A quarter of a century

I’m turning 25 today!

Therefore I’m officially a quarter of a century old, and, as Simone Weil politely told me this morning in my serendipitous current reading, “at twenty-five, it is high time to leave adolescence radically behind oneself…”

I think I’m fine with that, thanks – I hated being a teenager, and I was delighted to leave that bit of existence aside as soon as possible. But I thought a twenty-fifth birthday warranted a lightly self-reflexive blog post on the things I knew and didn’t know I’d do, at the then very old age of twenty-five, when I was a little girl.

And so, when I was a little girl…

When I was a little girl I would never have thought that, at twenty-five, I would be an academic.

I never imagined, until very, very late, that I’d become an academic. First I wanted to be a primary schoolteacher, then I wanted to work in publishing. I hated school. I told my mother, when I was ten or eleven years old, that I would quit school as early as the French system allowed – sixteen years old.

Fourteen years after that inflexible promise, I was out.

Even in my undergrad years, when I’d suddenly discovered, thanks to the UK system, that I loved studying, I didn’t think I’d stay on to do a Masters. Even during my MPhil, it took my supervisor to tell me “Just apply for PhD funding, you never know…”, and the aforesaid funding, for me to realise that this was indeed what I wanted to do more than anything else.

When I was a little girl, I would never have thought that at twenty-five, I would be childless(/free).

Until very late – 21, 22 years old, pretty much – I was convinced that I wanted to have children very early. The idea of being a young parent appealed to me greatly. I’d decided 23 was the perfect age to have a first child. Yep, 23. No idea why, but the arbitrary age was a firm decision.

As you may have noticed, I rarely talk on this blog about my two-year-old toddler. It’s because no such person exists.

Not only have I not fulfilled this youthful oath, but the idea of having children has never been farther from my mind than it is now. Complete change of heart, due, I think, to a variety of factors – some quite interesting, but matter for another blog post.

When I was a little girl, I would never have thought that at twenty-five, I would be constantly in touch with hundreds of people.

As a child and a teenager, I was quite solitary. I used to think I wasn’t very sociable, but I didn’t mind at all – I enjoyed the feeling of self-sufficiency it afforded me. I didn’t think I often met people with whom I felt on the same wavelength. I’d never have thought, of course, that with Facebook and blogs I would have the opportunity to meet and talk to hundreds of people who shared my interests, people with whom I would interact everyday, even though I might never meet them. On the French side, this is exactly what is happening, and I love it. These friendships and acquaintances are only virtual in their manifestations – not in their status. You learn so much, and are enriched so much, when you get in touch so easily with people who think about the same things as you do.

When I was a little girl, I already knew I would be a writer. But not exactly like this…

I always wanted to be a writer, and I never wanted to be a full-time writer. That’s done, but of course when I was a child I imagined something else. Immediately successful books, showers of awards and instant film adaptations. That’s normal for childish daydreams, I think.

But more importantly I never imagined that there would be this weird feeling of inadequacy regarding the books you publish, the constant, nagging impression that they’re not-quite-right, not what you meant – at all. Your name is on them and you sign them to people. But. There’s always something missing.

When I was a little girl, I already knew I’d always be interested in children’s literature and in childhood.

My interest in children’s literature and in childhood were always a part of my life. Even as a child, I was fascinated by childhood as a concept, even though of course I didn’t formulate it in that way. My own childhood, that of others. The passing of time, the end of childhood. Younger children fascinated me, too. I always devoured children’s books, regardless of age guidelines. As a teenager, I wanted to be a school teacher, but then I understood it was the theory that interested me. Not real children, but why adults (and me) were so obsessed with them, and with childhood. As I said, I’d never have thought I’d become an academic, but I knew that what I would do would be linked to childhood.

 When I was a little girl, there were lots of other things I didn’t think I’d do at twenty-five years old.

Living in the UK, of course I couldn’t have foreseen that as a child – but as a teenager I started becoming interested by the English language and Britain. And other things were unexpected. I didn’t think I’d become so engrossed in philosophy one or two years after leaving France, where I’d received rigorous teaching in the discipline but also the impression that it was a dry and cold subject.

My personality has changed, of course. I’m more sociable and more accommodating now than I used to be. I feel much more balanced, less irritable, and less close-minded. But also much more stressed by the passing of time, the urgency of writing, reading, transmitting, learning, creating. I get bored less quickly, but each empty moment is oppressive – I’m more impatient than when I was a child.

And I hope the next twenty-five years are just as full of new opportunities, new discoveries, new books to read and to write, new friends. And at last my own home and an actual job (please!).

As well as more projects, which I see for now as fusing into ‘one’ project, that of thinking in different ways about childhood, always – that concept which still fascinates me even though I left childhood quite a while ago now, and that I’m less sentimental than I used to be about mine and that of others. If anything, it’s made it much more interesting.