John Grisham got me here.

I decided to study law once upon a time.

John Grisham novels spurred me to do that. Specifically one John Grisham novel.

I was an eighteen year old who didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. I read The King of Torts over the summer, and my god. That very American world of class action lawsuits, clipping the ticket on thousands of clients who’ve been victims of some mass medical product recall that wasn’t quite recalled?

Though I didn’t even have a full drivers’ license at that point, I was ready to go shopping for private jets just like the once-upon-a-time public defender in the novel began to do after discovering this cheat code to criminally legal riches.

Then I went to law school.

I worked at a bar while I was at said law school—right around the corner from the high court in Wellington.

Guess where this is going?

No big twist here. I had a lot of contact with real life lawyers. Not the persona they let you see when they’re trying to get your business. I’m talking real lawyers.

The ones who drink every day.

The ones who would turn up to the bar with special requests to pour liquor into a takeaway coffee cup so it can act as a less conspicuous hipflask when they go back to work.

That’s how a real lawyer gets through their day (or at least a certain type of lawyer)

I also had contact with the defendants who would often come in to the bar for one last drink (or nine) knowing with a high degree of certainty that it would likely be their last for quite some time.

And it wasn’t just this element of that world that shattered my illusions.

It was the culture of law school itself. My peers—among that crowd, I felt like I feel when I accidently find myself among a group of “actor” types. People who might burst into song at any moment, who want to draw attention to themselves in public. Not the law students, the actors—but I’m struggling to find a sufficiently universal example of the law students collective quirks to include here.

I’m not entirely sure why I’ve decided to alienate two groups of people with one broad stroke here, but I’m in it now. My point is, that world isn’t what I assumed it was when I looked at it from the outside. Once, I stepped through the front door of the legal life, I looked around, saw the dry reality of that day to day, the immediate holding ransom of personal time, revised morality that might be required, and considered, “how badly do I actually want that private jet?”

This may sound a little like I simply couldn’t handle the hard work. But it wasn’t that. In fact I’d say I’ve got an overdeveloped ability to suffer through things I don’t enjoy— so long as it contains elements that I find rewarding. It was the fact that I couldn’t find anything to cling to while I was noticing that others could which gave me pause. Perhaps I simply wasn’t built for the legal world.

I was looking around at my class mates who were all working just as hard as me, but all seemed to be discovering the one thing that made their eyes light up. “It’s hard juggling the work load, but I find jurisprudence fascinating,” or even, “yea it’s a slog, but at least the people are great.”

Which is fine. This all sounds very chastising. But I’m not judging. I’m just declining. The reality is not what was advertised.

From one illusion to the next.

I say this having jumped back on the horse to pursue an equally romanticized and equally misrepresented career.
The best selling author— a career similarly associated with alcoholism by the way.

And just like my legal aspirations, when I got on the other side of the door—still trying to wedge my foot in there as we speak— I found out, and am still finding out, that the reality isn’t quite the same.

But this time it’s different.

Third and final example…

When I first joined an MMA gym, I had that thing that I’ve witnessed in more than one fresh starter. You wander in, lace up your gloves and from the first punch thrown, you’ve got one eye on the head coach. Just hoping he’ll notice you. Spot something special.

Next thing you know, you’ll be Cus D’Mato and Mike Tyson. A fast tracked prodigy taken under the wing of a coaching great. Straight to the top. That’s boxing’s version of The King of Torts.

Then you find out how bad you are. How long the road is and you’re faced with the reality. Do I like getting hit in the head?

In my case, I kind of did. But my brain didn’t, so I was forced to segue into Jiu Jitsu. Which I once again found to be different to what was advertised. It’s not just choking people and breaking limbs— most of the time you’re deep in the weeds of maintaining a certain posture, spending hours troubleshooting how to create an extra few centimeters of space to move a hundred KG man off your solar plexus.

Not romantic by any means. But I did fall in love….

…with the problem solving element. The creative element. Something very different to the Roberto Duran legend I’d envisioned myself invoking at the beginning.

The dichotomy of the romanticized dream

That’s the dichotomy of these romanticized ideas. They chronically falsely advertise to get you in the door, then you find something different.

But once you’re there, you have an opportunity to discover whether that something different appeals to you.

For law, that “something different,” wasn’t to my taste.

Luckily for me, with Jiu Jitsu, I liked that “something different.”

With writing, I also liked that “something different.”

And guess what?

Do you know what people want to read about? The famous trial lawyer with the messy but layered personal life. They don’t want the sad real version.

They want the prodigy version of the fighter, or at least the underdog, rising to the top tale.

In the writing world, the romantic version is the version. So if you discover that you’re ok to sit in front of a lap top making up stories that aren’t real, being rejected up to five times a month for your efforts on the small hope that you’ll get one pebble placed on the other side of that see-saw, you’ll enjoy the best of both worlds.

I’m psychotically fine with all the above. Imagining up premises that don’t interest anyone but me, because I can feel the gap between me and my audience getting smaller. With each premise I lay down, I feel more interest spiking from my readers. I’m able to deliver the idea more effectively, punch up the elements that draw intrigue. I’m content to battle away, doing the thing for the sake of the thing, exploring the unromantic elements of it while I perfect my mastery of it.

Until one day, I’ve honed my skill to the degree where I’ll be able to conjure up that inspiring invocation of a profession that may one day convince a clueless eighteen year old to waste away a year of their education studying law only to end up becoming a writer as well, years down the line.