I’ve been thinking a lot lately about identity. So much of who we are is wrapped up in what we do for work. It's an easy opener, small talk. So what do you do? It's something I've struggled with since leaving academia last year. I hadn't realised how much of my identity was wrapped up in that neat little package. I'm a criminologist, I'd say. I just got a promotion at the university. Everyone would make impressed noises whilst still not really having a clue what I actually did.
That changed once my mental and physical health were no longer at a point I could continue in that job. Despite hugely supportive colleagues and friends, the structures weren't there to make the adaptations I needed. Somewhat trepidatiously, I left. I had some loose plans as to how to patch together enough disparate roles to earn a living - some never got off the ground, others I stepped away from once I realised they were also having a detrimental impact on my health. It's been a long year. Bereavement knocked me sideways. House renovations in a property that we were no longer going to use because of that bereavement suddenly felt torturous rather than exciting. And a focus on maintaining my physical and mental well-being was never far from my thoughts.
Thankfully, my health picked up once I was away from that particular work environment. I've been a much better parent and partner since, realising how much energy my career had taken away from those much more important elements of my life. I started working for my partner's business, using some of those skills I'd honed over the years, and acquiring new ones as needed. I had always wanted to write fiction, but never thought I'd get the opportunity. Then, suddenly, I had the time. My kids were away, at school and preschool, for several hours during the day. My work for my partner was part time. And he supported me to follow my dreams. So I started to write.
Photo by Ena Marinkovic: https://www.pexels.com/photo/notepad-with-cookies-and-flowers-3721139/
Still though, people would ask me, 'so what do you do?', and I would fumble. Oh, I do the odd bit of work in academia still. I work for my partner. My kids take up a lot of my time. I'm…er…trying to write a book. 'oh an academic book?' No, actually, a tale of magic and adventure and… 'do you have an agent? Are you published?'
Oh.
Then I read something the other day that changed my attitude towards myself. It said that it didn't matter if you'd published. Or got an agent. Or even finished the first draft. If you were writing. If you were spending your time thinking about how to craft your tale. Then you're an author.
So this is me, 60k words into my first draft of my first fantasy fiction book, finally accepting that I can say it.
I am an author. And I can't wait to share my stories with you.