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Sometimes the Wrong Path is the Right One
November 28, 2023I spent four years of my life doing a PhD that I hated. Four years to accept that hating it meant it was the wrong path. Four years to abandon my sunk cost fallacy, and stop surviving on bread crumbs – fleeting moments of enjoyment – and an enduring, stubborn refusal to quit, because quitting makes you weak.
And yet, in many ways, quitting was my first true act of strength, the first time I surrendered my pride and actually listened. Gritting your teeth is one thing, but doing something that scares you, challenges who you believe you are, and risks regret … that’s the kind of strength I’d like to get to know better.
It was the first time I’d let myself listen to that ephemeral, spiritual voice – the one that lives in your tummy and your heart and your throat, but not in your brain – since I was a kid and too young, with the wisdom of innocence, to think I knew better than my intuition.
Because while I was proving to myself that nothing could make me quit, that I could endure any punishment (punishment I was allowing into my life, in more ways than just my academic trajectory), I was also signing off on an agreement with myself to not respect or value what was good for me. I was training myself to struggle against my own chains – the circus animal and the whip-master both.
The facts were that I thought I wanted to be a writer, and that the highest degree of education I could possess would somehow get me closer to that goal. But I often didn’t enjoy the overall process of writing, and one week of solid writing would usually take me two months of mental gymnastics to summon the engagement with my chosen craft. I tried every routine, every tactic I could find or think of, and ultimately spent significantly more time trying than I ever did succeeding (with any success I did find always, always short-lived).
Worse still, I did not enjoy rigorous academic research, because where my project existed as research for research’s sake, my heart believed in art for art’s sake – not exactly a motto that functions in a research degree, where everything needed to be academically justified.
My honest feeling was that my own research was superfluous, and although I did have love for my creative project, I detested the academic perspective that ran parallel. A doctorate thesis in the arts won’t change anything or go anywhere, so you should arguably only do it if you love it (although the vast majority will still grow to dislike it given time, so you need to be disciplined – not my strongest trait) or because you require the doctorate ticket for your career.
I didn’t fit that necessary criteria, because deep down I didn’t truly want a PhD. I thought I was self-sabotaging when all along I was telling myself exactly how I felt. But I gritted my teeth and tried to do it my way, over and over again, until my supervisors slowly ground me down, forcing me to fit the mould that every part of me was rejecting.
I was doing practice-led research, which means I had a creative artefact of work (around 80k words) and a supporting thesis (around 20k). When I quit, I had ironically managed to write two 40k drafts of my artefact, and four 5k drafts of my thesis, not including time spent on reading and research.
My chosen subject was interactive fiction: think Choose Your Own Adventure books. It was a blend of my two love affairs at the time: games and books. I researched experimental literature and children’s literature while I wrote a philosophical CYOA that explored the concepts of choice and determinism.
How peculiarly relevant this concept was to my life and learning, because while my mind was focused on interactive literary choice, I was neglecting to make a choice that would change my own life for the better.
I used to scour the internet, on occasion, looking for (what I couldn’t then identify as) people like me now: happy PhD dropouts. But I was often met with articles that still smelled faintly not of regret, but of a kind of shame. I think that shame comes from the same place which conjured my misguided belief that quitting means failing.
My unexpected conclusion on the matter is that, yes, quitting is a kind of failure, but it’s only our ego which struggles to accept the connotation of the word, and the feelings that can linger. Your gut – whatever spiritual instinct we often supress; that inner voice which knows you keener than your mind – understands that failures can be our greatest gifts.
Those years were the worst of my life, in more ways than one, and yet I’m indebted to them for the people they’ve since brought into my life, the new path I couldn’t have found prior, and for becoming a gentler human overall – to those around me, and to myself. The freedom of choice isn’t free of charge; it’s a malady that’s uniquely yours to bear. The wrong path can often be the right one, but only if we’re open enough to listen, brave enough to act, and strong enough to fail.
So here we are, less than a year after I finally showed up for myself, having applied for an internship at Busybird Publishing and finding a space that makes me happy.
The difference in my quality of life is enormous. I respect myself more, practice listening to that voice, and don’t accept or tolerate what causes me genuine discomfort. I still have some kinks to iron out, some troublesome mental habits I’ve trained in: worst of all being my inane hyper-analysis which freezes me into physical inaction. Just getting myself to my laptop can flood me with dread some days. But now, when I listen keenly and allow myself to challenge what I thought I’d always known, I embrace that I don’t want to be a writer.
Instead, I journal mindfully and consistently using fountain pens and beautiful inks, and it brings me the feeling of stillness that I so enjoy.
I’m reclaiming my love of words – my way, the way that actually feels good. The consequence of this leading me closer to a path of peace, my true life’s longing.
Choose wisely,
Skye Blake
Happy PhD Dropout
Rediscovering My Passion
November 17, 2023Books have always been the one passion I have stuck with since I was a little girl. It was rare to see me without a book in hand.
I would squeeze in chapters in-between classes, and I couldn’t wait to go home to fully immerse myself in the book I was reading.
I have my mum to thank for that. She is an avid reader as well, and we would read children’s books together, moving her finger across the words to help me pronounce them.
One of the earliest books I remember reading was Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi. Thanks to this book, and the help of my English teachers, I grew to love the classics: Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, you name it.
Throughout the years, my love for books has only intensified. It has become an obsession. Every waking thought is about the book I am currently reading, and the characters flood my mind. I imagine them in different scenarios, how they would act and speak.
They consume me.
Some part of me always knew that I was going to end up studying Creative Writing, no matter how many passions I’ve had, or urges to study something completely different, or the many obstacles I’ve faced.
Writing is always lurking in the shadows, waiting for me.
My mum had gifted me a small notebook with flowers embroidered on it for my eleventh birthday and told me to just write. And I did. I never took that notebook for granted. It contained all my writings, and it spanned years.
I loved flipping through it to see how much I’ve improved, and I noticed that there were recurring themes I enjoyed writing about: family, friendship, and romance.
Some of that writing is embarrassing to look at now; a few are just bad, but one piece did come in handy much, much later.
Me being a naïve little kid, I didn’t realise just how much of an issue living in Egypt came to be for a future career. I have always been a creative person; I would have found studying Medicine or Engineering (which seemed to be the two main professions Egyptians went into) insufferable. I didn’t want that for myself, and neither did my mum.
We concluded that, if I wanted to study Creative Writing and for my sister to get a better education, we had to leave Egypt. We started researching for countries to move to.
By the time I reached Year 10, I was hopeless. Not one country we researched was suitable for us, and I was running out of time. I had to pick my IGCSE subjects for the career I wanted to pursue, and I had to resort to the second-best thing: Graphic Design. It was a relatively new major in a German university in Egypt and I had to be satisfied with the option I had.
But then I moved to Australia.
In January of 2022, I commenced my foundation studies in Art and Design. Because of constantly being put down and unable to study Creative Writing, I made the mistake of studying something I grew to dislike.
Art and Design was a huge toll on me, and it was the type of demanding I didn’t enjoy. It was a toxic working environment and I was dissatisfied. And now, a whole year after I’ve finished my studies, every time I pass the building, I get shivers.
I knew that this was a major I shouldn’t dedicate the next three years of my life to, and after I was done with Foundations, I stepped back, and I was finally, finally, able to study Creative Writing.
How glad I am of my decision that day.
I applied for a bachelor’s degree while I was in Malaysia, and I sent in a reworked version of one of my old writings from that notebook, accompanied by two new writings for my application, and I got accepted a few weeks later!
I have had so much fun this past year with my studies. I have met incredible people that push me to be the best version of myself, I’ve been taught by wonderful teachers that continue to inspire me every day, and my writing has evolved by tenfold.
As I’m sitting down and writing this, I have officially finished my first (technically second) year of university!
I’ve been fortunate this year, and with Busybird Publishing, I feel the luckiest. Because I’ve been searching for opportunities that will bring me further in my career, I sent in an application for an internship position, and it has been a delightful experience.
I have learned so much: knowing how the publishing industry works, how much time and effort it takes to perfect a book for publication, editing and styling books, how Les has a vast knowledge of 80s music that I still need to broaden my horizons about, how Kev has the impressive skill of solving Rubik’s cubes which he has tried to teach me the secret behind time after time, and how Oscar loves his belly rubs and daily walks.
I’ll always be forever appreciative that I was offered this opportunity.
Thank you,
Farida Shams, Friday intern
Loving something unexpected
September 19, 2023I grew up caring little about books.
The thought of having to sit down and stare at a bunch of words sounded like the end of the world. Growing up in an environment where I was constantly outdoors, I never understood why people would rather bury themselves in a book than socialise and soak up the radiant weather …
… until I was in the school library forcing myself to find a book I could tolerate for class. My plan was to stare at the pages and make it look like I was reading. However, those first few pages sucked me in.
The Dork Diaries Series was the first step to finding the slightest interest in books. The series was written in diary format, consisting of drawings and comic strips to illustrate the life of the fourteen-year-old protagonist.
Sure, I found the book immature and dramatised, but one of the things that kept me consumed was being able to relate to the characters’ experiences and understand the way they felt.
Before I knew it, I purchased the whole series.
The desire to buy more and more books increased. At the same time, the embarrassment and shame of having people in my life see my passion grew stronger. I saw the judgement on my friends’ faces when they heard I liked to read.
My fourteen-year-old self realised reading books wasn’t something to be ashamed of; a part of me was thrilled that others didn’t like what I liked. This could be something of mine and no one else’s. It felt like my own world that I could delve into whether they liked it or not.
As I grew older, my pile of books rose to new heights and the genres expanded dramatically. I started off with young romance, realistic fiction, and diaries, and later I became drawn to dark romance, sports romance, suspense, and thriller.
I didn’t realise it had become an obsession until every waking thought was about a past or present book – wondering about what would happen next, why my life isn’t as interesting as these books, and waiting for characters that I loved to enter reality and make my life a way better story than sitting on my bed with my imagination. (Obviously that can’t happen, but a girl can dream.)
Now, the haunting question every person experiences in their life emerged: What do you want to do in the future?
I was always able to come up with an answer whether that be a teacher, therapist, illustrator, youth worker, actress or psychologist – all of them had one thing in common: they were all something I thought I would be good at.
Helping others and using my creativity to pursue something has always been a skill of mine I wanted to put into play. However, I was always looking for something else. My past ideas never consumed me and if I wanted to make a career out of something I wanted to fully love it, not just like it.
So, author it was.
English had always been my strongest subject, I lived and breathed writing and reading from the age of fourteen. Everywhere I went, my journals would be attached to my hip, and I’d stick in anything I found in, whether it was a leaf, a bottle wrapper or some branded sticker. It went in those pages and I wrote the hell out of them. My love for storytelling had always existed through drawing or writing, so wanting to be an author made a lot of sense to me.
Once I started sharing my hopes to become an author, people’s eyes started falling out of their sockets and their mouths dropped to the ground. They loved the idea. People who looked at me with doubt and judgement not understanding why I loved to read in the past changed their thoughts, and I found that interesting.
Why all the sudden was it such a good idea? And why did they support the idea of books now?
The increase in people’s support didn’t change how much I wanted it, it did not dictate my love for reading and writing and it did not change my viewpoint on authors. It only made my pathway more clear, seeing as I had people around me who believed I could do it.
I loved being able to empathise with a character, see their personal growth in a whole book and be inspired to create the same feeling. Curiosity took a tug on me, and before I knew it I was researching all about the process of writing a book and what authors did to become successful and how they created these worlds.
A few months later, Work Experience forms were travelling to the whole Year 10 cohort. Some dreaded making a decision and others wanted nothing more than to find a place to work at. There were two reasons work experience was occurring:
One) to find a possible job or,
Two) to find a future career.
I decided instead of trying to land a job, I wanted to find out how to become an Author, and the process of writing a book and the challenges that would come along with it.
Then Busybird Publishing fell right at my feet and I decided to take that further step to figure out whether this career was meant for me.
I owed it to myself.
I’m in the midst of my work experience right now and I can safely say it is definitely an experience I won’t take for granted. Learning how books are created and the ways of editing has been an eye opener.
Seeing the fluffy golden Labrador, Oscar, as soon as I walked into the warm and creative atmosphere definitely confirmed my stay. Oscar definitely made the days brighter and the times at home rough with my young Labrador’s jealousy, but I can say it was definitely worth it.
Thank you, Busybird, for creating a safe and inviting space.
Bella Pozza
Work Experience.
The Continuous Growth of My Imagination
July 11, 2023I am forever in debt to a teacher who I neither enjoyed the presence of, nor her class.
However, many years ago, she gave me an opportunity to strengthen my imagination, which has created unforgettable memories later in life.
In early primary school, I found that paying attention in class – especially mathematics – became arduous when I had no interest in what occurred in the room.
I started daydreaming – not as a pass-time activity, but as a way to survive monotonous classes. My mathematics teacher tried tremendously hard to gain my attention. She attempted everything humanly possible – sitting me at the front, cold calling me in class, and sitting me away from friends.
To no avail.
Her biggest mistake was placing me near a window in sight of the various people commuting to work in the early morning. This enabled me to imagine the elaborate lives of strangers as undercover agents in broad daylight, or maybe even police officers circling the premises before making their big bust. That was the first real inspiration for my imagination – strangers going about their day-to-day lives.
Later in my primary school journey, I started adapting the plots of various authors I was reading when completing writing assessments. My teachers were none the wiser.
In most instances, I would implement an element from a memorable storyline and adapt it to fit the prompt presented; e.g. ‘The Power of Friendship’, or ‘Where does the tunnel lead to?’
They were broad topics I could put my own spin on. I enjoyed figuring out how I could tweak plots that I didn’t find interesting from popular books while plucking out elements from other stories that I liked to create some sort of hybrid.
As I grew older, I steered away from plagiarizing popular authors and focused more on adapting the stories that I came up with during class time.
My friends – unbeknownst to them – became the protagonists in the “live-action adaptions”. When the teachers left their posts at break times, we would stage epic battles of valiant fighting, utilizing sticks as swords and deflated balls as shields. I let my imagination run wild during break times. I think that’s what I miss the most from my primary school experience.
Last year in June, my history class held a trip to Tasmania – a memorable trip for all the wrong reasons. The worst of it was an unfortunate hike to a beautiful waterfall. It happened to be that we were in complete darkness for hours as we hiked whilst harassed by the rain. Not ideal in the slightest. Even the most athletic kids in the class complained about their aching legs.
To try and put my mind at ease – away from thinking about not making it back to Melbourne in one piece – I took enjoyment out of tormenting my friends with bad jokes and stories that I came up with on the spot. None of them were any good, but it did motivate my friends to climb faster (probably to drone me out).
My love for storytelling has always been present throughout my life.
I hope that in the future, I can continue to nurture my love for stories.
Sienna
Work Experience
Thrive
June 20, 2023A chilly morning, mid-July 2014, twenty-three teenagers sit before one teacher in a classroom for ‘Pathways’ — a lovely subject that seeks to load up teenagers with the weaponry they will need to traverse the world of careers.
Who and what do we want to be?
How does one figure out who they want to be?
I was put on Earth for a purpose. Unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten what that purpose was along the way. And I’m struggling to grasp the walls of life and drag myself out of a large hole I seem to have dug for myself. That’s abhorrently cliché. But it’s delightful to be abhorrently cliché sometimes.
I have a theory: as small children we know exactly what we are intended to do. We show signs of natural talent, gravitate towards certain hobbies, instruments, sports, cleaning, organising. How we play with our toys, talk to them, form relationships between them, is the path we are to take.
But by the time we grow older we disappear into so many other aspects of life. We become our friends, our parents, our siblings, our teachers. We disintegrate into other people and lose that core self we started with. It is absolutely delightful to tangle your life lessons and philosophical ideas with those around you.
School. Pathways. Decisions about life. I had a cliché fork in the road about which ‘pathway’ (clever name, ‘redacted’ secondary college) to take. Traditional role, become a teacher? A delightful job, entertaining, enthralling, exciting. ‘Moulding the minds of the next generation’, Maths, Science, English. All the learning all the time. Or do I go off the beaten road and find something wickedly creative? Become a writer, an actor, an artist?
I enrolled in primary education at university (I know, but it was the ‘right’ thing to do, I claimed out loud, I can teach and write on the side; of course there would be enough time for that).
It was a lot of fun. It’s insane how quickly you can grow such strong bonds with the groups of children you teach for a short period of time. You learn what their favourite animals are, the way they look at life, who and what they love, (and) you become a small part of their growing lives. I made treasure hunts to teach map reading, puppet shows to read storybooks, math games with prizes to teach multiplication.
My strength is imagination. And yet the wonder from my life started to drain away, enjoyment of the everyday slowly seeping out.
When the fervour for your so-called ‘passions’ start to leak out of you until you are twisted dry of all the zeal of your interests, you escape out the other end afraid of what you once claimed as your favourite things. Fear can control so much; it’s nauseating. That’s when you begin to question whether this path you are beginning to head down is meant for you. It’s a funny thing trying to imagine the rest of your life and realising that you were scared of becoming who you saw at the other end. It was definitely not the person you wanted to be. Quickly, slam the brakes on the car! Turn back!
To halt life for a moment is a scary thing. But sometimes the world needs to stop. It moves way too fast. Days are horrifyingly short. And if time management is not a strong suit of yours, as it is not mine, months can slip away before you get a chance to sit down with that romance book you bought two years ago. It’s such an easy read, and yet, it haunts your every waking moment. You look at it every day and carry it around with you in hopes that your brain will allow you to open it. But it never does. There’s always more important things, or less important, distracting things to do.
I decided, no bullshit.
What do I love? Why separate the best things in life and work?
It’s ridiculous and absurdly silly to stray away from the parts of life you love.
And not the good absurdly silly.
And so I changed. Decided to delve into the world of arts. A creative writer, was the person I wanted to be, a trivial girl in an absurd world writing pretty things. Stringing words into beautiful sentences, what a glorious picture. That is, if fear doesn’t strangle the hope out of me first.
The excitement of wandering into class to sculpting clay all day, craft animations, debate philosophy of love and death, emulate Shakespeare, piece together poems of mundane life, everything became crisp. clear. The wild feeling that that is the sum of your life is enchanting. Writing stories was what made me happy.
Discovering passion is strange, for me it was coming to the conclusion that all the things I enjoyed as a child was what I wanted my future to be. Bright, colourful, pretty things. I may need to etch a spot into this world for myself, for a place that doesn’t exist, yet.
It’s nice learning to love the things you once loved. The first time you decide to read again is such a release, and it may be hard to put down a book again. The fear is all still there, but sometimes it can be pushed aside, because there are much scarier things out there and one day picking up a paintbrush, or pen will be easier.
I hate how cliché of a personal discovery this is, but it’s almost, possibly, slightly beautiful that most of us have this realisation at one point.
As infuriating as it might be that we all go through the same life discoveries, we are all living our wonderful, mundane, silly little lives, together, separately.
And I love it.
Don’t waste your life’s purpose worrying about the unchangeable parts of life.
Thrive.
Thanks for everything, Busybird! <3
Lexie Thodis, Friday intern.