Nowadays, as the approaching juggernaut of the working world races thunderously into view towards me, I am trapped, paralysed in the harsh light of its metaphorical headlamps. I cannot hide away from society and its plans for me, I cannot disappear with my bohemian whimsies and vague wishes to live life on my own ludicrous terms. I am to be made into a functioning, working member of this world, and I better make my mind up sharpish as to what I am to become, otherwise life itself will become a meaningless husk and I might as well throw myself off a cliff to the jagged rocks below if I can't think of anything. I get asked what I want to do, where I want to work, who I want to work for, when, why. Everyone else aside from myself seems to be perfectly set in their minds as to what the future holds for them and I find myself stuttering and mumbling something inconsequential half to myself about being a writer.
That is true, I do want to be a writer. Probably the most ingloriously nonspecific statement ever that is. "In what? Where? For whom? What medium? Fiction or Non-Fiction?" you get asked like a confounded artillery barrage. Well I'm not sure really I reply. I certainly have qualifications. Or hopefully will, I'm still half praying that if I send in enough cereal box-tops to the university they'll send me a degree free of charge. I am hoping to write for whatever I can. Journalism seems the obvious option, soul-crushing and hideous it may be, probably I shall be relegated to some squalid local newspaper due to my own mediocrity. Sadly my own personal writings, of poor merit, bizarre content and of fruity language are by no means suitable for vegetable animal or mineral consumption, so it's 30-odd years of writing in tepid, miserable excuses for language then spending ones retirement pondering whether I ever had the proper fortitude, gumption or skill to be a writer. So no, to whoever's asking I'm afraid I have no clue what the future holds for me and any possible employment prospects. And given what rushes through my head sometimes late at night in addled fever dreams of wasted life and crushing boredom, I'm not sure I want to.