Tips for writing features #3: Anyone know anyone...?

As a features writer, I've spent a lot of my time asking variations on this question: "Does anyone know anyone who [insert wears blue nail polish/howls at the moon/is willing to get naked for a readership of 500,000+/had a baby early/had a baby late/had a baby on their own/had a baby with another mum/etcetera etcetera etcetera]. Most features in the lifestyle category require at least one case study. Preferably three. Or, five. Or, gloriously for one particular story, nine.

When I first started out as a journo, case studies were a nightmare. Imagine yourself sitting in an office, with a phone and a computer that's not connected to anything but the wall. The internet is 'happening', but not in your sphere, not yet. And you need to find someone over the age of 40 who had a baby on their own (just as an example). Your social network has an average age of 22 and is spectacularly free of mothers of any age. Where do you start?

By ringing everyone you know, of course. Which is why my friends learned to 'accidentally disconnect' the phone every time they heard my voice on the end of it. Particularly once I started at CLEO and they discovered that many of my queries involved either nudity or embarrassing public disclosure or both. It becomes a measure of one's charm, tenacity and sheer bloody desperation that some of those stories come together (see here for details of one particularly memorable feature).

That particular job involved phone call after phone call, and arm twisting, and convincing people that a 'really nice professional photo' was reason enough to get involved. Ingenuity helps. When in need of naked people, start with the professionally body conscious: strippers, life models, body builders. In need of brides with unworn wedding dresses? Thumb through the classifieds - and then be prepared for some awkward 'Hi, I'm from CLEO, how do you feel about sharing your heartbreak?' conversations. Looking for first home buyers? Ring a real estate agent.

Of course, the internet changed everything. Suddenly, we could advertise on a magazine's website for people to contact us to get involved (bliss). There's an association for everything and every association has a website with contact details. And now there's social media, where one 'tweet' can garner a dozen responses - perhaps not definitive case studies, but all-important leads. (If you're needing a case study, I recommend you check out sourcebottle.com.au - dream service.)

One thing I learned through those earlier, desperate years, however, is this: not every case study is the right case study, and it's really, really difficult to explain to someone who's keen to be involved that they're not 'right'. The reasons they might not be right vary wildly, but mostly it just comes down to the angle of their story not being strong enough. Yes, you need to fill a hole in your story with 'real person quotes', but if those quotes don't advance the story there's no point. On one memorable occasion, I tracked down 34 different case studies before finding the 'nine' (yep, that's the story) that the editor was happy with. Often, it's not until after you've done the interview that you realise it won't work out. Which makes it even worse.

So what's a girl to do in a situation like this? The same thing that writers have done since time immemorial. Blame the editor.

There's no place like home (even for a pirate)

Mr3 went to preschool in pirate regalia today. Striped shirt with skull-and-crossbones. Bandanna around his head. I drew the line at the sword and he lamented long and loud that he couldn't be a real pirate because he had no parrot on his shoulder, but we got there in the end. He arrived with a hearty 'shiver me timbers' to much admiration.

It was a far cry from the sad scrap of misery that greeted me when he awoke this morning.

"I don't want to go to preschool," he said.

You're going.

"I've got a tummy ache," he tried.

You're going.

"I'm really not feeling very well," he reiterated.

You're going (albeit with a surreptitious feel of the forehead in case he really was sick).

It wasn't until we got out the front of the preschool that he admitted he was worried. One of the bigger boys in his class was being 'mean'. My heart sank. My poor little pirate. The idea of him battling along alone made me feel sick. Three is really very small.

We had a little talk about what 'mean' things had been taking place. We had a little talk about what a good thing it was that he'd told me so I could help him. I had a little talk with his teacher, drawing it to her attention. I didn't even have to mention the other child's name. Several complaints have been made. She's worried that if she can't help him with his behaviour he'll be labeled all through school.

I'm worried that if she can't help him with his behaviour my pirate won't be very hearty about returning to preschool next week either. All I can do is focus on helping Mr3 with his responses and reactions. He was happy enough when I picked him up, though sans bandanna as he'd 'got hot'.

Mr3 told me that there'd been a little talk at morning meeting this morning about the importance of being kind. And about the importance of telling the teacher when you were worried. Would he be okay to do that? I asked.

He sighed. "It's okay now," he said. "I'm home with you tomorrow."

{image: idsfabric.com}

What brightens the most 'meh' day?

Today was one of those days when I wished I was somewhere else. Specifically, the front verandah of the little bungalow at Merimbula Beach Holiday Park in which we spent three days of our holidays. Views straight to the horizon. Big, full moon reflecting on the water. Stars strewn like fairy lights across the sky. Sunrise emerging from the waves.

Instead, I was in the Fibro suffering a holiday hangover. The first week back, I think everyone is carried along by a feeling of wellbeing and powered by holiday smiles. A week later - specifically, the next Monday later - that's all gone and it's as flat as the Dutch landscape around here.

Mr3 never wants to return to preschool. Asked why, he says there's simply not enough to do. Like he's working on simultaneous world-saving projects at home.

Mr6 is tired. Tired enough to go to bed without a fight, and only one chapter of Captain Underpants (which we will discuss on another, much funnier day).

The Builder and I spent the evening folding clothes. To liven things up, we made up a new game. It involved sock puppetry and matching pairs. The good news is that we now have only five odd socks wandering unloved around the laundry. The bad news is that this activity was about as exciting as it sounds.

I did, however, unearth one of the books I swapped on holidays. One of the best things about holidays is the reading time that becomes available when you're not connected to the phone, internet or TV guide. This can be problematic, however, when you read like I read - that is to say in large, hungry gulps without pause for air. You need an awful lot of fodder to feed that sort of addiction. Which is why I like staying in places with libraries - particularly the ones where you can simply take a book, as long as you put another on the shelf in its place.

I finished The Fountainhead, a cracking read by Ayn Rand, and replaced that with a second-hand purchase of a James Patterson co-authored crime novel (for which I was glad I'd paid only $3). That was left on the shelf at our next stop, happily replaced by a Donna Leon Inspector Brunetti novel. The one I discovered tonight. The one I haven't finished reading. The one I'm heading off to read right now.

The perfect antidote for a day like today.

Does your Dad think he's funny?

Fam Fibro had big plans for this weekend. We were going to the Big Smoke. To the footy. To visit family. To see friends. But the weather conspired against us. A rugby league match loses its appeal when you know you'll be sitting on the grass, in the open, in the rain. It went against the grain, but we cancelled.

Which left us at a loose end. For a whole weekend. When was the last time you had an entire weekend with no plans? In the rain? What did you do?

Yesterday, we cleaned house. With me gritting my teeth against the tedium of it all while we were doing it - and smiling with joy once it was done. Half of my To Do list was To Done in one fell swoop. Good feeling.

Today it was literally blowing a gale. The front yard was awash with twigs and branches and leaves and general debris. Which was a better outcome than our neighbour on the corner, whose front yard was buried under an entire tree.

It was also Fathers' Day. Mr3 had picked out Katrina Germein's picture book 'My Dad Thinks He's Funny' to give to The Builder. He was drawn to the illustration (by Tom Jellett) on the front of the Dad holding the kid upside down. This form of acrobatics is often practised in the Fibro. I admit I smirked as I paid the shop assistant for it. I'd read the front page, you see.

"My Dad thinks he's funny. Whenever I put lots of sauce on my plate, Dad says, 'Would you like some dinner with that sauce?'"

It wasn't even so much that I could hear The Builder saying that, as the fact that I could hear my Dad saying that. The book is full of those universal Dad sayings. The ones that make you wonder if there's some kind of Dad study group out there that they're not telling you about. I'm pretty sure my Dad graduated top of that particular class.

Of course, each Dad also has his own particular brand of stand-up. Confronted by a group of children - actually, anyone under 40 - he will not be able to help himself saying, 'heads on 'em like mice'. It's just what he does. But he's funnier when he's not trying.

One afternoon, when I was about 15, I was standing out the front of our house, talking to a boy from around the corner. Dad wandered down the drive, carrying a pink double-bed mattress. He opened the gate, and walked past as we watched in silence.

"Where are you going with that?" I asked, teenage disdain dripping from every syllable.

"To the club," he responded.

"Like, why would anyone take a mattress to the club?" I asked (you can see the eye-roll, can't you?).

"To swap it for a suit, of course," he replied, sailing off down the street with his mattress, leaving us in fits of laughter at the gate.

He came home with a suit. It still makes me laugh. Did they do the deal in the carpark, or did he swing into the bar with his eye-catching load?

That one's not in the book. But you'll remember this one: "When I tell Dad I think there's something in my eye, he says 'Yeah, an eyeball.'"

The Builder says he doesn't use all these jokes.

I say, 'Not yet.'

My first mammogram: What are you waiting for?

When I turned 40, I decided I would have my first mammogram. I’d be proactive. I picked up a brochure, enquired politely at the Breastscreen NSW office how long the current waiting list was (a couple of weeks) and headed home to make the appointment.

When I turned 41, I realised that I’d never made that appointment. I resolved to try harder.

Four months later, Sarah from Ah, The Possibilities wrote a blog post about a friend of a friend who was somewhere around my age and had just been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. She has a three year old and an eight-month-old. Around the same time, Annie at Living Life as Me described her journey as a regular visitor at the Breast Screen Clinic. She has a lump and goes back every year to make sure nothing has changed with it.

I made the appointment.

Three weeks later, this week, I presented myself for my first mammogram. I wasn’t sure what to expect. All I knew was that there was squashing of the breast involved. People complained that it hurt. That it was inelegant. Having been through a three-day labour complete with emergency c-section, post-operative complications that involved me walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame for three months, and a suppository just to get out of the damn hospital, a little breast squashing didn’t sound too scary.

Upon my arrival, I discussed skiing with the front-line lady. She didn’t look like the skiing type. She looked like a woman who liked nothing more than a large G&T and a game of bingo, but looks can be deceiving. She likes skiing at Aspen but prefers the scenery at Banff. Having never skied, nor been to either place, I didn’t have much to add, but I enjoyed listening to her. Her voice was Julia Gillard-flat, but enthusiasm gave it peaks and valleys.

After she ascertained that I was not, in fact, just there for the travelogue, she gave me a form to fill out and told me that I was in ‘really good hands’ that day. Given that every breast check I’d ever had in the past relied on a quality feel up, I was pleased about that.

It was while perusing the form that I had my first reality check. Right at the top, in the disclaimer section, where you have to answer Yes or No to questions about breast implants and medical history is this statement: I understand that this test may not pick up existing cancers. Or words to that effect.

It suddenly occurred to me that this scan might actually reveal a cancer. That I might be that one in 11 women. I considered running. But then thought about Sarah’s friend. It has to be better to know, and know early, right?

I ticked the box, signed the form and handed it back to my Aspen friend.

The mammogram itself was something of an anti-climax. There is a certain amount of woman-handling involved, it’s true. Mind you, I’ve been fitted for a bra by some David Jones Ladies who’ve been unafraid to get in and make sure things fit. My maternity bra fitting, in which my Lady reached inside the G-cup bra she’d decided I needed, pulling my extremely tender pregnancy porno boobs into optimum position, still stands out in my mind as a low point in the history of my breasts.

The mammogram didn’t hurt. Watching my breasts spread out on a plate before me and squished was somewhat disquieting – but mostly because I remember what they were like before breastfeeding diminished their glory. The sideways view, where you have to get your armpit on the machine to get the position right is uncomfortable. But that’s it.

The worst part – I don’t get my results for two weeks. Which seems a long time to wait. Then again, I’m a writer. I’m used to waiting. And this time around, I’m hoping for a rejection letter. "No further tests needed. See you in two years."

What are you waiting for?

{image: allposters.com}

I'm flogging my blog this fine Friday with Lori at RRSAHM - there are lots of great blogs to read over there, go see!

True confessions Thursday: I'm twitchy

My mum has told me several times over my life that I was never a child. That I was born a grown-up in a child’s body and spent most of my formative years looking bored, waiting for the real life to begin. 

I suspect this is why I’m so addicted to basics. And the ABC. In fact, there are many reasons why I sometimes wonder if I haven’t skipped from birth to old age without anything so boring as a mid-life crisis.

My not-so-secret affection for Winnebagos (reverse-parked by someone else).

My passion for gardening.

My love of sensible shoes.

My desire to conquer cryptic crosswords – and chess.

(Are you ready to find another blog yet?)

Whilst on holidays, I set free another slightly sad part of my personality. The Twitcher.

There is a back story to this, and it’s all The Builder’s fault. A couple of years ago, he read a review of a book called The Big Twitch (by Sean Dooley) about a guy who sold his house and went on a one-year odyssey to see the most birds ever seen in Australia. I know what you’re thinking – quick, turn the page! But no, The Builder requested it for Father’s Day and, being the excellent wife that I am, I duly stumped up.

One night, with nothing to read other than cereal packets (I had not at this stage discovered the many quality blogs in the world), I picked up the book and began reading. If nothing else, I thought, it will put me to sleep.

Wrong.

I cannot tell you how fascinating this book is. Even if you don’t know a blue-spotted wren from a yellow-chested sparrow (and you shouldn’t because I made them both up), you will fall in love with this book. Well, I did. It’s a quest, pure and simple. It also awakened in me a need to check out what was in my own backyard. Unfortunately, we’ve yet to buy a Bird Guide so I can’t tell you what the little black ones with the orange beaks are, but I do know that there’s a new, tiny little hummingbird type thing that likes to suck the nectar from the salvias.

But I digress.

Aside from being the site of mysteries, Mystery Bay is also a fantastic bush on the beach rural setting. And a bird-lover’s paradise. Kate and Nigel from Mystery Bay Cottages, where we stayed, even provide you with bird seed, with which to draw in the rosellas and the king parrots, the lorikeets, the wrens, and even magpie ruffian or two. If you see something startling, you can record it in the bird lover’s book, which currently contains 50 or so species spotted from the cottages and another 50 or so seen in the bush around the property. There’s even a Field Guide to Australian Birds, and The Builder and I spent a happy hour or so poring over the illustrations, trying to tell a finch from the other birds flying by. 

Twitching. I think it could be catching.

Anyone else out there share my penchant for old-person hobbies?

{image: inhabitots}