This is not a midlife crisis. It’s just that I’m doubting my whole career and what I’m doing with my life. The fact that I turned 30 a few weeks ago is just coincidence, a big massive coincidence.
Not even I believe that, it’s a midlife crisis but shhhhhhh don’t tell anyone because expressing my feelings is not my thing.
I missed writing, I have no need to write in my day to day life and I miss it. In university, as stupid as it sounds I did love the whole process of crafting an essay. The thinking about what you were going to say, the first massive write and the constant reading and rewriting and cutting and adding and repeating the process until you were happy or it was time to hand it in. Now the most writing I do is a ‘love note’ to my colleagues to hand the kitchen over on my days off or conversations with guys on Grindr. Guys on Grindr are not great conversationalist, they aren’t very quirky or interesting in how they write. They speak in short sentences like “hi”, “looking for?”, or “sex?”. Or they just go with the whole a picture says a thousand words route of romance. On that rare occasion that you do chat to someone who is willing to get weird and trade massive essays on completely random thoughts, I always get too carried away and scare them off. This is because I miss writing and take any chance to do so. I’m currently trading messages with a guy that involve me buying Wales and setting up a dictatorship with a sheep based defense force. Obviously. I find it highly entertaining, he is much slower at responding and I’m pretty sure will ghost me soon.
So now I am writing, purely because I want to find a way to write. Well not purely for that reason, as part of my midlife crisis I feel the need to get out of the kitchen and into a job that has slightly more normal working hours. Because I’ve never worked in anything apart from a kitchen I have no clue what that job is. I don’t know how to do office work and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t doing something where I created something my soul would be crushed and die swiftly. And not even a dramatic end of season cliff-hanger death, more like a nobody noticed its dead until the neighbor wondered why there were so many flies kind of death. See I get weird when I write, this is not what Grindr guys find attractive.
I like the idea of writing for a living, crafting thoughts into something people want to read but I don’t have any work to provide a basis to do that for a living, so I’m starting. Basically like everyone having a midlife crisis I’ve decided to write, having never done it before, as though it’s simple and I was born to do it, making every writer who has studied and slaved away for years as angry as I feel when a housewife decides she would like to work in a kitchen. She can’t do that and I can’t write, but ehhhhh I need to do something so for this week this is it, it won’t last long because I’ll get tired or distracted and I have limited life experience on which to write anything about.
And so ends the first act of my midlife crisis, this stream of conscious writing exercise that nobody will ever read. It was soothing and relaxing in a way that playing the opening bars to Outcasts ‘Roses’ repeatedly on the piano was. I feel good, so that’s something at least as I return to my life that is definitely not, but clearly is, in crisis.