Words, Pathways, and Imagination
or, how I got from there to here
“I do not think one can assess a writer's motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in ... but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape.” George Orwell, Why I Write, 1946
Once upon a time is the usual way to start a story, and there’s many a fairy-tale I’ve read, and written, ones with sharp teeth, and shoemakers, and spinning wheels. But a fairy tale this is not, although, if I were to compare my thesis journey to a fairy tale, Cinderella springs to mind - Grimm’s version, not Disney’s. The day-to-day drudgery interspersed with small pleasures and triumphs, the despondent thoughts of ‘is there any way out of here?’. Then one day, in the dim and distant future, you look up from your broom (keyboard) and see your fairy godmother (supervisors) with the carriage to take you to thesis submission and beyond.
My question now is, if I do not want to begin with ‘once upon a time’ then where do I begin? Julie Andrews suggests to start at the very beginning, but I don’t think that is a very good place to start this. Besides, when I look at the ensemble of my life, my journey here, I am unsure where the beginning actually is. But we have to start somewhere…
Bookworm.
The delight of printed paper under my fingers, the distinctive smell of books - old books, new books, books kept in an attic, the library, oh my goodness, the scent of a library – so many words giving me the ability to escape, to imagine other lives, other places, other times.
Escaping, I think of books as an escape. But an escape from what? Now, as an adult, the fiction I read is as water to a thirsty creature. A way to replenish my peace of mind, fill myself with images and imagination, switch off from the necessities of life. Back then though, as a child, they weren’t really an escape now I think about it. They were a doorway, one I could step though to experiences I would never have, find adventures lived vicariously through ink on paper.
I lived and loved so many stories.
My younger self, torch in hand, tented under the covers because I couldn’t wait til morning, hoping I could reach the end before I was discovered. Tasting the flavour of stories, the warm and comforting vanilla, the chilli bite of excitement, the sour taste of the ones I refused to finish.
The love bubbled through me, the lore and lessons sank into me, why couldn’t story-life become real-life?
I guess this is where it began, those old-fashioned school stories of quiet heroism and jolly capers, teenage detectives solving any challenges life presented, and yes, the fairy tales of Grimm and Lang, all those who taught me that there is (almost) always a happy ending for the good.
My idealism.
My sense of responsibility that I could and should make a difference somehow. My deep conviction that the world could be better, that people are generally ‘good’. That there must be a path around, through, and over the wicked problems of our imperfect world.
And my love of words and worlds.
Which has led me to this thesis, where I am attempting to combine all, knowledge, idealism, and words into something for the world, for the brighter future I know is there … somewhere.
Of course, as with the classic novels I ingested, there have been forks in the road from there to here. Reversals of faith and fortune, forests to wander, and rivers to ford. Because life is like that. And I expected it, will always expect it. I get frustrated sometimes until I remind myself that it’s more fun to meander than walk the straight line. You never know what you will find along the way.
In the dying months of the last century thoughts insinuated themselves into my every day and prodded me to make some different choices, some scary choices. I satisfied a secret longing and returned to education, applied to university to take an undergraduate degree in history.
History, not English. History which I didn’t even take at school, not English which I got my best results in. Those who knew me were puzzled, but it was very simple. I didn’t want to dissect a book I loved to the point where it was dead to me. And really, the clues were there for history. The Silver Jubilee poster adorning my bedroom wall of all the British Kings and Queens (supplied by Weetabix), the obsession with ancient Egypt, curiosity about the lives of people long passed, the wonder on my face viewing artifacts in museums, imagining those who touched them, created them, used them.
And here I pause and ponder, because history is all about people. It’s about their novelistic lives, their worlds. And then us mining nuggets of information from ephemera they produced to create understanding and knowledge. My interest in real people dates back farther than I realised.
Wandering the path through academia, not always easy, but mostly enjoyable and upwards, and then … the perfect studentship, hours spent on the application, the dreadful joy of an interview. Rejected. Packing away the hopes and dreams was a hard but necessary choice. Packed away, but not forgotten…
Imagination has helped me all my life. Through words on paper and thoughts in my head it has always been there. And now it rescued me when I was at my lowest point by offering me a job. Temporary but with possibilities. A small step to an alternative future, and a large step beyond my comfort-zone. A small possibility that morphed into a larger opportunity. Six months became six years.
Imagination is the amazing name for a magical place. A place of design researchers creating possibilities from their investigations, weaving their words into impact and outcomes that make our world a better place. Imagination is the place where I found a home, a family of learners and doers, one where conversations turned from mundane, through peculiar, to funny, and back again, but always with curiosity and excitement for the possibilities.
Imagination is where I found the hope to dust off that desire for learning, the courage to ask for opportunity, and finally, the reality of pursuing a PhD.
And the reality is that sometimes reality sucks. Words have always been my friends but some of the words I am meeting during this process are, at best, frenemies. Some words are strung together in knots and snarls so convoluted that unravelling feels an arduous task. Yet I am slowly finding the ways to untangle the knots and tame the snarls.
This is a strand of my ultimate plan, to discover how to weave these frenemies together into coherent and clear prose and poetry which doesn’t hurt heads and make people doubt themselves. To allow all the impacts and benefits of research to be shared beyond academia.
To be continued …