It is a rare occurrence for me to not complain about the degree I settled for during time at university. I mean, let’s be honest, what good could have come from a Bachelor of Criminology and Criminal Justice rather than, oh I don’t know, a Bachelor of Law? Or maybe Commerce? Business Studies? Anything else but a social science degree that now sits pretty on my desk, and which was not able to help secure the job I wanted.
Some might say the world was my oyster and I squandered it all.
But what would I have studied in its stead?
There are days when I wonder if it would be worthwhile to be a mature student and head back to the hallowed halls of university to study something new. Maybe a juris doctor? Or perhaps I’d reskill into teaching (although the topic I’d teach still remains a mystery. Maybe a humanities subject? English? Although the thought of breaking down the tropes and cinematography techniques of a film makes me queasy).
The other alternative I can see myself taking on is that of a librarian. One filled with snark but with a heart of gold. And a desire to see people learn. I’ve often said that the children of today don’t read enough. Even with the advent of Booktok (though I do find the recommendations more miss than hit).
Yet, as with many things, the long term career progressions with such a position are few and far between. Most days may just end up being the same as I chat with what few regulars that might show up. Or worse, I’d have to talk to people about romantasy or the latest Colleen Hoover.
While these thoughts have sat in the back of mind, it was not until I caught up with a friend from university that I felt fit to discuss it on my blog. Mostly because, over the course of dinner, I was not shy to divulge the stress I was under from being a carer for my aging grandmother (as well as the accompanying mental load) along with my grumblings regarding work, and she had seen fit to ask me what I actually wanted out of life.
Of course, I’ve made it abundantly clear online that one of my lifelong dreams is to become a published author. Or, of course, to win the lotto and retire on my winnings.
My friend rubbished my two choices entirely.
After all, winning the lotto, while a vague possibility, was highly improbable.
And as for becoming a published author? Well, we were all just corporate drones. It wasn’t our lot in life to become successful writers. To do so would be a feat in and of itself.
That said, she isn’t someone who has read my blogs or the stories I’ve posted online on Fictionpress and Wattpad. So, it’s hard to put weight on her opinion that such a dream is an impossibility. I mean, if I put myself out there and send through my manuscripts to agents or publishing houses, there might be a chance what I’ve written could get picked up.
Still, it made me wonder what she thinks/ expects I do on the regular.
I know that she knows I play video games, reads books and watches whatever is popular on the streaming services. But writing? Now that’s a whole different concept. And it’s not like I advertise it freely.
Certainly, I don’t discuss plot ideas with any of my friends. At least, not frequently.
Writing has almost always been a personal and unique hobby of mine. One I don’t freely share with others. Especially if they aren’t as creatively inclined.
While I think some of it goes back to how I hide facets of myself to live up to their expectations or be a more palatable human being without the grimy gremlin tendencies I do have hidden deep down, I also feel like writing is something that is mine.
They are my ideas. My characters. My world.
And I don’t think writing would ever not be part of who I am.
Every reader eventually tries their hand at writing up an idea they have. If I hadn’t started back up again at the end of university, I would have still stumbled down this path later. Something would have pushed me towards it.
Admittedly, I might have bounced off it again but the idea of putting one’s idea out to the world would have eventually reeled me back in.
Although, I do like to think having a blog where I can occasionally post my thoughts and ideas on has also helped.
It’s certainly put a lot of my thoughts and feelings into perspective. Without the art of writing, I might be more a bundle of stress, ready to explode at the slightest provocation instead of who I am now (which is still a bundle of stress but maybe less?).
More than that, dear reader, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the stories I can share of my adventures overseas. Or my dating mishaps!
So, maybe, then, I should have done a degree in creative writing?
I mean, if I want to become an author, surely such a degree would be far more useful.
Though, of course, that is predicated on my writing actually being successful. Which, in this day and age, you would think it simplicity itself. What with the quality of some of the books being churned out for the masses to read.
But if not creative writing, what else?
As is often the case, I found myself at a loss of words to say what I would have liked to pursue to alleviate the misery that has been compounding in my home life and at work. Maybe a hobby, suggested the friend. Or perhaps you could learn a language.
Yet when asked about my thoughts, I simply said I wasn’t opposed to the idea. A sure sign I wasn’t all that keen because I wasn’t jumping at the opportunity or very enthusiastic about the choices of languages I could choose: French, German, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, and gosh knows how many others that would be at my fingertips with a simple download of Duolingo (not that I’m enthusiastic about a lot of things except maybe my story ideas).
Still, while I may bemoan my choice of undertaking a Bachelor of Criminology and Criminal Justice, the one good thing it brought me were the friends I made along the way to graduation. And they are priceless (though you wouldn’t know from the sunk cost fallacy of the years spent on the degree and the HECs debt accrued. Yet without our shared experiences, would we have become friends in the first place? No. So, it was totally worth it in the end. Or so I like to tell myself).
Even if they don’t want to meet any of my other friends.
Or come to my birthday parties…