In 2011, not long after I gained my MA, I received an email from one of my ex-lecturers. He was putting together a book on nineteenth century material culture in  Britain and one of his authors had dropped out because of a family tragedy. Could I write something in six weeks? I bashed out something resembling a chapter, and by the fifth draft had met his deadline. One reviewer was a bit sniffy, which was a somewhat depressing experience for a novice like me, but after adding a little more evidential stuff my contribution passed muster. I sorted illustrations and permissions, and sat back to await publication. And waited. And waited.

Yesterday a copy thumped through my letter box.

Of course, since writing that chapter I’ve gone on to continue my research, and my thinking has expanded and evolved over the four years. So it is slightly uncomfortable to read what I wrote in 2011. I wasn’t wrong, but now I could add many new discoveries, new nuances, new experiences and new questions. Perhaps this feeling is familiar to established researchers and academics, and I guess what I publish next year (at least in hard-copy print) will also be almost immediately out of date. And perhaps I am over-accustomed to this digital sharing of thoughts, in which I can suggest something one day and change my mind the next. Hmm. And it makes me think of all the articles, papers and chapters I’ve cited and wonder if some of those authors have changed their thinking over subsequent years and, in some cases, decades. Interesting…