Seven Questions to Write About What You Loved at Ten, Before You Knew What a Career Was

Scraps of paper cut into banknotes lay scattered across the dining table.

My daughter is nine, and she was setting up a shop out of three biscuit tins and a roll of tape. Her money was squares cut from exercise-book paper, numbers written in blue biro. She stood behind the tins and called out to me in a very formal voice: "Customer, what would you like to buy?" And I, an electricity bill in my hand, suddenly could not remember the last time I had been absorbed in something because it was fun and not because it was useful.

Then another scene surfaced, strangely clear. I am ten, sitting cross-legged on the floor at two in the afternoon, the fan creaking, in my hands a broken alarm clock and a small screwdriver borrowed without asking from my father. I unscrew each tiny screw and line them up on a sheet of newspaper, and I am thinking about nothing. Not "I'll be a repairman", not "am I good or bad at this". Just the smell of machine oil, the clicking, and a sense of time standing still.

If you have a moment like that somewhere, this piece invites you to sit beside it with seven questions.

Not a search for the right career

There is a misunderstanding that arrives naturally: that looking back at what you loved as a child is meant to uncover your true passion, so that you go back to it and quit your job. It is not that. Much of what you loved at ten cannot turn into a career, and does not need to. Nor is it meant to make you mourn that you took a wrong road.

This piece does one thing: writing. Looking back at what your hands liked to do when nobody was asking anything of them, and seeing whether any thread still pulls toward today. There is no answer you need to extract.

Why is what I loved as a child worth writing down, when it has nothing to do with earning a living?

Wednesday evening, my daughter asleep, I sat at the dining table with a glass of iced tea slowly melting and a blank sheet of paper. I wrote one line: "At ten I was crazy about..." and stopped, pen hovering. The ceiling fan turned slowly, and out in the street a motorbike revved up through the alley.

It took two minutes before I wrote the first word: clocks.

The first thought is always: children love everything, what is there to look back at. But underneath that thought is something interesting. At ten, nobody had seriously asked me what I would be, there was no payslip, nobody grading me. What I loved then was one of the few things not yet filtered through the question "what is this for". It was the least rationalised thing I had. I did not take clocks apart to repair them, or sell them, or be good at it. I took them apart because my hands wanted to know what was inside.

And looking closer, what remains is usually not the object but the way of doing. Not the clock, but taking apart, lining up, looking at each piece. Not my daughter's paper shop, but arranging, naming, setting prices. That way of doing can follow a person for years, taking one shape, then another, without them noticing.

You can tell you are doing it right when you write small, concrete things, like the sound of the fan, the smell of oil, the label on a biscuit tin. If you keep writing "I loved creating" or "I liked finding things out", try pulling it down one more step: creating what, with which hand, sitting where.

The first time, many people sit looking at the page longer than they expected, and feel a little embarrassed writing things that sound childish. Some remember something they had completely forgotten for ten-odd years, and are surprised. Some remember little, and that is fine. After a week, a few notice they pay attention to things like that around them: a child taking something apart, someone arranging things very carefully. Others notice no change at all.

On a day with no time, write exactly two lines: one thing you loved at ten, and one verb that goes with it. Unscrew. Draw. Run. Line up.

The easy place to tilt in the preparation is turning it into a meeting with yourself. You prepare a chart, divide columns, set a target of "finding three things". It is tempting because people who work a lot are used to organising everything. But this writing has no outcome to sign off on. The more carefully you arrange it, the more it will read like a report. Leave the paper blank, the pen beside it, and write as though telling a very close friend.

Seven questions, from light to deep

They are best written over three separate sittings, or at least with a break in between. Each comes with a small hint for when you get stuck. You do not need to answer them all, or in order. If a question makes you want to skip it, skip it.

About the hands

1. At ten, what did you do that you would not hear someone calling you away from, until the third time?

Hint: It does not need to be impressive. Marbles, building blocks, cutting paper, modelling clay all count. Remember the sound of the voice calling, if you still can.

2. What were your hands doing then? Describe each motion.

Hint: Holding, unscrewing, drawing, typing, lining up, digging, peeling. Write slowly, as if filming a short clip. Add the sounds if you remember them.

3. Where in the house or yard did you play most?

Hint: A corner under the table, a stair, the empty lot at the end of the alley. Try to remember the smell and the light there.

About people and places

4. Did you play alone, with friends, or show the grown-ups what you made?

Hint: There is no right answer. Just notice who was with you, or who watched, if anyone. Sometimes someone's absence is worth noting too.

5. Was there something you loved that the adults around you did not understand, or called a waste of time?

Hint: This question may touch a slightly heavy memory. If it does, write one line and move on to the next. Not every question needs to be taken to the end.

About now

6. In the past week, was there a moment when your hands did something similar?

Hint: It may no longer look like clocks or cut paper, but near it: taking apart a plug, rearranging the kitchen shelf, peeling fruit for the family. Look back over the week for small places.

7. If you had an extra half hour a week for something of that kind, what would it be?

Hint: Only half an hour, not a change of career. Choose something small enough that you can really do it next week.

You can tell you are doing it right when you write at least one detail that would be lost if you did not write it: the smell of machine oil, the biscuit tin, the creak. Usually that very detail leads you to the next question.

The first time through all seven, some people feel lighter, as if they had wiped a dusty corner of the house. Some feel a little sad without knowing why. Some feel it is nothing much, just a few sheets of paper. After a week, a few try half an hour on question seven and feel strange because it has been so long since they did something for no reason. Some forget the paper entirely, and that is fine. All of these are ordinary ways of finishing.

The short version for a packed week: answer only questions two and six. One old motion, one new motion. A few lines each.

There are two traps in these seven questions, and I fell into both. The first is answering with a job: writing "as a child I loved machines, so I must be suited to engineering". It is tempting because it feels like discovering yourself. But it turns the memory into evidence for a conclusion you already had, when this piece only invites you to look. Instead, write down the bare motion and leave it there.

The second is judgement: "so childish", "it was nothing". It is tempting because grown-ups are used to rating everything by usefulness. But precisely because it had no use, it deserves to be written down. If the judging voice keeps cutting in, try reading your answer as though it were about a different child. I believe you would not say "so childish" to that child.

If you try it and it does not work

Two reasons come up often.

The first: you remember nothing, or your tenth year had little room for play. Maybe the household was busy, maybe other things weighed more. In that case do not force it. Switch to a nearer question: in the past three years, what has absorbed you, even once? If remembering childhood brings a heavy feeling, sadness that lasts for days, or a particular memory keeps returning and troubling you, it is worth telling someone with professional training, such as a doctor or a psychologist. If thoughts of hurting yourself appear, go to Emergency Support right away.

The second: what you loved as a child is something you can no longer do, or looking back only makes you wistful. Some people finish writing and feel sad at how far away it is. Try shrinking question seven to something even smaller: watching someone else doing it, or touching an old object. Near is enough.

And if none of this suits you, that is fine. Some people look back another way, like listening to two voices talk, the one that wants big meaning and the one that has a bowl of rice in front of it. Or talking to yourself the way you would to a good friend, if the judging voice in you is too loud.

The next week I sat at the dining table with a wall clock whose battery had died, a small screwdriver, and half an hour nobody would call me out of.

My daughter wandered past, looked for a while, then pulled out a chair and sat beside me. "What are you taking that apart for, Dad?"

I thought for a moment.

"To see what's inside."

She nodded as though that was a perfectly reasonable answer. Then she picked up the smallest screw and set it in the row.

This article was created with AI assistance.