University is a bubble. It’s constant deadlines, looming reading lists, nights out – so many nights out – and living on top of from some of your closest friends. Then all of a sudden it’s over. Those three or four years really do blast by; then you’re thrown into the world of adulthood with the aspirations of a career that you may not even be sure you want to attain.
I never expected to walk out of university into a job that I loved (thankfully I’m not currently trapped in one that I hate), especially considering I had only really worked out during my final year of study what it is that I actually want to do. Even these goals are still a little shaky, after all, a career in publishing is not easy to come by.
I loved every moment of university – bar the lingering pressure of debt, a rapidly depleting overdraft and perhaps also a questionable choice in housemates. Having a new city to live in and explore was one of my favourite things about the experience, and it didn’t take me long to fall in love with Sheffield.
I was lucky enough to truly enjoy my course and received such an invaluable education from some amazing lecturers. I had initially applied to study journalism however I was rejected from the course, which I think was a blessing in disguise. In hindsight I know that I wouldn’t have had the same passion for it. Although it might have opened up more career opportunities fresh from graduating, who knows.
Whenever I tell people that I studied English Literature their response is usually “So you’re going to be a teacher then…” or “… an author!” These aren’t wild assumptions, but a degree in literature certainly does not qualify nor prepare you for either of those things. In reality, the majority of us simply want to remain hauled up in a library, methodically working our way through an endless list of astounding things to read and analyse. This process is what drew me to publishing. Whilst I don’t harbour the ability to draft fiction, I want to be somehow involved in the process of bringing it to life for others to devour.
I am thankful that I now have a direction in which to hopefully throw myself. Thankful that when people ask me what it is that I want to do (the question that sends shivers down the spines of students and graduates alike), I can offer a little more than a shrug of the shoulders and glazed expression which translated to I really just want to read some more good books.
I still just want to read some more good books, of course. And I’m no writer or teacher. But I do now envisage myself in the field of publishing. I want to communicate ideas; celebrate the good ones; possibly even offer suggestions to the bad.
Although the concept of having an idea sounds easier than having no ideas at all, the difficult part comes once you start to work toward something.
Currently, I feel lost. It isn’t necessarily a negative feeling, but merely an extension of adjustment.
I know that this feeling will be temporary, but right now it is all consuming. I miss my bubble.
I have considered, reconsidered and then abandoned the idea of blogging for a few years now. It wasn’t the feeling of having nothing to say which held me back, but the concern that nobody would read what I wrote. This doesn’t seem like a logical thought process when facing this already vastly populated digital realm. If somebody told me that they wanted to blog, my reaction would simply be ‘go for it…’ So here I am, doing just that. If you made it this far, thank you. Also, if you’ve followed me here from Bookstagram, hello again!