Hello Master’s Degree: Expanding My Ingrained Notion of Creativity

Well, it’s not that I’ve previously considered academic writing to be the opposite of creative writing as such, but I realise that, perhaps unconsciously, I’ve nevertheless been biased towards writing stories, lyrics, and poems.

Academic writing has been an enjoyable challenge, but my goal was always to be a fiction writer. Don’t get me wrong: I still want to be a fiction writer (you know, one of those who actually get paid). 

Call it an approaching mid-thirties crisis, one more desperate push to impress whoever it is making me feel permanently inadequate, or a realisation I’ve wasted far too much time and energy and missed far too many opportunities to do something I can be proud of — regardless of how much, if any, money I can make from it — but I’ve just applied for a part time, online uni course in English literature. 

As a lot of you have probably also done, I’ve spent quite some time during the past 16 months regretting things I haven’t done (yet) and planning for positive changes. One of those plans, as previously mentioned, is my three year running plan. Another is to save up for a deposit to buy a house (and I’ll keep as many cats as I like and paint the walls whatever colour I want!). And a 1.5 year plan of getting my Master’s in English Literature. 

Confession

I am one of those nerds who love studying. I love reading, researching, plowing through secondary literature and grappling with theories and methods and drinking far too much coffee whilst agonising over the fact I’m just not smart enough to analyse Shakespeare or creative enough to harbour a single original thought. Well, OK, perhaps I could live without the agony, but I’ve at least accepted severe self-doubt is part of my writing cycle. 

For years, I have somehow resisted the idea of doing a(nother) literature degree as I imagined that if I ever did move on to do a master, it’d be in creative writing. And then I resisted the idea because I kept thinking of it in terms of, well, money. Basically, is it worth the time and effort if I don’t intend to apply for jobs that require a master’s in literature (slim pickings)?

The conclusion that I’ve come to is: Yes. Yes it is. Why? Why not? What’s wrong with doing something just because you enjoy it? I’ve got some job security, some financial security, I’m doing well mental health wise, and I miss studying. I miss making notes, reading the same passages over and over again until finally something happens and I realise I get it. I miss slaving over an essay, editing and rewriting, and finally getting feedback and hopefully a good grade and that feeling of having accomplished something — feeling proud over something I’ve done even if none of my friends or family or strangers will want to read it or will understand it if they do read it. And the imminent future is still looking uncertain pandemic-wise, so if not now, when?

And, you know, once a nerd, always a nerd. I’ve even got the glasses now.

So to get back to the question of creativity, I have come to realise something else: although I love fiction writing, when I studied Creative Writing, I struggled to be creative “on demand” — I am much happier writing fiction when nobody tells me to. And although I love writing academic essays, I struggle to be academic on my own free will, so to speak, whereas I thrive on the pressure of writing an essay with a set deadline I didn’t give myself. 

Reading some of my old essays, I also remember how creatively powerful writing them made me feel. I don’t feel restricted by rules and convention, and whilst I know a lot of people don’t like “dry” academic language (As if that’s even a bad thing!), I’ve always found it fascinatingly challenging to not only read, but write academically. I take immense pleasure in both reading and crafting a good title — which is harder than it looks!

Finally, Rachel Carson did pretty well going from fiction to academia, and Silent Spring is far from a dull, uninspiring piece of writing.

So hello, English Literature, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again. 

Shyness Is Fine

I never want to go back to working full time in an office or a shop.  

There — I’ve said it. Last year, when the head of my department asked how I found working from home, he seemed almost surprised when I said I prefer it to working from the office. And I think it probably has something to do with the fact that people in my department are very outgoing, social people, who seem to thrive when working in close proximity to colleagues, available for quick chats, some gossip, and some work talk. I don’t. It tires me out. I am always a little bit on edge, waiting to suddenly be forced to think quick, be witty, come up with conversation topics, raise my voice to take part, and so on. 

Don’t get me wrong: I like my colleagues. I like feeling part of the group, but I didn’t feel part of the group until we all started working from home a year ago. Then, as if by magic, I felt we had a level playing field. I could be funny, start up conversations, take part, show them who I was, what I did. Thank god for Teams chats! And it wasn’t just something I felt or imagined: on my last day, my manager said she felt they had really gotten to know me more in the past six months working from home than in the previous six months working in the office. I was told my witty remarks would be missed. 

I was witty! And people noticed! Mission accomplished. 

In case I forgot to mention: I have now gotten my old job back, six months after my temporary contract ran out and couldn’t be renewed. I work part time in my old department, and have just started part time in a different department at the same company. And how amazing was it for my self-confidence to realise that me and my work was so appreciated that not only do I keep getting called back to my old job (third time lucky?), but was offered a job by a different manager at a different department, just because he knew from rumour I was a desirable employee. 

So, yes, working from home, interacting mainly through email and chat, suits me perfectly, and it shows. I have become braver, more open, more active in discussions, and I have dared to show more of myself and my personality, my talents, and passions. I have shared music, my crafts, my running goals and achievements, and even opened up ever so slightly about my social anxiety (next on the list is sharing something I’ve written — perish the thought!). And, believe it or not, I think I have even made a few friends. I’m not saying it wouldn’t feel awkward to see them again in real life, and I may even withdraw back into shyness and silence, but at least I have been able to show them that there is more to me than a quiet observer nobody really knows anything about. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, despite all the setbacks this pandemic and the lockdowns have had on my struggle with social anxiety, it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the majority of the pandemic in a company who trusts their employees to do a good job without supervision, with the infrastructure to support remote working, and the common sense to not rush everyone back into the office at the first sign of decreased infection rates. 

There’s someone who knows how to stand out and be invisible at the same time.

And it’s interesting how my mind has shifted from constantly worrying I’m not talkative enough, not outgoing enough, not part of the group because I’m too awkward, to realising more and more that perhaps it’s less to do with my personality, and more to do with forms of communication. Because right along with the reduction of face-to-face interactions has been a reduction in anxiety and this feeling of otherness I always carry with me, and I see that, for all the differences, I’m no lesser member of the group: I have my place, my role, and now everyone knows me as that foreigner who hardly ever switches the camera on and who will write in the chat during meetings rather than try to cut through the noise and the lags. But, you know, we’re all fine with it.

They know I’m shy; I know I’m shy — so what?