I am 37-years old, and I spend a lot of my days wondering, part lamenting, how I arrived at this age without an expertise to which I will confidently lay claim. When pressed on the issue, I typically share the story of my first job after college. I explain that if I can work as an investment banking analyst with a degree in American Studies, a minor in Education, and only a week's worth of WSJ knowledge about the DJIA and finance, then, I can do anything.
There's a little corner somewhere between my ears and fingertips that harbors that cocksure confidence. But, there are so many talented folks who have dedicated lifetimes to honing one brilliant expertise, and thus, when I start thinking, "Sure, you could run off and be an interior designer," I am confronted with the gent who designed and built a crib for his bespoke nursery at the age of 18 months, and suddenly, I am not worthy.
So, I chuck the interior designer plan and start taking inventory of my skills and life experience to determine my true expertise, my brand, my platform... blarg. The packaging of ourselves is perhaps the most demoralizing demand of the modern workforce. We are pretty hard to fit into boxes, and I do not really want to be a "social media expert" or a "marketing maven." I do not care what SEO demands of me. I like to think I am pretty frickin' nuanced and capable across a wide range of domains for one reason: I can read, and I can learn. Okay, maybe that is two reasons, but they are closely related to a third reason: I can write.
So, the story about the story about the apple (check "About Me") is a little goofy, perhaps a little gimmicky, but when I think about what I have been doing for a lifetime, it's writing.