Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.
John Lennon, Beautiful Boy
I sort of fell into a job. I was at University reading English Language and Literature, when the woman who was later to become my ex wife wanted company while she went to see the careers advisor. I was just along for the ride when the careers advisor said "And what about you, young man?"
I had no idea what I wanted to do. Writing of some kind. Journalism maybe. Persuading someone to pay me to write the next James Bond script. Selling the awful science fiction novel I had written when I should have been revising for my O levels. Or the equally awful science fiction novel I had written when I should have been revising for my A levels.
"Have you thought about becoming a civil servant?" he said. "They do lots of writing. The closing date for the fast stream graduate entry programme is coming up. I'll fill the form in for you."
It was the only job I applied for. They say it's an arduous selection process. Only a handful accepted out of thousands of applications. I wouldn't know about that. It seemed pretty easy to me. I got through, and that put paid to my writing for a few years.
I had a shiny new exciting job to play with. People to meet, skills to learn, stuff to do. And a salary! For a while, all was good.
Then my career hit a setback. I worked for the female version of a misogynist. She wrote an appraisal report dripping with venom and it all got pretty nasty for a while. They shunted me into the statistics department to play with numbers and computers. And suddenly the job wasn't so shiny and exciting any more.
I was furious. Snarling, angry, fuming. So I hatched a cunning plan. I would do their work, but only my allocated hours. And in my spare time I would write, write, write. Become a best-selling author, then a squillionaire, buy a penthouse apartment overlooking my old office and revenge would be as sweet as sugar icing on top of the sugariest sugar cake ever to rot a tooth.
And so, in my twenties and early thirties, I wrote an awful fantasy novel. Truly, truly awful. jaw droppingly awful.
Then something happened at work. I went on a training course and met an industrial psychologist. He got me interested in the dark art of career development. How to gain new skills. How to use one job to get the next and then to use that job to get the one after that. Other stuff too, like emotional intelligence, de Bono and the self-help industry.
It took a couple of years to work, but then I started bumping up the career ladder. Every 3 to 5 years I'd get a promotion. I jumped from central government to regional government to local government, taking a new promotion on each step. Until we've reached a point where we are quite comfortable, thank you very much. Not wealthy, by any means, but definitely comfortable.
Something else happened. My jedi-like mentor whispered one particular thought into my ear. He said that most people use training to make their weaknesses better. But you can also use training to make your strengths stronger. When you get senior enough you can mould your job so that you are doing more of the stuff that you like or want to improve.
So I started to write as a greater and greater part of my job. Reports, speeches, papers, meeting notes, letters. And I got good at it. I was being paid to do my hobby. Or at least a version of my hobby.
But still the thought of that novel is at the back of my mind. So I've decided to go back to it. As a hobby, but not with any thought of giving up my job. I enjoy it too much for that. And I can't give too much time to the writing. My job is senior enough that you can't do it with just a 9 to 5.
No, the writing is there because I want it. I don't need it as a money maker any more. Naturally, all that would change if a publisher wanted to throw squillions at me, but I'm not holding my breath about that one.
I've got no idea how this story ends.
