Nothing was going right; not her career, or her books, which she had been writing for over two years. And yet, just when it seemed like things were going to become pear-shaped for good, someone dropped into her life. A handsome, young man, a lovely person, with dashing good looks, and a beautiful house, and a wonderful job. With a sweep of his arms, he welcomed her into his life, and together, off they went, living luxurious days on beaches, in holiday houses, with their three cats. He was friends with a publisher, and they quickly published all three of her books, which then went on to become bestsellers, and all was well and right with the world.
Yeah. Right. More like, the reality of the situation is, I am twenty-one years old, broke, living at home, unemployed, with three children’s books under my belt which no-one wants to publish, and I have no dates, no potential suitors, no potential jobs, for that matter, and am just typing away, alone in my room, wondering what I am doing with my life. It hasn’t been a good week, my friends, if my last post was anything to go by, and I haven’t been faring well. Anxiety attacks, feelings of despair, suicidal thoughts—you name it, I’ve been feeling it.
So, what are my plans for now? Nothing, really. I do have lined up a week’s worth of work experience at a childcare centre, just to see if it is a career I would be interested in doing. I have no idea whether I will like it or not; just today, I smiled at a baby, and it burst into theatrical tears, so I am pretty sure children aren’t going to easily warm up to me. I don’t know why; I’m just a young woman, and don’t look particularly threatening. Nevermind: maybe babies are just afraid of strangers.
Honestly, I don’t know what I am doing with my life, and, at this rate, I almost feel as though it would be a good idea just to go out onto the streets and start living the homeless life, I really do. Of course, I’m nowhere near homelessness yet, but that’s all due to my dear mother, who slaves endlessly for hours a day cleaning people’s homes, just to keep the house afloat. I want to work. I want to contribute financially to the household. It’s just a matter of finding the right kind of job, that’s all.
I am thinking about going back to university, but the level of study it takes to return is something I find very daunting. To be honest, in my entire life, I have never been good at anything much except writing. That has been the one, single thing I have felt any passion or liking for, and even that is swirling down the drain these days, since no publisher seems to want to pick up any of my books. I am just at a complete crossroads, and have no idea what to do, and if it weren’t for the fact that money is necessary to survive in this world, all I’d be doing is reading and writing all day, and keeping this blog going, which would be my ideal life.
Tell me, dear reader, since you have followed me for some time—or even if you are just stumbling across this blog—based on my writing skills, and what little of my personality you can glean from my writing, what kind of job do you think would suit me? I, personally, have no idea, I really don’t. I sincerely hope you are engaged in a job that you enjoy, and that it fulfils you. It is important, I think, to spend most of your days occupied with activities that provide joy and happiness, rather than dreariness and misery.
In the meantime, I will be doing my best to navigate the waters of career searching, trying to find some kind of job I would be suited to, one that doesn’t require a university degree—or at least has a TAFE or diploma pathway—and which allows me to write on the side, fulfilling my passion and paying for food on the table, all at once. Thank you for reading, once again, and once again, I hope your own career pathway or search for a career is going better than mine.