I wouldn’t say that my life has been full of “not-quites”. My life has - and I must say that at the grand old age of twenty-five my life is still very much in its infancy thank you very much - instead been a case of ambitions tempered by reality. Whilst I haven’t always known exactly what I want to do, I have always known the form of what I would like to do, and the type of person I want to be. I have always known the vibe I want to exude - one of a freewheeling, freethinking, creative type. Except not so much of a twat as the type of person inclined to describe themselves in such a way. The only hiccup in making this dream a reality is that it’s very difficult to distil this ambition for the sake of, say, a CV for a job in digital content marketing.
Neither has it been a case of “that’ll do”. For a neurodivergent girl from a state school sliding into special measures, my life has been pretty damn good. So far - touch wood. I got great A-levels, went to a big fancy university, got a first-class degree, and then went on to pursue my master's in modern literature and contemporary culture. I thought I wanted to be an academic, but the more time I spent around academics, the less I wanted to make that dream a reality. I discovered academics were all alarmingly sheltered and insular, each convinced that their upcoming thesis on postcolonial attitudes in the works of Henry James was the most important thing in existence and that anyone who hadn’t read the Turn of the Screw was an unpardonable philistine. I didn’t want to be like that. I wanted something a tad more grounded in reality.
So I made the decision that if I wanted to write, write properly, the time to do it was now. Fresh out of UCL, I began furiously writing, writing every chance I got, about all manner of things. Essays, long-form journalism and cultural non-fiction, mainly. To say that I have made a success of it would be a dramatic overstatement. I’ve written plenty, but examples of my published works are few and far between, I’m afraid. To tide me over whilst I wrote, I picked up temporary contracts working for charities and pubs and on the outskirts of academia and, then finally, for a start-up that actually wanted me to write stuff. Sure, they wanted me to write about pubs and festivals and meme culture, but I was finally being paid for writing on a permanent-ish basis. I have made it, I thought to myself. Next stop, the Spectator.
But the job became stagnant, and my boss treated me poorly. I applied for every job in journalism on the Guardian Jobs website and got only a handful of first-stage interviews in return. I spammed every conceivable media outlet, trying to spread the word about how basically fantastic I thought myself to be. I tried to use my connections before I realised I didn’t really have any. I expanded my search, looking for anything content related. All the whilst, I kept writing. I stumbled upon a job at the University of London, marketing and writing copy for student recruitment. I got the job, and I was so happy to finally be paid a decent sum, but I couldn’t quite help but think that this might be the beginning of the end of my dream to be a serious, or even lighthearted, writer. Gnawing at the back of my brain has always been the thought that I’d sold out a bit, made my peace with the ‘money god’, to evoke the attitude of the immortal Gordon Comstock.
But what’s a girl to do? I have made London my home over the last seven years, and to make London your home, you really should have money. I tried, didn’t I? I did the rounds, started the blog, got my bits and pieces published, but no one was ultimately interested in taking me any further. It might sound as though I’m blaming others, not myself, and I totally am - but I think I’m justified in doing so. After all, our ambitions always hang on the interests of others. Whether you’re in fintech or politics, journalism or bin collecting; it is other people that help us realise our ambitions. Otherwise, they remain unrealised. I’m starting to wonder if they (my ambitions, that is) should even remain. Is it not becoming a tedious form of torture, sitting here in my free time, pretending I am some great wit? Well, maybe a tad, but also, not entirely: this is the answer to so many questions.
I vowed to myself that when I got this well-paid university job, ironically one that mainly involves controlling the egos of academics, I wouldn’t let the writing stop. I told myself I would stay after work and write in Senate House. And I have kept up my end of the bargain. My writing has continued to be an essential outlet, both personally and creatively. But increasingly, it has felt as though I’ve been screaming into the cork-lined walls of Senate House, and no one’s been listening. I’ve become a hobbyist - no longer is writing my sort-of career. Instead, it’s a form of therapy and something to keep me occupied on a Tuesday night, only so long as I have nothing better to do. I can’t say it thrills me. But it’s not something I will ever stop.
What do I do now? I’m thinking that, in a few years' time, I will try and get into content and copywriting and marketing for a newspaper or the BBC or somewhere like that. That seems to be the direction my career is taking me in, and funnily enough, that does excite me. It’s a proper, grown-up career; not one hanging by the thread of Squarespace and my shitty Chromebook. But it’s funny, all the forces my career is at the mercy of. None of them seems to be my own passion and hard work. When I consider my dreams, I think of a little eighteen-year-old me, leaving home and moving to London to make something of myself. I wanted so badly to be in the hustle and bustle of the city, and in that ambition, I was wholly successful. I wanted to read great works of literature and live the life I’d read about in New Grub Street. In that respect, I suppose I have been successful too. I have become a writer, just not a successful one. Now it’s time, perhaps, to go and join the rest of the degree-educated, media and professional types, as we each struggle to etch our own personality onto the careers we have stumbled blindly into.
So no, my life is not a collection of “not-quites” or “that’ll do’s”. Rather, it is a life in which passion has played runner-up to necessity. I’m not entirely comfortable with it, but that is the nature of necessity. Maybe if I came from money, survival would not be at the forefront of my mind. But quite frankly, I feel I am enough of a success for looking after myself, getting out of bed every day, and becoming the strong, financially independent woman you read before you. And I am equally proud of myself for staying true and keeping on writing, even though I have succumbed to the idea that no one’s listening. That is how I know I am a born writer. Because no one is giving me jobs or book deals, and yet it is still the thing I want to do at the end of my working days. I still hold onto that hope that someone will read me one day and think, she’s onto something here; but until then, I’ll continue screaming into the void.
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