Tobacco-free policies can be harmful to campus health.
Tobacco products, especially cigarettes, are harmful to the human body and everyone should avoid using them. That’s not a controversial statement, and Americans today are just about all on board with that. Which is good, because in some countries tobacco companies take advantage of uninformed populations, while thankfully in America we make fabulous catcentric ads to share the facts. However, enthusiasm for the eradication of cigarette smoking has made any motion towards that end sound like a no-brainer, even if the action has little to do with smoking prevention or cessation. One such example is the institution of tobacco-free policies on college campuses. University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee is the most recent college in Wisconsin to adopt this policy, a policy which about 35% of U.S. four-year colleges have in place (according to The American Journal of Public Health). This sounds, at first, like an excellent initiative, as it would eliminate second-hand smoke and cigarette butts while discouraging young people from continuing a harmful activity. No doubt parents on college tours would nod in approval as their tour guide mentions it. But, agreeable as the notion of tobacco-free campuses might seem, it is a discriminatory policy that creates more problems than it solves.
(In making my argument, I’ll lean on and respond to the write-up on UWM linked to above, though I do not have personal experience of that campus. But I do write this as someone who has attended a campus with designated smoking areas (St. Norbert College) and one that is tobacco-free (Oregon State University). Statements I make about tobacco-free campuses may or may not apply to UWM.)
Perhaps the most obvious objection to this policy is that it won’t stop students from smoking, because nicotine is addictive and a little old policy isn’t going to stop people from getting their fix. It will, instead, make for new smoking-related problems, including an increase in littering as smokers unable or unwilling to go to receptacles off-campus will smoke in secrecy (or not) and cast their butts down wherever. Smoking isn’t, after all, illegal, and so there’s not much to be risked by shirking the rules. Furthermore, policies like the one at UWM include e-cigs, which a staggering number of teens are using. E-cigs are easy to smoke in secret (so much so that it’s become a game kids play), and if schools insist on banning vapes from campus, secretive vaping is going to increase, including in places like bathrooms, dorms, and classrooms. Schools are better off setting aside designated smoking areas and maintaining those areas with clean receptacles.
And then there’s the sort of basic philosophical questions we tend to ask: is it even “right” for the college to ban something that isn’t illegal? Why don’t we ban fattening foods from the cafeterias, when those are inherently dangerous, especially to obese students or those with a family history of heart failure? Worth at least kicking around Socrates-style.
But the more pressing issue is the way in which tobacco-free policies discriminate against certain demographics. Certain groups tend to smoke more, including people of color, those who identify as LGBTQ, veterans, and international students. At predominately white, middle to upper-class American four-year colleges (so, most of them), these populations already face marginalization, as people of color…well, duh, LGBTQ persons…well, duh again…okay, VETERANS, veterans face marginalization as they enter school already in their 20s and with an uncommon life experience, one that may have left them with acute psychological and emotional burdens. They’re not always a natural fit with your “typical” college student. International students face obstacles like cultural difference and a language barrier. It can be challenging for them to get integrated into campus life, and they are sometimes cordoned off into places and activities for international students.
Tobacco-free policies exacerbate marginalization of these groups. Think about it: these policies further ingrain the stigma on cigarette-smoking (which I find a little harsh, even given how harmful smoking is) by making those who partake physically remove themselves from the campus, expelling them from the physical community like a leper colony. Standing around a designated area littered with cigarette butts are people of color (who white folk already wrongly associate with trashy habits), LGBTQ persons (already considered deviant), veterans (already on the fringes of campus life), and international students (whose very designation as international Others them at all times). They’re there because The College says they have to be. They’re not allowed to do that thing (that might be commonplace in their country or a coping mechanism) in the presence of more clean-living citizens on the pristine grounds of their campus.
The optics aren’t great. But it doesn’t just look bad. It is bad. It hinders the community-building goals that every college should have.
Tobacco-free campuses reinforce marginalization of certain student groups in a literal way, which is a heavy price to pay for what amounts to very little reward. Because, after more careful consideration, what do these policies actually do? They don’t promote cessation in a meaningful way, nor do they reduce litter. If second-hand smoke is the concern, well, that just isn’t valid. Second-hand smoke is dangerous, but generally only if someone breathes it.
That was sarcasm. Just keep a safe distance from the designated smoking area. I think you’ll be okay. Worry more about that brain-melting piece of toast looking for a wifi signal in your pocket.
It would seem, then, that colleges are instituting these policies either because they are mistaken about their efficacy, or because merely having the policy sounds good. Either one is a possibility, as college administrations have been known to be out of touch with student life and also to make decisions based on what looks good in a pamphlet or press release for prospective students and potential donors. Whether it’s misguided good intentions or calculated marketing, the institution of tobacco-free policies is harmful to groups of students already at a disadvantage in higher education.
And now for the obligatory local news-style wordplay in the kicker: By waving at the smoke, these policies are fanning the flames.
Forth now, and fear no darkness.
Soli Deo Gloria
1 Statistically, a higher percentage of white Americans smoke than Black or Latinx Americans, but I include this here because the Journal-Sentinel article mentions that, in Milwaukee, tobacco ads are especially focused in Black and Latinx neighborhoods. I would guess that the smoker demographics of some universities do not align with the country’s.
Afternoon coffee is better with an afternoon cigarette. It’s just so. But life is better without cigarettes, when it’s all counted up. So the coffee makes do on its own and does so with aplomb. At least until the jitters, which not everyone gets, and some people get but don’t realize they’re getting, because not everyone is so aware of cause and effect.
I get the jitters sometimes. From coffee on an empty stomach, from those moments before a phone call, from the sound of my neighbor trying to find a way to climb up on the snow-weighted roof and shovel it off so that water will quit leaking through my bedroom window, the plunk-plunk of which gives me the jitters when I wake up in the night from the droning and crunching of the plows come to make our life easier. And certainly I would get the jitters up on the roof just inches from broken bones.
There are times when I get the jitters thinking about my religion. I’m a Christian, and painfully aware of my own shortcomings as a follower of Christ as well as the shortcomings of the way my religion operates in America. I know some of what Christians and non-Christians think of one another, what they know and think they know, and sometimes these things keep me up at night when I wake up overheated with a full bladder and a fierce thirst.
The cat I do not own because I don’t think I can afford it is concerned with the way these things affect me. He knows something of religion, considering that “he is the servant of the Living God” and “he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary,” as Christopher Smart has noted about feline companions. His ancestors were quite appreciated in Ancient Egypt, you know (the cat’s, not Christopher’s). At one time, his ancestors were running around pyramids built by the slaves who would walk on up out of there after a shepherd gained clout through magic tricks and dunking on the god-king. It turns out that story has really held up, even if cats don’t make an appearance but Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston do. It’s an important story for Christianity, but first it was an important story for Judaism. Many Jews must have thought of that story when the walls went up and help arrived only after millions were dead. I wonder what those who survived think when they see that cursed symbol worn again – its bearers treated leniently. It was also an important story for many African American Christians, at least for those who were allowed to read it instead of the parts of the book that say slaves should serve without grumbling. I wonder how they felt about a religion which their masters used to justify the way things were.
I get to thinking of these things, and I get the jitters as my thoughts unfurl and disperse like the smoke from the cigarette I am not smoking, and I’m confronted with a terrible knowledge and the fear of having no power over it, of being tossed about in a dark cauldron like the hot bean water I sip in the hopes of finding the alacrity and focus to address the problem.
I’m not sure sentences like that get us any closer. But neither do sentences like, “Just talk about the Gospel,” “Christianity is illogical,” “Leave politics out of it,” or “Thoughts and prayers,” (which is neither a sentence nor helpful).
Out of my feline fairyland of nicotine and caffeine might someday emerge a coherent, well-researched, well-argued piece of writing, but that would require a level of coherence, research, and argumentativeness which I, like a cat and a cigarette, currently lack. It’s the sort of thing I would organize a dissertation around, the sort of thing I would present at conferences. I’m not there yet, but this idea has infected me, and it chases me around the halls of my workplace and boils up in the water that will cook my brown rice for lunch and drips through the frame of my bedroom window and jumps off the page of whatever it is I’m reading. So I gotta say something about it, even in grand, sweeping, propositional terms.
American Christianity’s criticisms from within and without often stem from one inconvenient character trait – a predisposition to fascism. While a religion can (and I would argue should) strive for and uphold orthodoxy and sound doctrine, Christianity has taken the pursuit of Truth and the prescription of righteous living to an extreme. In upholding the Christian God as the God and the Bible as the holy book and Christianity as the faith, American Christians have created a religion that is dominated by a white, affluent, heteronormative Western perspective, resistant to counter-narratives, expansive interpretations, and anything strange or new. It is a religion about behaving, following rules, and learning “correct” Biblical interpretation.
Again, believers can insist that there is Truth, and that their religion is the way to it. They can insist that there is one God, and that their God is it. But if that belief system engenders a rigid set of rules which works rather nicely for straight white men of wealth and is settled on what is true and not true, then it is a religion that lacks the brawn to face serious challenges, the flexibility to account for contingencies, and the spirit to move human beings in meaningful ways outside the walls of church buildings. Fascist faith is doomed for implosion. Lao Tzu said an army that cannot yield will be defeated, and a tree that cannot bend will break.
For all its generosity, American Christianity has wed itself to capitalism. For all its inclusiveness, it has upheld white supremacy and led the opposition to LGBTQ rights. For all its morality, it gave us President Donald Trump.
Maybe I’m talking about your church and maybe I’m not. I know that a lot of good is done by Christians at home and abroad. I know there are open-minded, generous, selfless Christians. Again, I’m a Christian! I admit that the Christians that give me the jitters are – more often than not – the ones out there, not specific ones I know. More often than not. But just as systemic racism ends up being more oppressive than the sum of its mildly racist individual parts, the systemic rot of American Christianity is more than any one church (or Christian’s) failures. All our faults and failures coalesce into a destructive monolith.
American Christianity’s insistence on conformity and orthodoxy has made for a an intolerant religion constrained by its own adherence to the rules. It wants so badly to be, well…normal.
The solution might be to make Christianity weird again.
Let’s return to the catless story of Moses and the Exodus. It’s absolutely wild. There are plagues on plagues on plagues, of course. There’s a pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire, which sounds pretty. The sea parts. When Pharaoh is all like “Oh yeah Moses you think you’re so tough go ahead and prove it,” Moses is like “Show ’em, Aaron,” and his brother throws down his staff and it turns into a snake, and then Pharaoh turns to his magicians and is like “Step up my guys,” and they turn their staffs into snakes, and then Aaron’s staff is like “You come for the king you better not miss,” and eats the other snake staffs.
Oh, and before any of this happens, while Moses is on his way to Egypt, God rolls up on him and is about to whack him but Zipporah (Moses’ wife) saves Moses by cutting of their son’s foreskin, touching it to Moses’ feet, and exclaiming “Surely you are a bridegroom of blood to me!”
But never mind all that. Christians use the highlights of this Jewish story to teach God’s power and the importance of obedience. There’s a “right” way to explain it. Children learn it as part of their moral instruction. VeggieTales found a way to adapt it. “Everyone” knows it, except for some slaves who might have gotten the wrong ideas.
We have here what Dr. Raymond Malewitz (shouts) made sure we grad students knew to call a problem of contradiction. There are several at work in the way Christians read, understand, and apply the Bible.
First, the Bible is magical. Moses, Jesus, and other heroes are known for doing magic tricks. But only the Bible is allowed to be magical. Any other sort of magic is to be abhorred. Remember when Christians lost their minds over Harry Potter? Second, the Bible is bizarre. Like we could sit here all day and smoke cigarettes and pet cats and talk about all the weird stuff in the Bible. Some of it is funny, some of it is disturbing. Some of it is weird when you think about it long enough, and some of it is outright what did I just read? And yet, the Christian life is defined by normalcy, conformity, and uniformity. Christians don’t like weird things. Unless it’s teenage boys watching Nacho Libre and Napoleon Dynamite, well, then I guess we can allow for a little silly fun. Third, Christians believe in the miraculous, not just in the Bible, but in the everyday. Christians believe that miracles, even ones that defy the laws of nature, happen. But only if it happens within a Christian context, both now and in stories from history.
There is also what Dr. Malewitz made sure we knew to call a problem of clarification. The Christian worldview and its pursuit of Truth has made Christians wary of science based in rationalism and empiricism (your child’s science teacher) AND of progressive humanism (your child’s humanities professors). This is an inconsistent, anti-intellectual, untenable booyah which leads to embarrassments like the God’s Not Dead films. So what, exactly, do Christians base their beliefs in? How do Christians come to their understanding of the world? How did their orthodox understanding of an ancient compilation of histories, prophecies, testimonies, erotica, and letters come to inform what they deem too rational and what they deem too loopy?
These problems exist in part because of Christianity’s insistence on normalcy, and the consequence is that unfortunate susceptibility to fascism. The solution may be to free the Christian worldview from these constraints. The solution may to be weird.
Let’s allow – nay, embrace – magic, the absurd, the bizarre. Let’s re-imagine the way Christianity looks and feels, and explore how that can change from person to person across years, across borders. Let’s re-envision the stories of the Bible, reckon with what is lost in translation, and imagine new ways to see ourselves in the text and the text in our lives. Let’s find innovate ways to apply Christian belief to secular art and to create art that is Christian.
If the Bible is really “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword,” then it should be able to be interpreted and applied in diverse, innovative ways, free from rigid constraints. If Christian faith is a pervasive, all-encompassing worldview, then it should be able to engage with culture and concepts with creativity. The results can be enrichment of faith and culture.
What would this look like? In my Master’s Thesis, I wrote about envisioning abstract Black Jesus in literature (two novels in particular), but the possibilities abound – that’s what makes this idea so compelling.
So when I write this thing properly, maybe I’d have a chapter about Black Panther, and how the mythical world of Wakanda evokes separation from a heavenly country, paradise lost, and the aforementioned Black Jesus.
I could write about First Reformed, and how that film comments on faith and the religious experience by turning a seemingly simple clergyman with into an ecoterrorist. We’d have even more to say about the iconic moments in that film like the pepto-bismol in the whiskey and that wild ending.
We could see the Book of Jeremiah as a dark comedy, because that’s how it plays in my head. Why do we have to take everything in the Bible so…seriously? Can’t we be a little playful, and see how that might bring to light some things that reading the Bible like we’re reading the Bible might blind us to?
WE CAN READ HARRY POTTER!! We can embrace what a magical story reveals to us about love and choice. And we can get schadenfreude from Christians who lambasted the story before realizing how explicit J.K. Rowling would eventually be with Christian themes in the final book.
I can explore how Tolkien’s work is way, way more useful than the Chronicles of Narnia, even though only one is an explicit Christian allegory.
I’d explore the literary genre of magical realism, and by studying the ways masters like Gabriel García Márquez use it to explore complex topics, we can see how it can be used to explore content and concepts that defy the bounds of realism.
We can stop watching “Christian” movies and instead discuss films like A Serious Man, which has more to say about faith and theodicy than just about any piece of art I’ve encountered.
And on and on. Magic, absurdity, and the bizarre can enrich our understanding of the sacred and secular and provide new avenues for the creation of new culture.
What’s more, this is the season to speak, as I believe secular culture is ready to embrace this awakening in Christian discourse. Realism and strict “enlightened” skepticism is tired; the Western world is realizing how the Enlightenment produced its own oppressive structures. Notions of Truth are being eroded, and while its pursuit is as important as ever, the security of we used to find in absolute truth is seriously changed. Truth is something we work towards, a way of thinking and understanding that we speak into existence. The President is a prodigious liar and scientific conclusions are ignored. We need journalists and other truth-tellers to relentlessly pursue and speak truths, but we also need to approach truth as the elusive thing that it is, something that we come to know through experience as often as we come to through intellectual assent. This part of the story requires its own pack of cigarettes, but what I mean is this: I suspect secular society is ready to accept the truths presented by the magical, bizarre, absurd book called the Bible, but not through logical proofs and hardline doctrines aimed at presenting the Gospel as irrefutable truth and the Christian life as the only one that is not deluded by human fallibility (not to say there is no value in apologetics). Rather, I think secular culture is ready to accept concepts of Christianity like the existence of God, original sin, and the Gospel, Christian answers to questions like the problem of evil and the meaning of life, and Christian perspectives on love, family, and work if these things are presented artfully, and if conclusions are reached through a discussion, interpretation, or presentation that is guided by a worldview, not bent on a religious dialectic.
And so here we are. I’ve worked through some jitters and put these thoughts together and you’ve read and/or skimmed your way through them. I’m sure I will write more about this, whether or not I ever do the serious academic work which I think could make this something substantial to work with. It’s possible this was not the best way to start getting these ideas down on paper and out into the world, but, then again, this has all been about considering new ways to work through and exchange weighty ideas.
I’m a Christian. I believe Christian faith has truth and power that can transform people and societies, but I believe that truth and power has been distorted in terrible ways in America. I believe Christianity provides Truth for this life and the next, but I believe the presumption that Christians know just how that Truth works has created a rigid system of belief that is not only ineffective but oppressive. I believe Christianity is weird, but that American Christianity is both weird in the wrong ways and not weird enough.
“So, yeah…let’s do this,” he says, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the air, noting how the fleeting wisps resemble his mortality. He performs his nonchalance well, putting out the cigarette and sauntering on, even as his next cold breath shudders with the unbearable weight of what he thinks he knows. He puts one foot in front of the other in defiance of the petrifying fear that what he says will never matter, and he curses himself at the thought that it might.
And yet he draws hope from his cat:
“For by stroking of him I have found out electricity. For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire. For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast. For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped. For he can tread to all the measures upon the music. For he can swim for life. For he can creep.”
The defining authors of my year of reading. Because it’s my list.
End of year lists go in the box with things that we like but have to pretend we’re tired of, like new podcasts, superhero movies, and reality TV. And so when someone on some platform puts together a list with the best, worst, most memorable, etc., of the year, sometimes it’s delivered with a rueful self-awareness, like “Sorry to bother with you with another one of these but please hear what I think.” Likewise, it seems we sometimes receive these with an eye roll, sighing and saying “Okay, well, I guess I could see how your end of year list differs ever so slightly from the five other lists I’ve read today.” And still, people write them and people read them, and I think we all actually enjoy it.
This year I’ve been seeing a lot of lists of what people read in 2018. In addition to the numerous “Best Books of 2018” lists, there are many posts about “The Best Books I Read in 2018.” This is a very different kind of list, and my first impulse is to say these lists are a way to boast about how well-read the author is. “Look at me and the 100 books I read ranging from Greek philosophy to Cormac McCarthy!” Yes you’re very smart. Shut up. It also seems like a way for someone to get in on the end of year thing without actually having a sufficient grasp of current culture, like that person who is going to talk about their best films of the year without having seen Burning, The Favourite, or Minding the Gap.
But you know what? I think these lists, while not accomplishing the same thing as a conventional “Best Of,” are defensible and even of similar value. For starters, I get the impulse to share what you’ve been reading because reading is for many the most isolated culture we engage with. By that I mean many of us read a book without expectation of talking about it with someone else, while it’s a little maddening to watch a film or television show and have no one to talk about it with. But, even without the expectation of discussing the book, that sort of solo work eventually takes a toll, and you want someone to know what you think about the things you’ve been reading. So I get that.
Furthermore, trying to get any sort of grasp of the year in books is a fool’s errand, and any year-end list is going to leave out entire genres and fan bases. It’s worth reviewing the year’s trends, rising authors, and groundbreaking works, but, even more than with film and television (and even music), trying to wrangle a culture’s year of books is bound to be seriously flawed. And, because of the great volume of books that come out every year, these lists, too, will be “personal,” as no one is able to sufficiently cover everything. Personalized lists of books across the years, then, provide an alternative. These bibliographies tell a story about one person’s year of reading, and through that specificity they have the capacity to make more meaningful connections to the people reading those lists. They give a picture of what one person actually read. I care more about what my friend read this year than what “everyone” supposedly was reading this year. The books my friend read will stay with them, while the “Year’s Best” might not stand the test of even a little time.
Given the lasting power of good books, isn’t that just as fair a summary of the year in books as one limited to books released this year? I think it might be.
So all of that is a preface to my own list, which is actually a list of authors. I read many more books and authors than I list here, but these are the four authors who most affected my year of reading. I’d like to say a little about each of them.
Per Petterson(Out Stealing Horses, I Refuse, I Curse the River of Time, It’s Fine By Me, To Siberia, In the Wake, Ashes in My Mouth Sand in My Shoes)
One of Norway’s most celebrated writers became one of my absolute favorites this year. His novels blend together ordinary everyday experiences with dramatic, life-changing moments to great emotional effect. He writes with profound wisdom and emotional perception while remaining unassuming, and his style is simple and straightforward while allowing for flourishes. There’s lots of cold weather, cigarette smoking, and family troubles. He writes the way I wish I could, and I’m a little obsessed with his aesthetic. I’ll be revisiting his works for the rest of my life while looking forward to what he writes next (and trying to get hold of a copy of Echoland). If you’re interested in getting introduced, I’d recommend starting with Out Stealing Horses or I Refuse.
Jeff Vandermeer (The Southern Reach Trilogy)
This only covers three short books, but these recent works of science-fiction were a highlight of my year reading. The first book, Annihilation, is one of the better books I’ve ever read, and while Authority and Acceptance are not quite as good, the world, story, and stakes Vandermeer creates are compelling enough to make you have to read to find out what happens, even if Annihilation works as a standalone novel. The style of Annihilation is simple, yet haunting and affecting, and its narrative perspective and subject matter has made me think a lot about the relationship between our inner selves and the outside world. I don’t know if I will seek out more of his work (although Borne is on the list), but this trilogy had a profound impact on me.
George R.R. Martin (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Game of Thrones is one of my favorite shows, and while waiting for a new season I found myself wanting to spend more time in that world. So I did, reading all five books over the course of the last year, and now I too am waiting with a little impatience for the next book (I can’t imagine what it’s like for people who have been with the series from the very beginning). Yes, these books are violent, sexually explicit, and prone to killing off characters, but they’re also just really, really good. The world building is stunning, the characters are phenomenal, and the story is addictive. And they’re smart, which I think a lot of people don’t know. Fire and Blood, a work related to ASoIaF written like a history rather than a novel, is next on my list now that I finally got through the waitlist at the library.
J.R.R. Tolkien (The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, Beren and Lúthien, The Fall of Gondolin, The Children of Húrin)
I have been a Tolkien fan for a long time, and while I’ve watched the films regularly since they were released, I had not read any of the book since I was a child. I thought it was time to revisit them. I did more than that, reading the recent releases edited by Christopher Tolkien and going back to works I had never got around to, like The Silmarillion. He’s just the freaking man, you guys. I already want to read The Lord of the Rings again, because, while his world-building is an unfathomable accomplishment, he’s also a legitimately great storyteller. FOH with that nonsense about this works being boring. One main takeaway for me reading these works was how good The Children of Húrin is, not just as a great tale, but as a compelling, thought-provoking work of literature. Critics say Tolkien’s characters are too simple, that his world is too black and white. Not so with this one. It’s darker than most of his other works, and features complex characters in tough situations. Really, guys: he’s just the freaking man.
(Speaking of freaking men, yeah these authors are all (white) men. So that’s not ideal, and while I promise you I do read women and POC, it’s a goal of mine to be a little more diverse in my selections. It’s important.)
So there’s my list. I’ll leave you with three quotes from A Song of Ice and Fire about reading:
Tyrion: “I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind… and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge. That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.”
Rodrik: I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood. Asha: Do you want to die old and craven in your bed? Rodrik: How else? Though not till I’m done reading.
Jojen: The reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.
Below is a link to a collection of five short stories that are all some degree of winter-influenced. I like the way winter feels when reading and writing.
I want to say a few things first.
It’s a little embarrassing sharing these, because I know a lot of people who also write fiction who are better than me and don’t share it with the public. Maybe these stories are good, maybe they’re not. But I wanted to share them, and there’s at least a little ego in that. I think.
I’ve been writing, even if I don’t post on here all that often. Sometimes that writing takes the form of short stories. Most of these are from quite recently.
Look for one more new blog post for 2018 tomorrow.
Thank you so much for reading. I’m going to keep writing. Happy Holidays!