Over the last couple of days, I’ve found myself in a bit of an emotional ditch. I’ve been feeling down, defeated and directionless. There’s an assortment of reasons for my melancholy, many of which I shan’t dump on you within the confines of this essay. One of the reasons more relevant to the subject matter of this post, however, is tied to the fact I recently turned 35. And yes, before we proceed, I must state that I am acutely aware that this isn’t an age considered to be old in the grand scheme of things. I’m most definitely not at the tail end of my lifespan, glancing back at a long-lived life. Me complaining about hitting the mid-point of my third decade is almost as daft as it was when I got similarly distressed after turning 27. It’s not that I feel old in a traditional sense of the word. It’s more of a milestone that’s stared me down, forcing me to reckon with the ghosts of a younger, more ambitious self; a self that feels more faded now than it did a year prior. If you’d cornered my 20-year-old self and asked what she wanted her life to look like by 2025, she’d have most certainly painted a picture straight from a feelgood biopic. In that vision, I’d be a seasoned screenwriter, having long since traded the quaint British television scene for the sprawling promise of Hollywood’s very own Tinseltown. My prose would have dazzled producers and directors from across the pond. My talent would be undeniable, whilst my bank account would reflect my colossal success. 

But as with all fables, reality had other plans up her sleeve. At the time of writing, I’ve never worked so much as a day in the film or television industry. Instead, I veered off the creative path after university, diving headfirst into the world of plastics manufacturing. It’s a career that’s been a reliable nine-to-five, allowing me to pay my mortgage, go on regular dates, indulge in holidays from time-to-time, and purchase fancy new clothes when the urge takes hold. Yet such a career path is something of a million miles from the starry-eyed dreams I once had. And honestly? It’s been getting me down a little lately. It’s not that I resent the life I’ve built. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and I’m proud of the journey I’ve taken myself on over the last decade. Nevertheless, there’s a gnawing sense that I’ve let a younger version of me down. This is the version of me who beavered away at university, convincing herself that endless dedication to writing scripts and acing her postgrad career would magically transform her creative dreams into dazzling successes. Amidst such musings, I started to feel like I’d given up on the part of me that was meant to create, trading it in just to play the game of life.

The other day, I was airing this out with a trusted friend, lamenting that I’d wasted a significant portion of my life away. I confessed that I just wasn’t creative enough for my liking; that I’d traded my grandiose aspirations for a comfortable mediocrity. Yet, as the words left my mouth, a flicker of an idea began to make itself visible. I realized what I was saying wasn’t the whole truth. It was a minor manipulation of reality, born from a cynical moment of pessimism. Because if I’m honest with myself, the creative flame never truly died. It’s been burning for a while now, so much so, that the flames are starting to spread.

Sure, there was a period between 2018 and 2020 when it sputtered a fair deal, yet since the dreaded pandemic that soured our lands at the start of the decade, things have changed considerably; the main one being, I started writing again. I planned and outlined several novels in 2020 and 2021. Even though these projects never made it to a final draft, I still took aspects of them and adapted them into a series of short stories, all of which I’m genuinely proud of. As I mentioned during my debut addition to this journal series, the concept for my current novel, Synthetic Empires, was even born during this era; a project I’m actively working on as we speak. On top of all that, I’ve been consistently updating my website with new articles and reviews every month for the last several years.

Then there’s the Ctrl Alt Critique podcast, which has just seen its 32nd episode reach publication. Since launching with two of my closest friends back in June 2024, I’ve taught myself the ins and outs of audio engineering and honed my skills as a presenter and editor. It’s a project I’m incredibly proud of. A creative endeavour that feels less like a hobby and more like a second job that brings me endless joy. Whilst it may well be a world away from traditional screenwriting, every episode is a storytelling exercise. From the production facts to the comedy skits, the goal of each episode is to weave a narrative that pulls listeners in, engages them and provides them with a unique view on the film we’re covering.

All of this has led me to a rather delightful and humbling conclusion; I’m in the midst of a creative peak. It’s something I’ve touched upon in this series a few times, yet is only beginning to properly sink in as of right now. I am writing and producing more content right now than at any other point in my life. Twice-weekly writing journals, regular short stories, film and TV reviews, and a bi-monthly podcast episodes are bleeding out into the public sphere. My heart and soul is pouring out into the wider world, and I’m proud of the work I’m doing. It might not be generating a Hollywood salary or the kind of fame my 20-year-old self fantasised about on a regular basis, but I am doing what I always wanted to do. I’m telling stories, I’m refining my craft, I’m broadcasting my inner worlds.

This epiphany forced me to confront a question I’d been avoiding; what is it about my present that makes me feel unsuccessful? Is it the absence of a blockbuster budget to visually execute my stories? Could it be the lack of a mansion tucked away in the Hollywood hills? Is my disappointment rooted in the fact that the directors and authors who inspired me as a young girl don’t know I exist? Or is it simply the absence of fame and recognition? Because once you strip away those superficial trappings, what’s left is a life far more fruitful than my gloomier moments lead me to believe. I’m building a platform to explore my thoughts and share my ideas, and I’m doing it on my own terms. The scale might not be what I once imagined, but the importance of it remains undeniable.

When framed like this, may 20-year-old Amber wouldn’t be too disappointed in her future self, after all.