In the time of Coronavirus, what we can learn from dystopian fiction?

by Dr Deirdre Flynn, Lecturer in 21st Century Literature, Mary Immaculate College, Limerick.

 

Just before Ireland entered into lockdown, I finished teaching Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. The bestselling novel published in 2014 is about a global pandemic, the Georgia flu, that wipes out 99% of the world’s population.

Had I known that a global pandemic was going to hit, would I have picked a different novel? I don’t know. But Mandel’s novel is not a depressing read, nor is it a manual for living through lockdown. Rather it is an excellent piece of speculative fiction, that asks us to examine how we live in the 21st Century. It asks us what is important in life.

I’ve taught, researched and read dystopian fiction for years. In one of the modules I taught, we would discuss what the author wanted readers to take from their novels. Was their story a criticism of contemporary society? Did it offer warnings on climate change? Technology? Censorship? Terrorism? How did these societies come to pass? Was it through social inertia? Poverty? Inequality? And what can we learn from speculative fiction?

One novel that always seemed the most likely was Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, set in the United States of America in the 2020s. The students, and myself, were shocked how in 1993 Butler had in essence predicted the rise of a president like Trump. Her vision of the near future is eerie, including walled communities, massive inequality, indentured servitude, racism, political ineptitude, economy over social welfare. It is a frightening vision of the near future, and a President that wants ‘to make America great again’ (yes, that’s in the novel). It was always the most likely and most terrifying novel on that module. And Lauren, the protagonist learning to be self-sufficient, and grow her own food, could teach many of the new grow-your-own converts a thing or two.

Offred from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale often came in for a lot of criticism because she didn’t resist in obvious ways. Her silence in the face of her torture was often called weak by students. How could she take that? Why wouldn’t she speak up? The reason was simple – because she wanted to survive. She wanted to stay alive for her daughter(s). Was her survival, and that of her child(ren) more important than her freedom? I think that is a question we are answering on a daily basis now.

However, when it came to Station Eleven, it seemed more implausible. Why? We had all heard of Ebola, swine flu, avian flu, SARS, even Foot and Mouth. In Mandel’s novel, the flu spreads quickly because of global air travel. The world comes to a complete stop. People are advised to stay indoors and stock up on essentials. It felt impossible that today this could happen, but now we know it’s not impossible.

‘Just like in the novel, the virus does not impact everyone equally’

Unlike Parable of the Sower, or The Handmaid’s Tale, Station Eleven is told in what Philip Smith calls a ‘forwards-backwards’ style[1]. Told from multiple and interconnecting perspectives, the action shifts from before the Georgia Flu to 20 years after the pandemic. It offers an interesting criticism of social media and celebrity culture, and Mandel has often said she wanted to see what we would keep in such a scenario – would we want to keep what’s best about the world we live in? These again are questions we are asking in what has been constantly referred to as the “new normal” as if such a constantly shifting state could offer any sense of stability to be considered the ‘new normal’. And just like in the novel, the virus does not impact everyone equally. The pandemic it is not a great leveller. We just have to look at residential care homes and Direct Provision to see how the most vulnerable are treated here in Ireland.

What can we learn from Station Eleven? Well if there’s one thing, it is the motto from the side of the Travelling Symphony’s carriage – ‘survival is insufficient’. To the group of actors and musicians that make up the troupe – art is important to life. And while we can, like many other critics, argue that Mandel’s use of Shakespeare is a little hokey, if not Western and colonial centred, the message is clear. Art, music, theatre are all essential to our lives. They give meaning and hope and joy and create a sense of community. Mandel sees theatre as one of the best things society has to offer, and for the people who are left behind, Shakespeare brings something to their existence, as essential as survival. Life is not just staying alive, it is living.

‘Life is not just staying alive, it is living’

As I write this, people are gathering to watch #DearIreland from the Abbey, and there’s a CovideoParty trending on Twitter. People are seeking out art and culture. They want shared experiences, like Facebook and Instagram live, or Zoom parties. Subscription services have seen their numbers grow as those quarantined seek out film, TV, and documentary. I recently collated a blog piece for the Irish Women’s Writing Network on work during the Covid19 crisis and everyone mentioned the importance of connection. Technology is helping us have these shared experiences. With the help of hashtags and houseparty we can share our collective enjoyment of art. And yet in the midst of all this our Government’s response to support artists was paltry and insulting. Unable to see the economic merit in art, the creative process, and its cultural value, Josepha Madigan  (Ireland’s Minister of Culture, Heritage, and the Gaelteacht) offered the miserly sum of €1m to cover all of it. All the closed venues, the unemployed actors, writers, stage managers, singers, techies, administration…. Would all of them have to share this pot? And if you were on the COVID19 payment, you weren’t eligible.

Station Eleven is seeing a resurgence in sales ever since the Coronavirus started making its move around the world. People are turning to dystopian and speculative fiction to help make sense of our current situation. It can offer us warnings, suggest solutions, tell us to change before it’s too late. Dystopian fiction can highlight how wrong things could go if we don’t change. It also tells us that survival after chaos is not enough. We need to make sense of the trauma. We need love, connection, and we need art, and if we live in Station Eleven, we also need electricians.

[1] SMITH, P., 2016. Shakespeare, Survival, and the Seeds of Civilization in Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven. Extrapolation., 57(3), pp. 289-VI.

Studying for a Masters degree under lockdown

Sweary seminars, grief and #Escapril: studying(?) for a degree under lockdown

by Chloe Erin, Masters student of Literature at Cardiff University.

person writing on notebook

Photo by Julia M Cameron on Pexels.com

Around a fortnight or so before the UK went into lockdown, blissfully unaware of what was to come, I returned to Manchester to visit my grandmother for what would be the last time. I knew this to be the case beforehand, whether that makes me lucky or not I couldn’t tell you; I rarely get the opportunity to go home and her condition was deteriorating by the day, so my mum told me I should make certain I had a chance to say goodbye. I was in the park enjoying my newly instigated daily walk under the new regulations when I received word she had passed on. Strangely, I had been talking to a friend not long before and offhandedly remarked that I was just waiting for my dad to ring me, about which they later suggested may well have been my sensing of her departure from the world, which was oddly comforting, like a kiss goodbye.

A hotly anticipated announcement that lecturers would begin transitioning to online teaching had come a week previously, so my cohort were somewhat prepared for an unprecedented impact on learning and understandably quite worried, having already missed out on four weeks of teaching due to the very necessary UCU strikes. Personally, I was predominantly concerned about having to navigate an already uncomfortable situation through the means of video calling – I am autistic, and despite perfecting a somewhat confident persona (otherwise known as masking), I find it quite difficult to articulate myself well in a classroom environment. Factoring in echoey, crackled audio, time delays and an even greater difficulty knowing when it is my turn to speak promises only further potential for anxiety, sweating, profuse apologies and stumbling over every other sentence. I am currently studying part-time for my Masters in English Literature, traversing the second of a two-and-a-half-year course with one module per semester, the rest of my time set aside for part-time jobs and occasional tomfoolery. However, I am now actively tackling the prospect of my daunting fifteen-thousand-word dissertation as well. Working on the initial proposal for my biggest project to date alongside the twentieth century women’s poetry module I get the pleasure of this term is my current preoccupation as I while away the hours ‘til tomorrow… or it would be, if I could only engage with it for more than a brief period of time after four pm on randomly selected days.

Not to add to the growing list of reasons you should feel sympathy towards me (you shouldn’t) but I’m also chronically depressed, so staying inside by myself all day is really not my cup of tea; alas, my wonderful fiancée Eve is a medical student and thus was drafted in to support the efforts of our phenomenal NHS full-time. As a result, our lovely flat and I are getting very well acquainted, and if I had a pedometer, it would probably be broken by now. I am so incredibly proud, though, that I will persevere, and keep clapping for her and every single person risking their lives for us. I primarily work for the University as a disabilities support worker, filling financial gaps as a freelance transcriptionist, so duties are thin on the ground for me in the exchanging-labour-for-money department. Luckily for you, this is not a piece about my financial insecurity! Now, reader, you might suppose that swathes of free time to occupy myself with academia would present itself as a gift, and you would be correct, but regrettably, my brain is simply not cooperating with its opportunities to thrive in education. I do not make the rules. For the seminars I have had online so far, I have managed little by way of preparation, besides trying to finish the minimum weekly reading. My class is lucky – our tutor is lovely, incredibly accommodating, and has made it her mission to help us through each class as painlessly as possible. She extended the deadline for our formative essay, even held an additional session for us to bounce ideas off of eachother over the bank holiday weekend, which she really did not have to set aside time to do. Our video chats have actually been very surprising: productive, enjoyable and of a slightly less formal note than usual, cathartic swearing generally accepted under the circumstances. My course have been issued with a proposed ‘no detriment’ outcome for all assessments, meaning our averages can increase but a lower mark would have no impact – that we have to complete them at all seems futile to me, as I don’t feel anywhere near capable of surpassing myself, but it’s better than nothing and I should count my blessings. Other students are not so lucky, forced to continue as normal under such ambiguity and uncertainty, revising for amended exams to be taken from their bedrooms or attempting to complete assignments as they were with no possible leeway. I have heard some horror stories.

Reading, though, is something I want to sink my teeth into, a task easily managed with such a wonderful selection of books shaping the dissertation I intend to write; those keeping me company include Alice Walker, Jeanette Winterson, Leslie Feinberg, Audre Lorde, and Virginia Woolf, which is quite the dinner party, isn’t it? Eve and I managed to secure an almighty stack from the uni library mere hours before it shut for the foreseeable – I usually request my copies through the online service to avoid the narrow, dusty shelves and the dreaded Dewey Decimal, but we found a smidge of pleasure competing for who could find the most before we ran out of oxygen.  Sitting on the little bench just outside our building with an iced coffee, noise-cancelling headphones, and a chapter of whatever eminent queer literature I’m trying to work through that day is the closest I can get to peaceful at the minute. Perhaps I am not making as much progress as my peers; some days, I do not even bother turning my laptop on, recognising that Animal Crossing or re-watching the entirety of The Simpsons is doomed to steal my attention away uncontested. Beating myself up for not doing enough comes easily to me, a Virgo with a deeply rooted need for accomplishment (and thus validation), and normally I would be self-flagellating every time I pause to take a breath. But I am not. Even me, the queen of neuroticism and self-deprecator of the year, can be found cutting themselves a little slack in what feels like a never-ending onslaught of unpleasant news on top of worse. I lost a family member, I postponed my wedding, I miss my friends so much that even the salve of Facetime stings because it reminds me we are apart. Everything about my usual routine has flown out of the window, so how can I expect myself to function as if it had not?

The same weekend I saw my grandma, I also created an Instagram profile to share poems. Everyone’s favourite place to pretend and I have a chequered past, having deleted my original account a few years ago because it became genuinely detrimental to my mental health. The constant influx of filtered happiness was fuelling the fire in my head that believed everyone else was fine, leaving me to stagnate alone with my severely diminished mental health. I have no idea what possessed me to start uploading poetry to the internet again that day, but I soon stumbled across Escapril, writer and Youtuber Savannah Brown’s annual challenge proffering thirty prompts for poetry to be written every day in, you guessed it, April. I had heard of it the first time around, not participating, but appreciating the wonderful work that was birthed as a result. There is no obligation to complete every prompt, nor do you have to do them in any particular order, but I have set myself the challenge of doing so, in hopes of occupying my hands and my mind every day. As I write this, we have reached day thirteen and I haven’t missed one yet; I might not have produced any particularly life-changing work, and the algorithm is determined to make it as difficult as possible to reach a desired audience, but having something both non-committal and gently encouraging to aim for each day is proving helpful. Each poem has been an adventure – some came easily to me, others needed help and one or two were clawed out screaming – purgative, beneficial and therapeutic in their individual ways. Plodding along as best as I can, without pressuring myself (as much) to meet any deadlines besides the ones imposed upon me by the University, is all I am expecting for now. The world is at standstill, now is a time to recharge and take care of yourself if you are able. To those who are not, I salute you. I hope we will see the other side, together, as soon as it is possible.

Student experiences during COVID-19: the pandemic and the end of an Erasmus dream

close up of hands

Photo by Louis Bauer on Pexels.com

by Niamh Cole, student of the BA in International Relations at Dublin City University.

The journey to higher education and Erasmus

‘The morning I found out I had been accepted into DCU’s partner university in Gothenburg, I called my mam in work, crying because it seemed like a dream come true.’ 

I have never had the best luck when it comes to education. It was always said that I did have the potential to be academic, but my teenage apathy trumped all of that throughout my secondary school years.  When my Leaving Certificate (Ireland’s final school exams) results were lacklustre, I found myself surprisingly disappointed at the prospect of not being able to experience college life. I began to search for other ways to get into university, – which is something I hadn’t even been sure I wanted until it was clear that I wouldn’t be going. I ended up doing a PLC in Liberties College, and it was there that I discovered my love for politics, and also where I first learned about the Erasmus programme. I had grown up travelling with my family, so have always had an innate desire to explore the world. When I was filling out my CAO (Ireland’s higher education application system) for the second time, not only was it much more cohesive, but my ranking of each course had also taken into consideration the Erasmus options that were afforded by each degree. International Relations in DCU was my first option, as not only did it seem like an amazing programme (and the university happened to be down the road from my house), it also came with the option of studying abroad for a year in Sweden. I buckled down harder than I ever had in my PLC in order to get into IR in DCU, and then worked day and night to ensure I would have the grades to qualify for Erasmus. The morning I found out I had been accepted into DCU’s partner university in Gothenburg, I called my mam in work, crying because it seemed like a dream come true.

Erasmus life

I moved to Gothenburg in September, 2019. Erasmus was everything I had hoped it would be and more. Many had warned me that I would find it hard at the start, and would feel homesick and lonely, but none of that happened. I settled in quickly, met friends almost immediately, and adjusted to my new life. I was enrolled to take an entire year (60 credits) worth of gender studies courses, an option that was not afforded to me anywhere else, which would enable me to pursue a masters in gender studies. At that point, two years into my degree, I always joked that while my classmates were doing a degree in International Relations, I was doing a degree in Feminism with an IR perspective. The majority of my essays at that point had been through a feminist perspective, so to actually be taught with that feminist lense, rather than having to seek it out myself, was incredible. Classes were small and interactive, which enabled an amazing amount of group discussion, with people from all over the world contributing their stories. I was excited to go to class every day, and would call my mam as soon as I got home so I could tell her what we had spoken about. It sounds cliche, but time truly did fly because I was having so much fun.

The onset of the COVID-19 pandemic

‘This once in a lifetime opportunity, that had motivated me to take my education seriously, was over so quickly.’

However, by the end of February it became clear that something unusual was happening. COVID-19 had been mentioned in passing for a month or so at that point over drinks with friends, or at our biweekly fajita nights. We would downplay the issue, saying it was “just a flu” and reassuring each other that we would all be fine. None of us wanted to leave, and we were all adamant that we would stay until the very end, which we all doubted would come. It was easy to live in our little bubble when most news was reported in a language we could barely understand and, as would grow apparent, the government was taking a very blasé approach to the whole situation. At that point I had received two emails from DCU reassuring Erasmus students that all was well, and that should there be any updates we would be notified. As the week went on, I was also contacted by friends who were worried about my health. I am known to have a weak immune system, and have been hospitalised for regular viruses before, so many of them were concerned and urged me to be careful.

The following week is when the situation very suddenly changed. On a Saturday night, students in our building began leaving in droves, and by Sunday morning it seemed as though there would be nobody left. By Wednesday, it truly seemed as though me and my friends were the only people remaining. On the 12th of March, a Thursday morning, I was on the tram on the way to a highly anticipated seminar, when an email informed me that it had been cancelled. It was the first time I had left the apartment in a few days due to COVID-19 concerns, so I was a bit disappointed. I got on the next tram back to my apartment, which is when I got the first of what would be many successive emails from DCU over the next couple of days. By Monday night, I had come to the conclusion that it was imperative that I leave by Thursday the 19th. However, due to the fact that Ryanair was my only direct option, and they only flew to Dublin from my city twice a week, I had to decide whether I could pack up my life in twelve hours or five days. At that point I realised that I had an assignment that would be given to me on Wednesday, which would be due the next Wednesday. This was common in the Swedish education system, which did take a bit of getting used to, as I usually have my essays finished two weeks before the due date, but as we only had one module at a time it was manageable. What this system did not take into account, however, was a pandemic suddenly impacting the lives and living situations of thousands of students. Suddenly, not only was I faced with uphauling my entire life, one that I had built for seven months, and saying goodbye to friends that I likely would not see again for a long time. And I would also have to find time to complete a 5000 word essay in the middle of it! This crushing realisation caused the first of many crying fits on the phone to my mam, who at that point had been urging me to come home for about two weeks. I could tell she was relieved that I had finally decided to do so, but also that she was incredibly upset that this once in a lifetime opportunity, that had motivated me to take my education seriously, was over so quickly and without warning, and completely outside of our control. The fact that I would have to be in self-isolation at home for two weeks without seeing anybody outside my family barely crossed my mind; instead, it was thoughts of mourning for the learning environment I had grown to love so much.

Leaving Sweden and returning home

‘Knowing I had left Sweden for good, and would be landing into a situation that would be isolating and scary, was daunting.’

I sat in the empty airport alone, watching as surprisingly few people arrived at my gate. The total number of people on my flight was less than 30.  It was Saturday night, and I had written about 500 words of my essay at that point. The stress that I was feeling about this gave me something else to concentrate on, rather than the instant homesickness for Sweden, as I watched my little city disappear into the clouds. It was the next Friday morning when I finally submitted it, the first time I had submitted anything after the initial deadline in the entirety of my university education, but the lecturers for my module had afforded us an extension due to the circumstances. That Monday was supposed to be the start of a new module, but over the weekend it was revealed to us that the main lecturer was stuck in South America, with no way to get back to Sweden. She attempted to video chat with us but her connection fell several times, and eventually it was decided that we would rely on pre-taped video lectures and uploaded powerpoints until her return.

It had been hard enough returning to Ireland for the holidays when everything was normal and I had the knowledge that my little apartment was waiting for me back in Sweden, but knowing I had left it for good, and would be landing into a situation that would be isolating and scary, was daunting. The ignorance bubble that my friends and I had happily resided in for the last couple of weeks was suddenly and harshly popped. Suddenly I could understand the news again, and it was full of international struggle. A daily death toll for Ireland was announced at night, sometimes followed with a slightly morbid poem or song. In the mornings, I was also unwittingly subscribed to hearing about how many people had died in Sweden: by way of my mam peeking her head in my door to tell me, just as I had just woken up. Obviously, I was mostly aware of the situation, at least more so than those on the German Big Brother or Jared Leto’s cult following, but it was hard to not feel hopeless about how dire the situation actually was. I had always taken Twitter as a form of exaggerated news, but in this case, it felt as though Twitter had softened the blow.

COVID-19’s effect on my education

‘Where I was thriving before, I now find myself struggling.’

Quarantine has had an effect on my education in so many ways. I would consider myself a social learner, finding concepts easier to explore in essays when I can explain them verbally to others. My time in DCU is marked with late nights in the library with friends, all of us pouring over each other’s writing and dissecting it. I did miss that during my Erasmus, but seminars acted as a replacement for that kind of interactive learning. However, being stuck in quarantine removed the social element from my learning completely. Where I was thriving before, I now find myself struggling. I had always had some journal article or academic book on the go, reading it at any opportunity and discussing the points with friends. However, while stuck inside, it has been hard to find the motivation to even begin reading anything. I have managed to rope my mam in on watching my lectures with me, just so I can explain and talk about the ideas with someone, but it is a lot less gratifying than a mutual discussion. A close friend offered her ear, saying that she would always welcome a twenty minute long voice message about my interpretation of a line from one of Judith Butler’s works, but the face-to-face element was missing. The harder it got, the more anxious it made me, which created a vicious cycle. For the first time since I was a teenager, trying to pay attention to my education felt futile. I could not blame the fact that it was “boring” this time, however, because it was part of the most interesting education I have ever had. It just seemed that every time I sat down to focus on something, I could hear news alerts of how many people had died that day. It was hard to not get in my head about the whole situation, feeling that my bad luck with education had returned. Hearing my thoughts centre myself in an international crisis was maddening, so the only way I have found to help is to put my situation in perspective.

I realise that I am fortunate enough to have been able to come home with relative ease, and to have a home to come back to, which has food and warmth – which is more than many can say at this point in time. I am lucky to have a family, and that I get along with them. And I am lucky to have access to education, especially an education which gave me the opportunity of living in another country. These are things I try to tell myself when I feel my mental health struggling in this isolation, while also grieving the life I had built in Sweden. I only hope that when all of this is over, we as a society become more aware of the struggles of others to ensure that should such a situation arise again, no person is left at such a disadvantage, as so many have been during this crisis.

COVID-19 and my Ph.D.: Missing out on a Conference and Trying to Stay Motivated

Jennifer Mooney, a PhD candidate at the School of English in Dublin City University, writes about her research, and how she’s staying motivated after missing out on her first academic conference presentation due to COVID-19.

Today, I should be giving a paper – the first in my academic career – at a conference in Wroclaw University, Poland. Right about now, I should be presenting my paper entitled Authorial Agenda and Political Responsibility: ‘Rape Culture’ in the Young Adult Literature of Irish Author Louise O’Neill to a group of international academics at the Controversial Dimensions of Children’s Literature conference. I should be learning about the research being carried out by other academics in the field of children’s literature and literature for young adults. I should be making connections, building relationships, and promoting my work in the hopes of publication and professional opportunity. I should be telling other academics about the importance of my scholarship funded Ph.D. research that addresses how ‘rape culture’, gender conflict, and conflicting views of power, sexism, and consent have become particularly relevant to Irish society in the years since O’Neill’s novels for young adults Only Ever Yours and Asking for It were published – in 2014 and 2015 respectively. I should be telling other academics that my dissertation examines theories of power and empowerment in the contemporary young adult fiction of Irish author Louise O’Neill in relation to a growing body of Irish and international 21st century YA fiction written about girls, and with girls as the implied readership, that demonstrate a shift away from the personal (the typical realm of the problem novel) towards the political. I should be explaining to those who haven’t read the novels what they are about, why they are significant and why they are problematic.

Only Ever Yours emulates Margaret Atwood’s adult dystopian novel The Handmaids Tale and imagines a future dystopia in which women or ‘eves’ are created by genetic engineers and trained within an authoritarian patriarchy to be beautiful and subservient. Each eve will be selected to be a companion (a wife and mother), a concubine (a sexual slave) or a chastity (a teacher). The text draws on global forms of gender discrimination to provide a dystopian warning about the objectification, commodification, and maltreatment of the female body with the purpose of highlighting a need to confront gender-based inequalities in (chiefly Western) contemporary society. Asking For It, Louise O’Neill’s second novel, takes a dogmatic approach to drawing similarities between emerging teenage sexuality and ‘rape culture’: cultural ideologies, as well as social practises and institutions, that eroticise and normalise male violence against women and contribute to a dominant culture which attributes blame to the victims of rape rather than to the perpetrators of abuse. It tells the story of eighteen- year-old Emma who is gang raped by four boys, whom she considered to be friends at a party after a GAA game in her local town of Balinatoom. Her assault is then uploaded on social media and Emma is blamed for her rape because she was drunk and wearing revealing clothing. She is not seen as a victim within her community or family, but as to blame and worthy of shame.

I should be arguing that O’Neill’s Only Ever Yours and Asking for It make a case for the capacity of all literature, but YA literature specifically, to challenge perceived social issues and effect change, making them significant within the tradition of Irish YA. I should be persuading other academics that while the influence and achievement of O’Neill’s work in emphasising the need for social and political change in Ireland in relation to rape and sexual assault is generally accepted, and rightfully celebrated, problematic elements of the work have been largely unexamined. Despite a number of critical essays/works published on O’Neill’s texts for young adults, no scholarly monographs have critically examined representations of female agency and sexuality in the works in terms of their potential to limit, rather than liberate. Nor have the dangers of presenting extremism, in terms of male sexual violence, as normalcy in the texts been given critical attention.

I should be explaining to all those weighty academics whom I admire, such as Kimberley Reynolds, that this is what makes my research so important: it examines whether YA texts, like O’Neill’s, that implore that they be read as social criticism, contain overt politicising feminist ideology, and act more like political manifestos than fiction really rethink freedom and empowerment for women and girls and propose new ways of thinking about power and gender or do they get lost in, or weighed down by, authorial agenda and controversy?

Right now, I could be convincing all those academics that my research illuminates the potential that works like O’Neill’s have to function as a form of literary/social fundamentalism which often undermines, rather than promotes, equality. The position the works hold as texts for young adults, and O’Neill’s very public presence in Irish society (she is both an author and a political campaigner) combined with how the texts are increasingly being used in educational settings, make them instrumental in shaping the values, attitudes and behaviours of the young people that they reach. This adds to the pertinence of my research and my contention that the works position as YA texts that are both representative of, and a functioning part of, the diffusion of radical feminist thought across popular culture means that they ought to be properly critically engaged with, not unconsciously celebrated.

Instead of doing any of this, I am in the bedroom of an Airbnb (my working-from-home partner having taking over the kitchen on a conference call) trying to motivate myself enough to continue to work on my Ph.D. Everyone, absolutely everyone – well, maybe not the Spring breakers continuing to party in Miami – has been affected one way or another by the COVID-19 pandemic. I have had to move into temporary accommodation with my partner to protect my future Mother in law’s health (she has an underlying heart condition) and re-schedule our upcoming wedding – a pretty minor impact, I know, compared to others who are without work, unwell or who have lost a loved one. Knowing this doesn’t stop me feeling sorry for myself about missing out on the conference though. While waiting for our friends who have been tested for COVID-19 results to come back, I should utilise this sudden period of isolation to make progress with my research. I should stop thinking about the lost networking possibilities at the conference and worrying about whether it, and another conference in Cambridge I’ve been accepted to, will go ahead in September. I should appreciate this sudden abundance of time – time I was always wishing I had more of when life was normal and I was juggling my full-time job with teaching university students and my Ph.D. research. I’m a primary teacher working and living in Dublin, Ireland and I am three years into my Ph.D. at Dublin City University (DCU). In September, I started teaching at university level, giving lectures to Masters students in Children’s Literature and tutorials to first year English students in DCU. This experience, along with presenting my research to peers in  DCU and being accepted to present my research at the Controversial Dimension of Children’s Literature conference in Wroclaw University and at the Let’s Talk About Sex in YA conference at Cambridge University made me feel closer to achieving the career in academia I have been working so hard to achieve.

Now, with so much free time, when I should be editing and re- drafting, I can barely concentrate: I have marked four one-thousand-word essays in two days. On the up-side, I have read two YA novels that have been lingering on my Kindle for months and I am writing this article. So, how do I utilise this time and keep striving for that career in academia? All academics love a list, right? Well, writing a blog post for Women Are Boring has been on my ‘long list’ for quite some time now – perhaps I am being more productive than I thought and maybe imagining myself persuading other academics about the importance of my research is enough to stay motivated for now.