High flyers who came back down to earth
They battled their way to lucrative corporate careers — then gave it all up to try something more creative. And they’ve never regretted being...
NoT everybody has to be ambitious,’ my boss said. ‘It’s fine if career success and money don’t motivate you.’
We were sitting in a crowded coffee shop in the City of London, and I had just handed in my notice for my stable job as a management consultant.
I had explained that I no longer wanted a corporate career and had decided to try to write a novel and start a ceramics business.
‘Not everybody can cope with the pace of the treadmill,’ she added.
I stared at her, but said nothing. It surprised me that setting up a business and writing a novel were goals seen as lacking ambition — and, indeed, that the ‘ treadmill’ was considered aspirational.
When I told my colleagues, many were excited for me. Just as many, however, agreed with my boss.
Quitting the City at 27 to pursue a creative career was seen as giving up and jokingly referred to as my ‘retirement’. The truth is, I am very ambitious. It’s just that my ambitions aren’t for boardroom domination.
Corporate success was everything I thought — and had been told — I wanted but, frankly, I wanted a career I found more interesting.
For the six years I worked in the City, I woke up at 5am every day to write. I sat with my laptop in a dingy cafe and typed furiously. I loved those cold, dark mornings. I longed to escape the job I’d worked so hard to secure.
At 8am, I walked to the office and stared down a PowerPoint presentation, wishing away every hour.
In the evening, if it wasn’t too late and I wasn’t working away from home, I sat in my shed and made pots, and I felt relaxed for the first time since the morning.
But, I told myself, I was incredibly fortunate to have the career I did. What’s more, the industry was dominated
by males.
Female directors made up 9 per cent of my company, and I felt I had a duty to be part of the change. I read Lean In, the motivational bible for women by Facebook boss Sheryl Sandberg, and dismissed my unhappiness.
Meanwhile, I was promoted quickly. I convinced myself my desire to leave was unfeminist, that I should be happy to be away from home five nights a week and spend 12-hour days in the office.
Then I had a drink with a friend. ‘Everyone hates their job,’ she said to me. ‘Do you know anyone who doesn’t? It’s just how things are.’
I thought about that comment a lot over the next few days. I wondered how many others were like me, unhappily chasing somebody else’s idea of success.
I realised my hope that I could help redress the gender imbalance in finance was misguided because I’d forgotten that feminism was about choices, too, and this wasn’t the life I wanted.
I knew if I left the City, the stresses would be different — primarily financial.
I knew even good writers earned very little money, and I’d have to give up my smart dinners and regular holidays. There would be no sick leave or maternity pay.
I knew most businesses failed and books had no guarantee of success — I had written two children’s novels that didn’t find a publisher. But, I thought, if not now, when? It was my chance to live ambitiously.
After all, like many women in their late 20s, I had few responsibilities. I was newly married, but had no immediate plans for children. My parents were healthy and didn’t need my support.
The next weekend, I sat down and worked out how much I’d have to save to be self-employed for a year. I decided to apply for a creative writing Master’s degree and start properly trying to sell my pottery.
If I could turn a profit within three months, I wouldn’t have to return to the City. The timing felt perfect; I had gained business experience by working hard through my mid-20s, and was part of a generation planning to have children later than ever before.
This opened up years to me — years where I had a golden opportunity to pursue what really interested me.
So as soon as I had enough cash saved, I handed in my notice.
To my surprise, it was mainly male colleagues who expressed wistfulness at my decision.
‘I feel like I’m living the life that was designed for me, that I can’t do what you’re doing,’ one told me.
He explained that he felt at home in the City, but also tied to it; he was fulfilling the traditionally masculine role. He was meant to carry a briefcase and wear a suit.
Even though I experienced some trepidation, as a young woman I felt there were few cookie-cutter expectations of me.
I didn’t feel saddled by an expectation that I would be a stay-athome mum, but neither did I feel I had to have a steady office job.
My decision had nothing to do
with motherhood or family constraints, although I had seen several women about a decade ahead of me leave the industry for this reason.
In fact, it was easier precisely because I didn’t have to consider any of those things. I could work all hours and, if I failed, it would affect only me.
On my last day, I finished work at midnight. The office was empty and so was the City. I walked down the wide, deserted streets and I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt that I had regained my life.
Over the next few months, I worked harder than I’d ever done before. I was usually in my studio from 7am until 10pm. My back ached from lugging clay, carrying heavy boards of drying pots, ferrying boxes to the Post Office to send off to customers. But I looked forward to getting out of bed every morning.
For my Master’s degree I wrote short stories and, for the first time, was surrounded by people who had the same dream as me. My appetite and ambition to succeed were so strong it was almost unbearable. After two months, at a crafts market in North London, my husband and I loaded up the car and I checked my payment reader. I’d made a profit.
A few months later, we tuned into BBC 1 and saw one of my customers, a contestant on a cookery programme. Mary Berry was eating off my plates. The next goal was a novel. The memory of my two failed children’s books was sharp. I didn’t know if I was up to writing an adult novel; if I could write what I wanted to read.
But eventually I had an idea: a young woman’s quest for freedom. The finished manuscript won an international award and last week it reached number one in the The Times bestseller list.
I’ve spent the days since walking through my house in a state of shock and utter joy. This is my dream, and it doesn’t matter that my ambition is different from somebody else’s.
The Doll Factory by elizabeth Macneal is published by Picador in hardback, £12.99.