to be a nuisance to you” nothing about what he said seemed sincere. You rolled your eyes in response.

“Well,” Steve stood up from the metal chair with a violent noise, Eddie following suit “we’ll see you later,” as the both of them mounted their bikes and left. The creaking noises of the rusty old bikes followed in their pedaling. 

They finally got the hint. 

You spent the rest of your day at the lake, not really in a mood to interact with Chiara or Alessandro, two of your longtime friends. Instead, you made the slushing of the water current your friend, staring at the words on the page. Meaningless words. Kafka didn’t seem so enticing after all. 

When you got home it went back on the dusty shelf. Your hand lingered on the spine of Dorian Grey for a moment. The cover was brown and worn, it was your mother’s before it became yours, your heart picked up at the words on the spine, gold lettering. You thought about what Eddie had said earlier. 

You picked up Heart of Darkness instead. 

Read Part 2 Here

tagging: @littlexdeaths, @xxbimbobunnyxx, @aphrogeneias, @rowanswriting, @stveharringtn, @impmunson, @strangerstilinski, @lavendermunson, @rebelfell, @bimbobaggins69, @cryingglightningg, @thornsnvultures, @jamdoughnutmagician, @take-everything-you-can, @eddiesxangel, @ali-r3n, @emxxblog, @corrodedcoffincumslut, @str4ngergirlw0rld, @yujyujj, @gregre369, @subconsciouscollapse, @aol19, @cooljadejacksonthings, @maeneedsabreak, @eddiesguitarskills, @freak-of-hawkins, @eddiesghxst

[trracstudy]

Participate in a Research Study about Adolescent Mental Health (15-18, Enter for a $25 gift card)

Hi there! I'm a clinical psychology doctoral student based out of Fordham University’s Mood & Behaviors Lab! In collaboration with folks at the University of Maine's Clinical Child and Adolescent Psychology Lab, I'm conducting my dissertation study on risk & resilience related to mental health in adolescents who live in different areas of the USA.

In order to participate in this study you must: Be 15-18 years old, be comfortable reading and speaking English, and live in the United States. We are particularly in need of rural participants!

If you are interested in participating in the study, please click on the link below. Participants who complete the study will be entered into a raffle to win one of 20, $25 Amazon gift cards.

Your participation is completely voluntary, and you can end the study at any time. All data collected in this study is confidential. Your parents do not need to be involved in your participation in this study. This study is approved by the Fordham University Institutional Review Board. We hope that this research helps us better understand online experiences for adolescents across the United States. Please reach out to us at trracstudy@gmail.com with any questions.

[superlinguo]

In praise of niche papers

Mark Dingemanse's blog post "In praise of niche papers" is a lovely way to share academic influences. It got me thinking about some of my favourite papers that I love and cite, and which I'm always surprised to see aren't as highly cited as some other work by these authors. So, to follow Mark's lead, here are two niche papers that are very close to my heart:

Kendon, Adam. (1978). ‘Differential perceptual and attentional frame in face-to-face interaction: two problems for investigation’, Semiotica, 24/3/4: 305–15.

Adam Kendon's contribution to the Gesture Studies literature spans four decades and many of his research papers are foundational texts across a range of topics. This is one of Kendon's least cited works. It's also one of the earliest experiments on gesture perception I've come across. Kendon used a film projector and played a speech by a speaker of Enga in Papua New Guinea to a group of English speakers, looking at what people attend to in gestures. It was the model we used for Gawne and Kelly (2014) (discussed below).

Hostetter, Autumn B., Martha W. Alibali, and Sheree M. Schrager. (2011). ‘If you don’t already know, I’m certainly not going to show you!: Motivation to communicate affects gesture production’. G. Stam and M. Ishino (eds), Integrating Gestures, pp. 61–74. John Benjamins.

I love this experiment so much: people gesture the same amount if they're doing an activity helping or competing with someone, but the size and usefulness of the gestures are different. If you're competing against someone your gestures are smaller and less informative. People, so sneaky. I absolutely made sure to get a reference to this into Gesture: A Slim Guide.

Mark suggested in his post that people share niche papers from their own research. Here are two of my favourite papers of mine that aren't cited that much, but made me very happy to have out in the world:

Gawne, Lauren, and Barbara F. Kelly. (2014). Revisiting “Significant Action” and gesture classification. Australian Journal of Linguistics, 34/2: 216–33.

This was the first research project I ever run, and (imo) a nifty modern replication of Kendon (1978) discussed above. People generally agree with Gesture Studies researchers on the minimum definition of what a gesture is, but they ascribe communicative intent to a much wider range of actions. Also, I did this research back in 2007 as my honours thesis project, but it took us another seven years to get this through to publication.

Gawne, Lauren, Barbara F. Kelly, Andrea L. Berez-Kroeker, and Tyler Heston. (2017). Putting practice into words: The state of data and methods transparency in grammatical descriptions. Language Documentation & Conservation, 11: 157–89.

This project surveyed 100 descriptive grammars: 50 published grammars and 50 PhD dissertations. There's lots of good work about how we should go about doing descriptive grammar work, but very little of this is actively discussed or described in the genre of published works. It's been almost a decade since we published this work. I'd like to think that people aren't citing it because they're just quietly improving the way they talk about methods and data in their descriptive grammar writing.

[kaiserless]

WORD POLL

You CAN say:

"It will RAIN" ☔️ 🌧️

"It will SNOW" ❄️☃️

"It will THUNDER" ⚡️⛈️

"It will HAIL" 🧊🥶

BUT can you say…

If you like judging weird English sentences like this and have 12 minutes to spare on a fun multiple-choice questionnaire, you would be doing me an enormous help if you fill in this questionnaire for my final year linguistics undergrad dissertation!! You get to be at the cutting edge of linguistics research by assigning funny little scores to funny little sentences, and there are no wrong answers :)

If you reblog this to signal boost I love you <3 Thanks Tumblr!