There’s a particular kind of conversation in which someone decides who you are before you’ve finished speaking. They hear your age, learn one thing about your life, or notice that you’re quieter than the people around you, and the rest seems to arrange itself in their mind. You can almost feel the questions they’ve decided they don’t need to ask. I find it irritating, although I’ll admit there’s something rather satisfying about knowing how much they’ve missed.

Being quiet can give people the wrong impression about ambition. If you aren’t announcing your intentions at every opportunity, they may assume you don’t have many. Meanwhile, you can be carrying around an unreasonable number of ideas, thinking about work you want to make and places you still want it to go. An introverted person can want a very public life for the things she creates.

I want my work to reach people. I want someone to recognize my name because a story stayed with them, an image caught their attention, or something I made expressed a feeling they hadn’t found words for. There’s a vulnerability in admitting that, particularly when it would be easier to say I’m simply keeping myself occupied. But I put thought, effort, and a considerable amount of myself into what I create, and I want to give it a chance to be seen.

Getting older hasn’t made that desire disappear. If anything, it has made me less willing to spend years pretending that something matters less to me than it does. There are still skills I want to learn and ideas I haven’t worked out how to attempt. I’m aware that time is passing, and that awareness gives some decisions a little more urgency.

What interests me is how differently people can interpret that urgency. Starting something unfamiliar when you’re young is often treated as a natural part of discovering yourself. Later, the same impulse can require an explanation, as though curiosity should have settled down by now and found a sensible chair. I have no objection to a comfortable chair, provided I can bring my plans with me.

There is freedom in discovering that someone’s expectations are smaller than your intentions. For a while, you can work without much attention, make your mistakes, and change your mind before anyone feels entitled to an opinion. You have room to be a beginner, which is useful at any age. Then, when you finally show what you’ve been doing, there may be that brief, delightful pause while someone revises their understanding of you.

I enjoy the thought of that pause, but I don’t want it to become the reason I work. Other people’s surprise is a small reward compared with the experience of making something I’m proud of. Their approval can also be unpredictable, and I’d rather have reasons to continue that survive an indifferent response. The work has to hold my interest after the pleasure of proving a point wears off.

That doesn’t mean I’m endlessly confident. Wanting something strongly gives doubt plenty to work with, and getting older doesn’t automatically make a person immune to embarrassment or disappointment. It can be uncomfortable to try something new where people can see you trying. I’m learning to allow that discomfort without treating it as a verdict on whether I should continue.

Perhaps that’s the part people miss when they think they have someone figured out. They see what a person has done so far and assume they’re looking at the full extent of what she wants. They don’t see the private experiments, the unfinished work, or the decision taking shape before there’s anything to announce. A familiar face can still have unfamiliar ambitions.

I’d like to keep making work that surprises me, too. I want to discover that I can do something I once thought was beyond me, or that an idea I nearly dismissed deserves more attention. If that causes someone else to reconsider what they expected from me, I’ll enjoy it. Then I’ll get back to whatever I’m making next.