Fibro Q&A: Now here's a BIG idea - start your own magazine

I first 'met' Jo Pollitt and Lilly Blue when they got in touch with me sometime last year to ask a few random questions about blogging (none of which, from memory, I could answer...). Further investigation unearthed the fact that they were starting a new magazine for children, featuring art and words and wonder. I admit I struggled to get my head around the idea when I first read about it, but I did love the images they put up on their blog and Facebook page.

I received a copy of the very first issue of BIG Kids Magazine in the post this week and couldn't believe how beautiful it was. Mr7 couldn't believe how cool it was... he has spent a lot of time this week leafing through its pages, and is already planning his submission for the next issue.

I invited Jo and Lilly to the Fibro to answer a few questions about how the magazine started - and why they thought the world needed BIG Kids Magazine right now.


What made you decide the time was write for a new magazine?
Jo Pollitt: "Firstly, I wanted to buy one that my own son would love and couldn't find it! (Now he is the 'senior' editor of BIG.) Both Lilly and I believe that kids are so much smarter than the commercially driven work that is generally projected at them en masse. There are very few Australian magazines for kids that are responsive to the imagination of a child's world (outside of games, movies, and TV characters), and we felt that it was imperative that there be a choice in the market that reflected that world with more of an open and challenging viewpoint. And that would also be cool. Because kids are cool."

Why a children's creative-arts magazine?
JP: "We are artists ourselves and this is our area of expertise. We are also voracious magazine readers! Many little girls I know want to grow up to be dancers, and are always very interested when they find out I am actually a dancer and Lilly is an artist. That these professions are our 'day jobs' means we know some incredible creative artists and had a feeling they would be generous when it came to sharing art and ideas side by side with kids (and they are!).

More than ever before, the world needs great thinkers and visionaries and we feel it is our responsibility to encourage, value and provoke creative thinking and curiosity in kids. Through the BIG pages, hierarchies of art are broken down and new conversations emerge between the work of kids and artist grown-ups."

What was the hardest part of getting the whole project started?
JP: "Without doubt, the formalising of the business-related paperwork and the defining of our current partnership has been the hardest. I had not seen Lilly for 12 years (we have only skyped once and have still not met) so the working out of roles and sharing of dreams and future imaginings has been an extremely intense journey! The creative rigour between us is invigorating, and allows us to plough through the less fun parts. We both share a work ethic that is relentless and have high expectations of the other, which provokes questions, the occasional cross-fire and many shared long-distance celebrations. As mothers who work from home in baby sleep times and after hours, it is always a challenge to meet those expectations!"

Why did you decide to print the mag, rather than doing an e-zine as per trend?
JP: "We wanted kids to be able to hold the artwork in their hands, to be able to scribble an immediate response (the pages are matt and fab for random responses!). We wanted parents and kids to be able to sit side by side and share pictures, stories and ideas. We want it to be able to be thrown on the playroom floor, to be picked up or tossed about at will (it has a sturdy spine!). We wanted the magazine to be available in 'play time' and not relegated to the 'screen time' culture that is already so pervasive. We want to encourage a love of reading, a love of art, of dreaming, and provoke some questions about the big world we all share."

I notice that the theme of the next issue is Treasure Islands - how can parents and kids get involved?
"Draw us a map of all the places you have been - they can be real and/or imagined - and send to submit@bigkidsmagazine.com (there are guidelines on the website) and we will feature it on the BIG blog and possibly even in the actual pages of the magazine. Register to participate in the BIG child artist response project (CARP), and an artist will create something in response to your child's map-themed artwork with the two works then published side by side. Or write to Luca (info@bigkidsmagazine.com) with specific things you'd like to see in the magazine or tell him the things you like/don't like in this one."

You can subscribe to BIG Kids Magazine here. You'll love it (and the kids will too).

PS: I'm taking a little blogcation while I enjoy some time with my boys next week. I'll be back on Monday 10 October - see you then!

The letter of the day is M (for mystery)

If there's one thing I love about a magazine subscription, it's that little fizz of excitement that I get when my treat arrives in the mail. I'm very selective about what I subscribe to these days. A few years ago, I was anyone's, seduced by any 'offer', happy to receive whatever they were willing to send out. When The Builder questioned the sheer volume of pages arriving every month, I'd wave him off with a 'it's tax deductible darling'.

Not anymore. I mean, it's still tax deductible - one of the few bonuses of writing freelance - but I'm not as willing to wade through a million pages to get what I want. Call it time management.

At the moment, there are just a few valid subscriptions in the Fibro (if you don't count the Lego magazine... which I don't). I've spoken before of my love for O magazine, and take great pleasure in sitting on our back deck, flicking through its pages. There are some Australian magazines, which I both love and work for (no names, no pack drill). And there is the one that arrived today.

Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine is one of my biggest treats. It arrives sporadically and, seemingly, randomly, due to surface mail, from the US. There is no colour, beyond the cover. The paper is cheap newsprint, the concept old-fashioned. But I love it. Packed cover-to-cover with detective stories, it features some of the biggest names in crime writing - and lots of people whose names you've never heard. Perfect, bite-sized crime fiction in a perfect, bath-sized package. My copies are passed around the family and enjoyed by many. Mr7 is beginning to line up for his turn.

This year is the 70th anniversary of EQMM. Long may it reign. Or long enough for me to get around to writing a story that might be good enough to grace its pages.

Visit www.themysteryplace.com/eqmm (source of my image) for more information and to check out an array of past EQMM covers. Fun!


In other news, I'm guest posting with Scribbling Mum today, all about being the only pink in a house full of blues. Come and say hello!

Do you read your stars?

I don't believe in Horoscopes. Not really. I can't see how a planet moving two degrees into a different house with a rising something or other will change my life. Not really.

But that doesn't mean I don't read my stars.

Even though I know that they're cut to fit the space in magazines and newspapers. That scene in Paper Giants where a features writer and an editorial assistant wrote them didn't really surprise me. I laughed. When I worked on mags, we always had real astrologers 'do' the stars. But we'd chop out a line or two to make the design work. Who knows what planetary chaos we caused?

So why do I read them? Hope. No matter what thought it is that's top of my mind, the stars can be read to fit. 'You'll have a great day' can mean anything from the sun shining in the morning to my ship finally coming in. Depending on what I'm fretting about most. Even if careful reading of every star sign on the page proves that every single star sign will be having the same great day (and we should all call the same 1500 number for more exciting details). Cynical, me? Not cynical enough to stop reading.

So tell me, what's your sign? And do you read your stars?

[image: MimiLoLo/etsy]

Mia Freedman is in the Fibro

Mia Freedman's latest book launched into bookshops around the nation today. Mia Culpa: confessions from the watercooler of life (Penguin) is the newest installment in her series of books about her life, her thoughts, and, always, her opinions. She has discussed magazines, motherhood and mistakes. She now takes on pubic hair, social media and that moment in life when you go from being cool to being... not. Among other things, of course.

All of which provides the perfect excuse to drag her into the Fibro to answer a few questions.

The disclosure: Mia and I first met 1000 or so years ago (mine, not hers, because clearly she is not as old as I am) when she was editor of Cosmopolitan and I was dabbling in freelancing for the first time. I remember sitting in her office, surrounded by smiley Cosmo covers, wondering if I was wearing the right shoes. (In my defence, the Cosmo offices have had that effect on stronger women than I.)

She was bright, smiley, clever, gorgeous... the kind of woman you'd find reasons to dislike given half a chance. But she was also warm and friendly and, as she remains, incredibly supportive of other people's talents, insecurities and efforts. It was thanks to her that I got to write the now world-famous Hairy Armpits story. The rest, as they say, is history.

So yes, thanks for asking, I have great admiration for Mia's work. I don't always agree with her, but I respect her for tackling the big issues head-on on her website Mamamia and most weeks her Sunday Life column makes me nod in acknowledgement and laugh out loud.

Plus, she has graciously agreed to answer my five questions about blogging, branding and the boundaries of personal writing. So what's not to love?

You often draw on your own experiences for your columns, blogging and writing - what are your boundaries for your personal style of writing?
Mia Freedman: "Well, it's always changing. I have to be careful. Just when I thought I was very clear about my boundaries in writing, I recently told a story at a dinner party which completely embarrassed my son. Not that that's particularly difficult - he's a teenager - but his age is problematic. So much great material for me to write about and much of it is about my own experiences and reactions as a parent of a teenage boy, but I'm on eggshells there...

"Generally, I try to have a rule that everything is okay so long as I'm the punchline. I go to great lengths to protect my friends and family - I'll never put my writing in front of their feelings or their right to privacy. But mostly they're very accommodating. Which is lucky, because otherwise I'd have nothing to write about!"

I remember reading somewhere that you'd rewritten parts of Mama Mia, your memoir about magazines, mistakes and motherhood, because you felt you'd crossed over the line into 'too personal' - can you explain what 'too personal' means?
MF: "Memoirs are extremely difficult and sensitive because you're not just writing about your own life - you're writing about the lives of everyone in your life. So there were some things in there that were not mine to share and needed to come out. My choice. They didn't affect the story.

"The first draft would have been a bad book, actually - too raw, too emotional and just a bit all over the place. I kept probably 80 per cent of it and the end result was more balanced. Just as personal, but more layered and thus, in my opinion, a better read."

What do you see as the difference between blogging and writing for other media such as books and magazines?
MF: "I haven't written for magazines for years, although my column appears in a newspaper magazine... Still, that's different. It's not a monthly glossy or a weekly tabloid. Every type of writing I do - from Twitter to books - is different. It requires a slightly different approach and, often, a different tone. Since I'm constantly flitting between social media, Mamamia, my column and books, I barely even have to think about it now. Although, books can be a bit of a gear shift. You need to lengthen your concentration span, which is reduced constantly by tweeting and blogging.

"The slowness of books is both my biggest frustration and greatest joy when it comes to that medium. I'm into a pretty fast turnaround and short deadlines - with Mamamia, we often post within minutes of having an idea and Twitter just publishes practically before you've even thought something through (danger! danger!). But taking it slower and having more time to refine what you're going through to say is a luxury. I've come to see writing books like that."

Bloggers and writers are often encouraged to 'build their brand' - but is there a downside to your name becoming a brand? Do you think people fail to separate the 'brand' from the person, resulting in personal attacks?
MF: "The brand is the person in many ways, at least it is for me. It's too much effort to have to turn a brand on and off. I'm just myself, flaws and all. Hence the name of the book! I am inextricably linked with what I do and what I say and I'm fine with that. I don't take on any commercial arrangements that I don't believe in and I'm always transparent about them. You have to be!

Mamamia, the website, is about to undergo a big change, morphing from blog to fully fledged web magazine by all accounts - what's the reason behind that? Will there be less Mia?
MF: "Mamamia hasn't been a personal blog for a long, long time. There's only so much one person can say! And I never wanted to do a personal blog or a mummy blog. Love them, but it wasn't for me. I wanted to create something for a broader audience, with lots of voices, all as relevant and important as mine. I will assume the same role on the new site as I've been taking for a while on Mamamia - that of editor and publisher. So, in short, not less Mia, no. But more of everything else."

Tara Moss is in the Fibro

The first time I interviewed Tara Moss, I wanted to hate her. It was way back in the days when her first novel, Fetish, was on the stands. She was the model who'd started writing. Tall, blonde, gorgeous. With a book. Your basic nightmare.

We met at a cafe in Bondi, she all Bambi limbs and giraffe eye-lashes. Me, hiding behind my stenographer's notepad, wishing myself elsewhere. But she confounded my expectations. First up, she was just really nice. Professional nice, but also personal nice (yes, Virginia, there is a difference). Down to earth, obsessed with blood and gore, and Smart. Really smart. A quote from my ensuing story is on her website:

"Forget all the cliches about international models... Tara Moss has literally rewritten them."

Since Fetish (which was shortlisted for the Ned Kelly Award for Best First Crime Novel), there have been four other books in Tara's phenomenally successful series about Makedde Vanderwall, a tall, blonde, gorgeous model who solves crimes. Add to that, this year, a new character in a new series as The Blood Countess introduces Pandora English.

And now, though seven months pregnant with her first child, Tara has graciously agreed to spend some time in the Fibro for my monthly writer's Q&A. Bless!

Does crime writing require a particular set of writing skills?
Tara Moss: "There is a lot of focus of concise plotting in suspense writing, but I think all good novel writing requires a disciplined plot and much, much more. I begin with character. For me, plot is extremely important, but still secondary to character development and motivation.

"I also value research quite highly. My crime novels take me to dark places and my research can be intense and, at times, disturbing. I believe that authenticity is important in all writing, and hands-on forensic and investigative research is a must for me. Not all writers are interested in hands-on research, of course - like getting their PI credentials or being choked unconscious for a scene - but I do find that my favourite crime writers have a similar dedication to research and experience. I believe it shows in the writing."

Was it the popularity of vampires that led you to The Blood Countess? Do you see vampires staying with us for a while?
TM: "The Blood Countess is the first in a series of novels where the real world and the spirit world or supernatural connect - a paranormal series, if you will, but not really a series about vampires. The title refers to the real life figure of Elizabeth Bathory, a noblewoman from the 1600s. The next novel in the series, The Spider Goddess, comes out next year and draws on Greek mythology. In the world of Pandora English, my new heroine, there are mediums, psychical scientists, vampires, ghosts and mythological monsters of all kinds. And even a touch of satire on precisely the current fads you're talking about...

"I think that somewhere in the human subconscious we crave stories that explore the dark side of the psyche - stories about vampires and villains, monsters and cold-blooded killers. We need to explore our most primal fears in our storytelling. It's what compels me to write about crime, mystery and things that go bump in the night."

You've said you take your research seriously. Does that get easier once you've established a character and a series? How did it feel to start all over again with Pandora?
TM: "It was wonderfully liberating to create new characters and an alternate New York for this series. My novels for the past 12 years have centred on Mak Vanderwall and I felt it was time to branch out and literally create a new world in my writing. I will continue to write crime and to write Mak, but also this new series. Creatively, I think variety and fresh challenge is very important. Research for this new series is totally different, but challenging and fascinating for me."

Writers are constantly told they must blog/tweet/get themselves out there... How do you balance the writing time with all the other things that make up a modern writer's life?
TM: "Novel writing takes priority, along with my TV commitments on CI Network and 13th Street, some of which involves delving into the criminal mind, reading books and interviewing fabulous authors - it's a tough life! I don't spend a lot of time blogging or tweeting, but it's something I enjoy in my downtime. I find that Twitter and Facebook are wonderful mediums to communicate directly with readers and fans. It doesn't take long, and the contact is rewarding."

How different do you think your writing life will be with the new baby?
TM: "Writing is my fulltime job and I will continue working to support my family. It's a bit early to predict how motherhood will change my writing, if it does at all - don't expect new stories about kittens and cupcakes! It might just be time for that spooky children's book I've been dreaming up for years..."

Do you love reading crime fiction? Ever tried writing it?

Three top tips for would-be freelance writers

I had such a good time with my Q&A with Gillian Martin and Emma Kaufmann, authors of Cocktails at Naptime, last month that I've decided to do it all over again. If there's one thing I love, it's asking questions. This time around, my victim target is my former colleague Valerie Khoo, now director of The Sydney Writers' Centre in Milsons Point.

Valerie and I shared cupboard office space together at CLEO and I've watched in awe as she's gone on to broaden her career from editor to entrepreneur, writing five books and countless articles along the way. I shouldn't be surprised. She's the poster girl for career change, having been an accountant with PricewaterhouseCoopers before finally giving in to her passion for writing - and finding a way to make it work.

Why have I chosen Valerie for this Q&A? Because I'm often asked how to break into freelance writing. And while I'm qualified to offer a few pointers, Valerie has gone out of her way to devise entire, affordable courses based around that very subject. She knows her stuff. You can read more about the centre, its wide range of courses (including magazine writing, travel writing, business writing, screen writing and more) and Valerie, here.

It's about here that I should point out that this is not a sponsored post. No ethics or integrity were injured in the creation of this post. And nothing changed hands either, unless you include *waves* via Twitter. I'm looking for interesting people to talk to about writing, and Valerie is about as interesting as they come. Particularly if you want to do what she's done and jump from your current career into writing.

What do you think are the key attributes of a professional writer across any genre?
Valerie Khoo: "Discipline, discipline, and a little bit more discipline. If you want to make a living from writing, you need to... write! And you need commitment to hone your craft, improve your work and learn from your mistakes. It's not about waiting for inspiration to hit. It's about making yourself put your fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper. Which is not to say that creativity is not important. But I believe that we are all inherently creative beings - but not all of us have the discipline needed to channel that creative energy into a full-time income-producing career."

Why did you set up Sydney Writers' Centre?
VK: "Basically, I created the kind of writers' centre I wished had existed when I was first dipping my toes into the world of writing. When I was transitioning careers from accounting to writing, I was desperate for resources and guidance to help me make it happen. SWC is the dynamic, inspiring place I would have loved to attend.

"We have a huge range of courses, but our most popular courses are creative writing and magazine writing. We offer both of those online so that students can learn from anywhere in the world - as well as in our Harbourside training rooms here at the Centre."

How do you choose your course presenters?
VK: "Our presenters need to talk the talk and walk the walk, so to speak. They have to be currently working in the industry and they need to be dealing with the subject they teach day to day. We're committed to offering courses that are very practical so that students leave with new skills that they can use immediately. Our presenters share their inside knowledge and give students a realistic insight into what they need to do to get published or write with confidence."

Do you think writing for blogs differs from writing for other publications? How?
VK: "I think blogs are wonderful. They offer a creative outlet and an opportunity for your writing to be read by an interested audience. Blogs are similar to other publications in that they need to attract and sustain an audience. But they're different in that you receive instant feedback. That can be very satisfying."

What are your three top tips for would-be freelance writers?
VK: "1. Know your market. You can be the best writer in the whole world but that's a moot point if you don't know how to write for a specific market. You need the ability to analyse a magazine and, from there, be able to work out the tone and style of writing that you need to employ, the angles the magazine would be interested in, and the case studies or interviews you'd need to use. We teach that in our course 'Feature Writing for Magazines and Newspapers', and students constantly tells us how valuable it is. Without it, you can't build a viable career as a freelance writer."

"2. Get over the fear of pitching to editors. This can be debilitating when you are starting out. I always think it's a shame when I see someone who's just too scared to pick up the phone and pitch their story idea to an editor. The reality is that if you've done step 1 (above) and analysed the magazine to ensure that your idea is a good 'fit', then you significantly increase your chances of your article being accepted. I know it can seem daunting, but you have to get over it. The good news is that it gets easier every time you do it!

"3. You can make very good money as a freelance writer. "Some people think that, as a writer, you need to live like an artist starving in a garrett. I don't agree with that. There's nothing romantic about that in my books - not with Sydney property prices the way they are! I think that you can make a very healthy income from your freelance writing if you treat it like a business and make sure you're professional in everything that you do. It can be useful to try to get a mix of higher-paying corporate projects and the editorial projects that feed your soul (but which may not make you rich)."

{image: magazinedoctor.co.uk}

I'm guest posting today over with Diminishing Lucy, all about the joys (and otherwise) of being a WAHM. Come on over and say hi!

Do you remember your first time?

Don't you love a first time? Okay, some are better than others (first heartbreak anyone? first labour pains anyone? first root canal anyone?), but today I got to enjoy a good one. My first ever Hot Stone massage. Ah.

I remember my first-ever massage very well. I was about 19 and in my first minutes as a cadet journalist. We'd received an invitation at Prevention magazine to take part in a yoga weekend at a nearby retreat. It's important to remember that yoga in 1988 was not Yoga in 2010. It was out of fashion and thought of as the last bastion of people who wore hemp sandals (which were also unfashionable). So I was volunteered to attend the workshop, which would be held by a lady of indeterminate age who claimed to sleep 45 minutes a night. To say that I was not excited would be an understatement.

The massage took place on the first day. I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea how naked I'd have to get. I asked a friendly lady by the pool whether it felt good and she looked at me as if I were nuts. "Afterwards it does," she said. All I could think was that it must be similar to banging one's head against a wall - bliss when it's over.

When I entered the massage room, I was surprised to find a male massage therapist. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Now I know that you're generally told beforehand and given a choice. But I was only 19.

He told me to take off as many clothes as I felt comfortable with and, once done, to get under the towel. I was in an agony of indecision - bra on or off? Underpants on or off? I didn't want to look uncool in this hippie haven. I stripped off and hopped up on the bench.

The massage got underway. He was a chatter, which surprised me. I thought massage therapists were the strong, silent type. I could hardly hear the whale music for his small talk. He massaged away for a while and then flipped me over. The following conversation then occurred:

"Shall I massage your breasts?"

"Er."

"Most ladies don't mind. One does hold a lot of tension in the chest."

"Er." I could feel the tension rising in my chest at the thought.

"I could just start and you can stop me if you feel uncomfortable."

"Er." His hands moved in. I held up one of mine, holding him off. "That's fine," I said, "I feel quite relaxed there already." My blush covered my entire body. I was uncool. I didn't care.

Massage completed in silence.

"How was it?" the lady by the pool asked me as I left.

"Yeah, good now that it's over," I mumbled.

Today's massage was nothing like that. In a beautiful day spa with black-and-white striped walls and a gentle sea breeze wafting gossamer white curtains from the door. Clear instructions about what to remove and when. The delicious sensation of hot stones in warm oil sliding across the skin. No suggestion that tension was held anywhere other than the regular neck/shoulders/ears.

I didn't want it to end.

{image: monkeyjewels/etsy}

Inside the plastic bag: 100 shades of wrong

My Dad mightn't like me to say this, but he's a hoarder. It's the only explanation for why amazing and embarrassing things keep emerging from his shed. Around six months ago, it was The Suitcase - an old, vinyl, buckled suitcase full of - well, you can read about it here.

Last week, Sister C and I found a plastic bag on the parental patio. Dad had no idea what it was. He'd dragged it out of the shed and it was lying around looking for a home. We rifled through it, shrieking with laughter at what we found. "You simply have to blog about this?" she said, between fits of hysteria. My response? No way.

That night, in the Fibro kitchen, I showed The Builder what we'd found. He has these fantastic laugh lines around his eyes, that crinkle up when he's amused, making his eyes sparkle. Those laugh lines were craters as I took him through our discoveries, step by step.

The next day, I was reading Bern Morley's very funny blog So Now What? She's got a fantastic giveaway going on, where you can win some tummy-tucking, thigh-shrinking, butt-lifting jeans - all you have to do is answer a simple question and she swears these jeans will change your life. The question? What was your biggest fashion mistake? The look you thought was rocking but was, in hindsight, 100 shades of wrong. I answered her question honestly - silver jumpsuit, green pants suit... actually, I have 100 looks that would fit that criteria. Other commenters are going further, sending in pictures, and if you don't laugh at these, you are not human.

But the blog post got me thinking. About the plastic bag. And its contents.

A little known fact about the publishing world is that editorial assistants and cadet journalists are often called upon to step above and beyond the call of duty. From behind their desks to in front of the cameras. From the ages of 19-23, I worked for a publishing company that published a lot of blokey mags. Fishing, golfing, cars, boats, heavy metal, building, computers, electronics... Available females were often dragged in to be models. It is my only excuse for this:

And this:

And even this:

From a 1991 issue of the short-lived (and sadly unlamented) Australian Woman Golfer magazine. And these are some of the best shots. I think they went out of their way to make me look 40. Actually, I think I actually look younger now. You can see why The Builder was in hysterics. Though, as I told him, not every man can say that he's married to a former model.

Feel free to laugh (I am) and then pop over to Bern's blog and enter the giveaway (you have until Sunday). I am looking forward to reading (and possibly seeing) all your worst fashion moments. Though I suspect that the golf stick as accessory may be one of fashion's biggest crimes...



{images: Kiosk Hello + Australian Woman Golfer/Phil Aynsley (lovely man, I don't blame him at all)}

Other people's houses

I've put on my best American accent and am guest posting today with the lovely Susie from MotherHoot.

It's all about the life envy that can ensue when I'm writing about other people's houses for glossy magazines.

Don't miss it. No, really.

{image: inmyhousedesign}

Writing + Pregnancy = a little bit too similar sometimes

Today I gave birth to a 20-kilogram feature. That’s what it felt like anyway. Every word seemed to be dragged out of me, kicking and screaming. When it was done, the relief was so palpable that I felt lighter and brighter, giddy with joy.

Like most features, it began well. There were no particular signs that this one would turn toxic. As with pregnancy, there was joy and excitement. I was genuinely looking forward to writing it, as it was an idea I’d pitched myself and I had several leads ready to go.

It was about the halfway point that things changed. I got led astray by a new contact, lost my direction and ended up with a couple of useless quotes and a case study I hadn’t counted on. At which point, I put my hands over my eyes and prayed the whole mess would go away.

It didn’t, of course. The deadline passed, I was still looking for an interview to save it, hoping for a miracle. Nothing happened. So I turned to a trusted source, one who knew what I needed, one who would give me some solid foundations on which to balance a structure that was looking decidedly wobbly.

As I sat down to write it today, I felt sick. I’d left it until the last possible moment, waiting for The Muse (who, as we’ve discussed before, is beholden to no woman and clearly had a blow-dry appointment this morning). Through sheer persistence, I found an opening, a way in to the story, and from that it flowed. I managed to construct a frame that allowed me to wedge my material into the brief. And it worked.

I have no doubt that every journalist has stories like these, that grow into millstones around their necks. I also have no doubt that most of those stories would involve case studies, the finding of ‘real’ people to fit a niche in the story. One day, when I’m feeling stronger, we’ll talk about case studies a bit more.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m pouring a glass of wine (I know, on a Monday, outrageous!) and toasting the Muse (who is no doubt out dancing and not sitting at home waiting to hear ‘cheers’ from suckers like me) as I wet that story’s head.

And then I’m going to get started on the next one.

Wish you were here? I do.

I spent some time in the bath tonight reading the new Country Style magazine and have come to the conclusion that I’m doing this country thing all wrong. I love CS. One of my first jobs in journalism [mumble, mumble] years ago was as the production editor/sub (back when it was still Australian Country Style), writing headings such as ‘Days of Wine and Overs’ and spending my days checking the stockists of Drizabone coats.

The magazine has moved on a lot, now being all that light, modern country should be. In fact, I noted a serious lack of ceramic chicken decorations, which were pretty much de rigueur in my day, along with dark wood, pumpkin scones and rustic furniture. These days, it’s all about white, checks, open spaces, light and air. A rolling hill and picturesque duck pond just add to the fun.

So I looked up from reading about Derek and Nicole’s reno at Robertson (involving serious lust over the pigeon-hole bookcase which “holds plates and glassware in arm’s reach of the dining table) and realised that I’m in the wrong house. That church that brought me to my knees a few weeks ago – that’s where I should be living for true country style. Despite the fact that it’s one-bedroom. Despite the fact that it’s 15 minutes drive to buy milk. The ACS dream tends to involve a bit of inconvenience.

It’s a beautiful magazine, full of country idylls. But it’s a particular type of idyll. It’s a romantic, soft-focus vision, usually cushioned by cash. It doesn't stop real country people wanting it. A lot of my Fibrotown friends buy the magazine religiously - though do lament that lack of real country people.

Even my friend G, the most gorgeous farmer’s wife you’ll ever meet, who lives in a picturesque little weatherboard surrounded by verdant grass, monochromatic cows and photo-ready rustic sheds, probably wouldn’t get a look in. The gumboots lined up at her door have mud on them. The house is a real farmhouse, weathered and worn. (Though she did win Best Beginner Scones at The Show, so that might be a selling point.)

The Fibro is not CS. It’s not even actual country style. Not really. It should be lined up by the beach, Gidget-style, like these ones. But I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. We have gumboots. We have dirt. We have grass. No cows, no ducks, it’s true. But the old roses that I despaired over are starting to sprout growth (I cannot tell you how relieved I am) and the new front veranda is the perfect place to drink wine in the fading light.

Days of Wine and Roses. See, I’ve still got it.

It's never too early for a foot in the door

Do you remember Work Experience? It all came flooding back to me when I read this post by the very talented Deer Baby (go look, you’ll love it – her name is Alison, how could you not love it?). The girl who wrote ‘Help, I’m being held prisoner’ inside the flap of the envelopes was truly inspirational. I wish I’d thought of that.

My recollections of work experience involve shoes that hurt, tights that sagged, and early mornings. For some reason, I, already a confirmed night owl at 15, chose to do my first lot of work experience at the local radio station, involving 5am starts. My second lot of work experience involved childcare and is best not thought about now. My third lot, at 16, took place at a metropolitan daily broadsheet, involved 5am starts and was responsible for my almost never becoming a journalist.

It wasn’t the starts (though I’m never at my best at that ungodly hour – ask my children). Rather it was the fact that day one saw me held captive ensconced in the office of the Letters Editor, reading page after page of semi-literate abuse. My second day saw me on the front steps of a suburban house in a suburban street, shadowing a ‘stick-one-foot-in-the-door’ reporter as he asked the family inside for pictures of two children who’d died hours before when a bomb went off in an airport overseas. Day three involved eight hours of excitement spotting spelling mistakes at the subs’ desk. Days four and five pass in the kind of blur that only victims of shell shock will understand.

Quite the introduction to journalism.

I went home and told my parents I’d decided to become a secretary.

In fact, I was lucky. Not that it felt that way at the time. But by the time I came into contact with work experience again – 10 years later, and this time as the experiencee, rather than the experiencer – I came to understand what a valuable program that paper had in place. I was given a very clear picture of each facet of working on a newspaper – whether I liked it or not.

In Magazine Land, work experience tended to involve waiting around the foyer, wearing your best ‘fashion ensemble’, waiting for someone to send you for a coffee. If you were lucky, you were chosen to package clothes up for return. Occasionally, someone would talk you through a story and possibly get you to write up a product review. On the plus side, you'd always be sent home with a beauty 'goody' bag, so it wasn't all bad.

It’s not that we didn’t care about our ‘workies’, just that, by then, magazines were already running on shoe strings, everyone was doing the work of two people and nobody had time to explain anything. Except how they liked their coffee.

It didn’t seem to deter the ones who really wanted to ‘get into mags’. You’d see their faces again a few years later, working as interns (read: for free) in the fashion cupboard, doing whatever it took to be in the right place at the right time when a job opening came up.

Now that’s what I call a ‘foot in the door’ approach.

{image: candimandi}

The letter of the day: V

Today I did something I haven’t done in a very long time. And, no, it wasn’t housework (though this could have been a contender). It wasn’t even writing fiction – though it should have been. No, this was all together more outrageous.

I read Vogue Australia.

Once upon a time, I read Vogue for a living. As Chief Sub, it was my job to read every word, every month, three or four times. To caption each picture, from the outside in, top to bottom. To know that Cameron Diaz was a girl (it was early in her career), that Lycra needed a TM symbol, that Collette Dinnigan was a 2-Ls, 2-Ts, 3-Ns kind of girl.

Those who know me well still wonder aloud how I ever found myself at Vogue. I wonder it myself. For a person whose sense of fashion stretches to basics and not much else, it was an education. Getting dressed every day was, I confess, a chore. Until I realised that everyone in the place had their own signature style. American Prep, Upmarket Goth, Chanel, 1960s Racer Girl, et al. Mine would be Basic. I took it, I owned it, I rocked it as best I could – not easy when you’re 25 with no cash and you’re getting dressed hungover most mornings.

I loved working at Vogue. We worked long hours but it was a lot of fun. How could it be anything else?

My focus was all on the words. The Fashion Office was a hallowed hall of gorgeousness, where I’d venture only occasionally to find someone to please give me caption information for the 10-page shoot due to go to press that night. It takes only five minutes on a magazine like that for some of the ‘glamour’ of working in fashion to fall away. Fashion assistants put in longer hours than CEOs and get out of bed for a lot less than $10,000 a day.

That said, working at Vogue puts you in a strange headspace. You think nothing of spending $500 on a pair of shoes when you earn half of that each week. You find yourself talking in the singular – The Pant, The Shoe, The Eye. The only place you really run into problems with that kind of thing is when you come to The Jean. It just doesn’t work. Jeans work only in pairs.

Flicking through today, I notice that some things have changed. Even shoes comes in pairs now. But much hasn’t. It’s still a magazine full of improbable clothes (of incredible expense) modelled by amazing looking women. The ‘real-life’ pages still feature tousled, honey-skinned beauties with immaculate pedigrees who do fabulous things and buy lots of shoes. Between lavish spreads of full-page photographs are type-heavy pages of well-written features, as well as those itsy-bitsy pages so beloved of designers the world over.

The Builder bought me the Vogue to take my mind off last Friday. It worked. For pure escapism, you can’t beat it. As a memory trip, it brought a smile to my face. And I’m left with a genuine desire to buy something that is not a black, long-sleeved T-shirt.

Time waits for no Muse

Just a short post today because I’m supposed to be writing something else. I’ve been dwelling a lot on the concept of time lately. Mostly because I never seem to have enough of it. Today, especially, because having a birthday tends to amplify the tick-tick-tick of the clock running down.

As a work-at-home-mum, I fit a fair amount into each day. Fulltime mum, part-time job, some-of-the-time domestic goddess, all-of-the-time partner. What I learned early in the piece was the importance of prioritising what was important and letting go of everything else. Only I’ve never been real good at letting go of anything except the housework. That, I sent out to sea on a raft a long time ago. Everything else, I try to fit in.

When I started blogging, I didn’t stop to consider where I was going to put it in the schedule. I just figured I’d do like I always did and fit it in. I joke about procrastination, but the truth is that I’ve always been very serious about deadlines. If you want to make a living as a freelancer, you have to be. So when the baby/toddler/preschooler went to sleep, I sat down to write. There was no waiting for the Muse. The Muse, I find, is often held up in traffic so it’s excellent policy to begin without her. If she's good, she'll just pick it up as she goes along.

That’s how the paid work got done. Also how I fitted in the writing of the fiction. The proposals and pitches for new work. The volunteer bits for the school. You know.

Then I started blogging. And it’s a lot of fun. So when I sit down, my head doesn’t immediately go to ‘GO’. It goes to blog. Which means everything else is, well, waiting for the Muse.

Which is why I’m writing this, instead of the other thing I’m supposed to write.

I’m not complaining. Just putting together some notes for when I begin to lobby seriously for the 25^th hour in the day.

Anyone with me?

{image: PhotoExpress}

When you can’t see the forest for the weeds…

In my time, I’ve written quite a few garden features. Enough so that I can tell a gardenia from a geranium, a bromeliad from a begonia, a weed from a … well, you get the idea. I’m even winning my ongoing battle with the compost bin, having nurtured a struggling camellia with a good dose of rotten stuff today. Lots of smelly goodness that should see it right.

All I’m saying is that my thumb is a little bit green.

In the Big Smoke, The Builder and I created a garden from scratch. Not a courtyard with water feature, a bit of paving and a potted Agave, but an honest-to-goodness garden. Not a big garden, for sure, but a garden nonetheless. It took years. We knew the names of all our plants, and agonised over the survival of each and every one. To the point where we still drive past our old house on visits, just to see how the Magnolia is doing (nicely, thanks for asking).

Our Fibrotown garden is a whole new ballgame. It’s twice the size and about 27 times more established. Many years ago, somebody planned it all out so that there is something flowering in one corner or another all year round.

We have two huge Murrayas – one at the front, one at the back – that fill the Fibro with heavy perfume on summer evenings, no matter which way the wind is blowing. We have the most enormous, deepest, reddest roses that bloom through summer – and are obviously confused by current warm weather patterns because they’ve just coughed up another flush of colour. We have camellias for winter, banksia roses for spring, salvias for autumn.

We also have some serious territory to weed. During an interview with Sydney landscape designer Peter Fudge – one of my great, go-to guys for garden advice and information back in my House & Garden days – he told me the one piece of advice he always gives beginner gardeners: weed little, weed often. He doesn’t walk down his front path without looking for invaders and eliminating them.

I thought about this today as I worked my way around half of our front garden. It took me two hours. It will take a trailer to remove the green waste I removed from our garden beds. It left me with an aching back, groaning hamstrings and ingrained dirt in my knees. And I still have the other half, plus the backyard, to do.

Clearly I have not been weeding often. Once every two months or so is not often enough. So now I have to weed a lot.

If I was clever, I would patrol the grounds each day, keeping an eye on my cleared patches and ripping out new weedy growth the moment green shoots appear.

But I probably won’t. Instead, I’ll stop to admire the burgeoning buds on my camellia. Or check to see if the photinia is unfurling new red growth. I’ll ignore the ugly undergrowth and focus on the beauty right in front of me.

What would life be if all we saw were the weeds?

Tips for writing features #1: find the armpits

This revelation may surprise you, but sometimes I’m not, um, fascinated by the subjects I’m commissioned to write about. Superannuation springs to mind. Supermarkets follow close behind (mostly because that’s what I’m meant to be doing even as I write this post). Budgeting. The best age to have a baby (not as interesting once you’ve had a couple). Forty thousand words on how to pay off your credit cards (the big challenge there was not repeating ‘spend less, pay more than the minimum’ 8000-odd times).

What often surprises me, however, is how fascinating some of these things become once I start. (Some. Superannuation has yet to work its magic on me.)

When I first started writing features for women’s magazines (beyond the world-famous James Reyne interview), I used to ask endless questions and take endless notes. It would often take me an hour to interview a girl for a 200-word section of a ‘Wedding Dress, Never Worn’ feature. And she’d be one of five I had to get through. I felt as though I needed to know every single thing about her, and often found it difficult to keep my word counts in check. (To be fair, there’s never a short story behind an unworn wedding dress, now is there?)

One memorable conversation with a straight-talking, well-meaning deputy editor sorted me out. I’d filed 3000 words for a 1200-word commission about why some women choose to have hairy armpits. (I know, investigative journalism hits new heights.) She flicked through the story while I sat there, nervous as all hell, and then gave it back to me.

“It’s a story about hairy armpits, Al,” she said. “Just give me the hairy armpits.”

I went home, cut out the background noise and focussed on the armpits.

My job is about finding the armpits in any subject. No reader wants to know every single thing about, say, supermarkets. They just want the bit that relates to them. The bit they’ll find compelling and fascinating. The armpits.

So I look for what I find compelling and fascinating, and try to give it to them in a way they’ll find digestible. Accessible. Maybe even a little bit amusing and entertaining.

And if I ever work out where the armpits are in the subject of superannuation…well, I’ll be rich enough not to need any.

And so I opened The Suitcase…

Taking a deep breath – but not too deep in case I asphyxiated on the dust dancing off the suitcase – I unbuckled, unzipped and peeked inside. What did I find? A lot of trash, and just enough treasure to make the journey worthwhile.

There was the note, on a hastily torn out sheet of lecture pad, written by the only red-haired man I ever desired. I met him one night at a Uni college. We spent the night lying on the dewy grass, in the middle of a rugby oval, under a blanket of stars, talking about life, the universe and everything. I was 18, he was 22 and engaged to be married. The sun came up, we returned to our rooms and, much later, I found the hastily scribbled note shoved under my door. I still owe him a kiss.

There was a letter from my brother TICH. Only he wasn’t an Inner City Hipster. He was eight or nine, had just had his stitches removed and wanted to know if I knew anything about deserts. He signed his name with impossibly curlicued majesty.

There was a mint copy of the May 1991 edition of Countdown magazine, in which I, cadet journalist in floral frock, socks and lace-up brogues, interviewed James Reyne in all his dishevelled, denim-clad glory. It begins: “I once stood around for five hours in the pouring rain just to see Australian Crawl play…”.

It contains the answers to such hard-hitting questions as “Do people recognise you in the street?” (answer: Yep), “What would you be doing if you weren’t making hit records?” (answer: I don’t know) and “Do you live in a mansion and drive an expensive sports car?” (answer: No, I don’t own a car).

I’m beginning to see why Rolling Stone never called.

What else? A letter from the shearer who was the great unrequited love of my late teen years. Gen Y may have come up with the cute term ‘Friends with Benefits’ but they sure didn’t invent the concept. I also unearthed the truly appalling poetry that spilled onto my page during that time. I would burn it, but I’m fascinated by how neat my handwriting was in those days. Now I could challenge a doctor to a Duel of Ultimate Indecipherability. Back then, I was practically copperplate.

I blame journalism. For that, and the swearing I can’t seem to lose.

Invitations to weddings (some of the resulting marriages are long over), invitations to birthday celebrations (my own) I can’t remember attending, tickets to Geoff Lawson’s Testimonial Dinner (go figure).

And, of course, the photos. So many pictures of so many faces that were so important to me at that time. Some of them I looked at and wondered why we’d lost touch. The beautiful redhead who inhaled life and dragged me along with her. The bohemian brunette with the curly hair, the flashing eyes and the Doc Martens who lived around the corner and was always up for an adventure. The flatmate I loved but lost in the ‘property settlement’ when my longterm relationship broke up. She knew him first.

Some of them I looked at and struggled to remember their names. Endless snaps of young men in tuxedos, mugging for the camera. Countless shots of gorgeous young women with big hair, big earrings, big smiles.

Then there was the inexplicable. Why would I have ever imagined I’d need the 1990 Sydney University timetable again in this lifetime? There must have been a reason, right?

Yes, there were letters from [insert name of former boyfriend], but only two and not the ones I was dreading. I was right in thinking I’d destroyed those. The two I read made me smile. More travelogue than sonnet, they described in detail a Contiki tour he’d taken, right down to the percentages of nationalities on the bus. They reminded me why I’d liked him so much in the first place – sweet and down-to-earth. I read them, then recycled them.

So now the suitcase is empty. Much of what it contained went straight into the bin. The rest is now tucked away, in a box, to be forgotten about for another 20 years. By that stage, I won’t recognise even myself in those pictures.

The things you do to get out of the Fibro #2

Last week, I got one of those email jokes. It went like this: Three friends meet over a cocktail and decide they need to spice up their love lives. One is a girlfriend, one is a mistress, one is a wife. They decide they will each buy sexy black lingerie, black stockings and seductive mask.

One week later, they meet again to report on what happened. The girlfriend has had a wild, dirty weekend involving 5-star hotels and declarations of love. The mistress has been treated to diamonds for her trouble. Then it’s the wife’s turn.

“I got a sitter, turned the lights low, put on romantic music and then waited at the end of the hall in my lingerie, mask and high heels,” she says. “When he came in the door and saw me, he said ‘What’s for dinner, Batman?’”

I relate this joke not only because it made me laugh (and it’s a rare email joke that does that), but because it replayed itself over and over in my mind as I made my way over to my friend R’s house last night. R has just begun a new business as a PASH consultant. She’ll be taking lingerie and Love Toys to the homes of women all over the region. I’d been invited to see what she was up to and, being the supportive (and curious) friend that I am, I was on my way. On a Tuesday.

Holy Party Plan!

It’s not my first run-in with Love Toys. When I worked at CLEO we called them Sex Toys and used to have meetings about which would look best on the page. Because that’s important in a Sex Toy.

It was, however, the first time I’d been expected to sit and, um, handle them in front of a group of women I didn’t know. At CLEO, we were professionals, handling them professionally. This would be different.

I had visions of us sitting around a formica table, under harsh, fluoro lights. My biggest worry was what I would do if someone actually ordered one. Right there. On the spot. Under the fluoros. Where would I look? Once you have a picture of someone with a large purple vibrator in her hand, it’s difficult to undo. Like, when you run into them at the post office.

But it wasn’t like that at all. It was, in fact, hysterically funny. Particularly after three glasses of champagne. On a Tuesday night. Of course, it was awkward at first. The one thing about a party consisting only of women is that everyone spends the first half hour in the kitchen. Making snacks. Like you can’t get to the fun without doing the chores first. Once we’d got through that and played a few party games, things kicked off.

I have learned quite a lot about sexy lingerie. Like the fact that it all seems to come with a Gee. It’s been a while since I’ve been on intimate terms with a Gee, and I have to confess I’m not unhappy with that situation. So no Batman moments for me this time around. Holy Bonds Hipsters!

In other news, corsets are fashionable. Best story of the night went to the gorgeous F who admitted to chasing the chooks in hers – well, what’s a girl to do when the rain’s a-comin’ and you’re caught in your smalls?

As for the Love Toys, things have moved on since my CLEO days. The Rabbit (made famous in Sex and The City) is still popular, but it looks kind of clunky now (wouldn’t make ‘the page’ these days, methinks). A Swedish company is making the world’s best vibrators. Sleek, stylish, functional. It’s not only flat-pack furniture those Swedes do well. No allen key required.

Update: The Suitcase will be opened over Easter. Stay tuned for update next week.

{image: FiftiesWeb.com}

The letter of the day: O

As a reformed magazine junkie, I don’t subscribe to many these days. I used to buy millions of them. Or it seemed like millions when I had to move them from house to house in my transient 20s (Dad could probably talk you through every one of those moves in excruciating detail, come to think of it).

Now, I mostly get publications that I write for, and their competitors – which makes it all seem like business and takes a lot of the fun out of it (though the latest issue of Madison is a cracker, with lots of great features…none of which were written by me). And then I get O, The Oprah Mag. Which is shipped over from the US for less than it costs me to subscribe to the local glossies. And which never fails to satisfy. It’s a rare magazine that does that these days – well, for me, anyway.

The new issue arrived in the postbox yesterday and I devoured it – along with a couple of rows of Green & Black Maya chocolate, also very satisfying. This month is all about decluttering – life, mind, wardrobe. I know, it sounds very yada, yada, yada, faux spiritual. But somehow, in O, it’s not. The writing is so good, the angles often so unexpected, the presence of Dr Phil so irritatingly reassuring, that it all just works.

I had the pleasure of perusing Ethan Hawke’s Five Books that Changed My Life list and realising that, as I suspected, we have nothing in common. I found lustworthy stuff I didn’t know I needed and, fortunately for the bank balance, aren’t shipped to Australia. I read the truth about hair loss and was worried – until I remembered that everyone I’ve ever lived with for the last 20 years has complained about my long hairs crawling up their legs all over the house. Situation normal.

So why satisfying? Well, for one, the story about the woman who held onto 12 boxes of stuff after her husband’s premature death and then realised they’d become a burden. Made me think of a conversation my mum had with my dad over a dilapidated copy of his school (1950s) French textbook. “Hold onto it,” she said, when he baulked over ‘decluttering’ it (to be fair, he baulks over decluttering pretty much everything), “they’ll just throw it out when you’re gone.” Harsh, but, at the end of the day, and we are talking about the end of the day, possibly fair. What would you keep of someone you loved to keep their spirit with you? I'd choose his weather diary over an old textbook. (As an aside, that was the textbook I used to make notebooks in last year’s one artistic moment.)

I’ve got hoarding tendencies (clearly inherited). The acres of space on my new desk have already been inundated with squatters – books to be read, books read and awaiting a new fate, a camera, a manuscript (half revised), a TAFE Statement of Attainment, which I earned by singing in a choir for two hours (The Builder has said he’ll frame it, just to get it off my desk. I’m not sure it merits such treatment. But do I throw it out?). Is any of this important, is any of it the essence of me? Does everything you own have to be?

The thing with O is that each issue contains at least one truly memorable story. Not on a demographic level, or an ‘all women buy shoes’ level, but on a level that makes me think. Which is why I still get that rare magazine-junkie thrill when it lands at the door.

Almost Famous

The other day, I googled my name (as you do when you write online and often find your work appropriated without permission on inappropriate websites – not vanity, not really) and found myself on eBay. Not selling my virginity or anything (which is possibly a very good thing), but in the second-hand book area.

Yep, my credit card book is in what we artistic folk like to refer to as the secondary market already.

I have to confess this gave me a little thrill. Not the unfashionable nature of my work (clearly I will be like Keats and given my due in 100 years time or thereabouts), but rather its position on eBay.

I love eBay. I don’t know a single person who lives outside a capital city who doesn’t love eBay (come to think of it, many of my city friends could also claim Number One Fan status, but we’re not talking about them). I am out and proud as an eBay Groupie.

My last three purchases have all been brilliant. The first was a Lego minifigure of Obi-Wan Kenobi, complete with cape. An absolute bargain at $7.50, plus $2 postage, if Mr6’s reaction was anything to go by.

The second was a stack of Moleskine cahiers – six sets of three notebooks each, A5 size, divine. I made half of them into Christmas presents by sticking pages from my Dad’s 1950s French textbook on the front (see, told you I was artistic folk) and have stored the rest until the day comes when nothing but a clean, fresh, crisp notebook will do.

(As an aside, I love notebooks. The endless possibilities they contain. Mine usually end up containing lots of shopping lists and scribbled phone numbers, but there’s always the possibility that one day… well, anything could happen.)

The last purchase was the biggest and best. Inspired by my friend K’s house – which I wrote up for this month’s South Coast Style, on sale now (see pic) – I found myself trawling for vintage school maps. And I found one. At the right price, in Victoria – now in my home, awaiting The Builder’s application of a nail on the wall on which to hang it. I just love it. It’s even got Papua New Guinea as an Australian Territory, just as it was when I was born there all those millions of years ago.

Imagine life without eBay. Just doesn’t bear thinking about, now does it?

{image: Nicky Gordon}