I will not be discouraged.
How age plays into my career worries.
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I turned twenty four in November last year. It was my first birthday away from my parents, incidentally. The realisation of my age, and indeed the question of how to celebrate my birthday, quietly overwhelmed me. Twenty four, it felt to me, was the end of a time period; I was exiting my early twenties and entering my mid twenties. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, so to speak. The primary concern hidden within my bones was the changing expectations of others. I became obsessed with the idea that had I written a book or recorded an album in my early twenties—both of which have been serious dreams or desires at one point in my life—the response would have been shock and awe. No! You’ve written a book? That’s incredible. I feel like the same excitement isn’t offered were I to announce either of these things today. Oh, cool, what’s the book about? Whether my anxieties would be confirmed with quite such impressive feats of creativity, who can say. I certainly think, though, that more flexibility and understanding is offered to a twenty one year old than a twenty four year old. If I am overwhelmed, if I am clueless, if I forget something important or if I am unable to express what I want or how I feel, I get the distinct feeling that ‘I ought to know better’ on account of my age.
I suppose I can let go of the idea that I am afforded less empathy when I accidentally reverse into a pole, despite my years of driving experience or when I forget a loved one’s birthday (though they always remember mine). People I know in their thirties and fifties have done both of these things, and they don’t seem to suffer less empathy or understanding than the twenty one years olds I know. I think the thing that worries me the most about my age is my waning eligibility as a dreamer. I’ll be vulnerable with you for a moment: I want to write a book. Scary to say out loud. Scarier, perhaps, to publish it to an audience that already reads what I write—what expectations might you begin to build in your minds? I’m scared that I am getting older and that my CV continues to grow stranger and increasingly diverse. I have a bachelor’s degree in design; I have work experience at a summer camp, as a photography teacher and event photographer; I worked as a gallery assistant for a short while; I’ve had freelancing stints as a voice over artist, a video editor and a branding consultant; I’ve built a few websites. At the moment, as you might have read before, I am working as an au pair. I love writing. She is, admittedly, a new love, but one which I am extraordinarily fond of and quite dedicated to. I am concerned that whomever I have to convince to allow me a job as a writer, or, indeed, an author, will take one look at my colourful mess of a resume and dismiss me entirely, regardless of how well I write (a skill which I am still refining). Were I a twenty one year old with an equally shaky CV, I feel as though I might skate by. Give him a shot, he’s only a kid, they might say. I worry that I am all out of mercy yeses. I worry that without the allowances afforded me because of my youth, I will be unable to accomplish my dream; that some firewall in the shape of a publisher will not allow me admittance because I lack the ‘correct’ career experience for someone my age.
At first glance, each of my previous professional experiences seem totally separate from each other and not at all linked to writing. Reading books aloud as a voice over artist may have been the closest I came to a job in the literature industry. I believe, though, that each adventure made me more interesting, or wiser at the very least. Perhaps the lessons I learnt while working each job have little to do with the title I carried. It’s quite difficult, of course, to imply this on a one page resume. A writer, particularly one that is interested in writing non-fiction essays, should have a few good stories to tell, after all.
In the darkened hours of the evening, when I am lying in bed alone, I worry that I am running out of time. Funny thing for a twenty-something to think, isn’t it? I become concerned about the direction in which I am pointing my life. I wonder if it is possible to write my book. I can do the work, I tell myself. I wonder, then, how possible it will be to live off of my dream. I allow my anxieties to be called ‘realism’. Will I be able to put bread on my table? My family’s? Will I have to relegate my writing career to a simple hobby? Will I always aspire to be something I will never become? Will publishers show interest in me? Will agents? Will I be laughed out of the building when I show them what I’ve made? Will I even make it into the building? Paradoxically, amidst my fear that I am old and running out of time, I feel more like a child than ever—overwhelmed and out of my depth.
I’m going to give the book a shot, anyway. I think I may have to. Though I try to be sensitive to my feelings, aware of the information my body is throwing at me, I am hesitant to trust them all the time. In my experience—while running, while studying, in most creative exploits—my doubts are very seldom an accurate reflection of my ability and, regardless of how much they try to convince me of the contrary, are unable to predict the future. There is no more truth in my deepest fears than there is in my biggest dreams. So I will point my life in the direction of my dreams and figure out how to do the work. The details I fret about, I have decided, will have to come later. While I may lack a little career experience in writing, I have deep wells of experience when it comes to learning on the job. I will continue to write and continue to dream and I will try to take the massive, daunting, pulse quickening risk of it all in my stride.
I’ll make sure to update you with any news on the book, but for now, if you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.
Go for it Jem! We are all rooting for you!