We were taught in small classes and one-to-one tutorials by unruffled tutors who told us of the other projects they were working on: articles, books, poetry collections, documentary films. It was the mid-1990s and mine was one of the last few cohorts to receive free tuition and maintenance grants. My indecision continued through my teenage years and so I hedged my bets by taking an undergraduate degree in literature, politics and philosophy at a redbrick UK university.
#JOB QUITTER SYSTEM SCAM FULL#
My answer to the timeless childhood question about what I wanted to be when I grow up was always the same: “I don’t know, but something to do with words and books.” Growing up in a house full of unbookish people, I could not then imagine the careers – bar the obvious – that we might carve out of a love of words, books and stories. Let me explain by way of an origin story. Because of course I want it – I’ve spent the past 10 years of my life working actively towards it – but I’m just not sure what it is any more – and if I want whatever it is enough to do all the things necessary to secure it. Nearly a year and a half on from my viva, I find myself preparing to answer a new set of questions – not only whether I still want to be an academic but how much I want it. But, like a dog pursuing a car, I focused so hard on chasing down my prize that I failed to notice the landscape changing around me. I wished for it, I worked for it, and, in late 2017, I got it. The “what” in question was a place on a PhD programme and the prospect of becoming a fully fledged academic. Those cautionary words ring through my past and are now set to resonate through my future. “Be careful what you wish for: you might just get it!”
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