I’ve for a long time entertained this idea that I could possibly squeeze about six or seven careers into my life, based on this (unscientific) assumption that it takes on average 10,000 hours to master a specific field. If I manage to live to eighty something years old and stay in good health, I have about six chances left to realize the many dream careers of mine. As a kid, I went through various phases of wanting to have different occupations, from architect to teacher to lawyer to politician, among many, many others. I never even considered the possibility that my skillsets would have a lot to do with whether I can excel in a particular field. It was always an ambiguous and superficial appeal that drew me into each of these domains, and I didn’t bother reflecting on how much work it would actually take to go from my existing capabilities to decent accomplishments. In a way that was uplifting, because I was blissfully unconcerned with the skepticism of the you-can-only-be-as-good-as-what-you-are-born-with mentality. Yet all the childhood career daydreaming clearly didn’t prepare me well for the reality of hard work and labor, and of falling short of even the bare minimum to “make it” in a field.
The main thing that makes a career choice appealing to an individual is obviously interest, which changes all the time. As if my childhood self has not taught me any lesson about switching interests too quickly and drastically, I am still enamored with the vision of pursuing various jobs that may or may not have anything to do with one another. To think that being in your 20s and still living with this fantasy is embarrassing. For one thing, I am often forgetful of the concept of working for money and for fulfilling one’s financial needs, being shielded by all sorts of privileges as I am. Sure, most jobs will get me some pay, but even having the option for hopping around between jobs without having to stick to one for its stability is a clear indication of privilege. For another, I occasionally ignore the hard truth that with age my abilities to adapt and transform my skillsets will grow limited, not to mention the ruthlessness with which the job market treats non-college-graduate-age job searchers. Believing in having six “lives” left for testing out my dream careers is wishful thinking, in essence.
Perhaps there is a workaround for this rather than shaking off this whole fantasy altogether. Maybe I’m still too naive at this unripe age of 24, but I am secretly convinced that I could make the dream of multiple careers work somehow. Lately I’ve been given ideas, which more or less are either just offhand suggestions from friends who notice my obsessions with certain things (e.g, books) or simply a spark of inspiration I get from watching freaking K-dramas (lol see how in touch with reality I am?). These ideas include, and to various extent of ridiculousness, (1) me picking up a side jobby (job/hobby – I made that up) as a book “influencer” on social media, (2) me training to become a book editor for a publishing house, (3) me opening up a service of editing essays for whoever needs it and this mostly entails students, and (4) me scooping around for stories about environmental issues as a journalist or freelance writer. I’m honestly flattered by how highly my friends think of me, and appalled by how highly I think of myself for even having second and third thoughts about all these ideas. Then, doubts come flooding as all the rationalizations above about my failed childhood fantasy and its objective obstacles.
At this point I’m feeling brazen enough to want to give all these job options a chance, albeit a small one. Some are less realistic than others, which is fine by me. In a few months perhaps some will disappear altogether from my mental radar, but at least for now I’m inclined to will myself in at least one of these trajectories to just see where it can take me. Six lives, each with 10,000 of dedicated work, may not be practical, but it is possible if I for once take this possibility seriously. I don’t see it as a proof to myself in any way, more like a reassuring pat for my childhood self to let her know that life should not be considered too short for any wild attempts at making work (plural works too, if that’s a thing) enjoyable and satisfying.