SYDNEY - Fame and Marriage

First, a sales pitch.


Reading Angel. Not sure why I'm posting the picture because, of course, you're all hopelessly devoted to me and, therefore, you already own copies. Right?

When I got to 21 I made a very short list of life's aims. Excluding the obvious ones (occassional meals, the odd cosy bed and worldwide domination by thirty) they were fairly straightforward. Leaving Britain as soon as humanly possible was one of them, subtitled with working my way around the world and living in some countries as well as travelling. Check.

Another was getting a first novel published. Hmmm... Well, I've still got time for that one. It's half finished. And another was publishing a piece of literary or film criticism. Somewhere. Anywhere. And, if possible, making it about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Now funnily enough I thought that one was going to be the real toughy. Having avoided all MA and PhD related entertainment like the plague (because you guys doing it make it sound *so* inviting) meant that I'd never have the right combination letters after my name to be worthy enough for even consideration for publication. Of course, I forgot that I am obviously some kind of unmitigated genius because, on the first time of asking, I managed to get a submission accepted for the book Reading Angel by its lovely editor, Stacey Abbott. Fearing it was all some kind of trick I dutifully wrote the first draft months ahead of schedule (I think I started researching it at two in the morning moments after getting the e-mail that my proposal had been accepted) And, after four or five drafts and the series in question getting cancelled (hasty re-writes all around. Thanks a lot, Fox) I left it in Stacey's hands and promptly moved on with doing other things whilst the book's publication date got pushed back and back. It ended up coming out weeks after I left the UK and, then, the US date got pushed back so I missed it *there* by a month or so. I'd almost forgotten about it, assuming I'd maybe find a copy a year later on eBay or wake up and find I'd imagined the whole thing.

And then I arrived in Sydney. Which has, amongst other things, some truly excellent bookshops stocking the kind of TV tie-in trash which I enjoy immensly (as well as good children's stock. Found copies of Louisa M. Alcott's Little Men and Jo's Boys which have eluded me for some time. I know, there's probably only about half a dozen of you who aren't confused by that) and there it was. The first book with my name, essay and (snigger) biography in it. It's a strange feeling being a writer and seeing your first essay in print (well, actually it's my second. But, hey, I'm not one to boast. And, yes, that was a lie) and sitting on the glittery floor of this tiny bookshop reading it was a fun experience. It's not too bad, if I don't say so myself. The last couple of paragraphs are a bit too wordy but, astoundingly, it's all my words. Nothing has been added, deleted or reworded from the final draft I submitted. Of course, it did take six drafts to get that far but I remember from my Concrete days the occassional mauling which my articles were subjected to. So if it's rubbish, it's all my fault. And I like that.


That's an awful lot of words to basically so 'no qualifications, no real experience and who the heck is this kid anyway?' Still a fine piece of writing, though. Yes, it's mine too.


And here it is, in print. Of course, to read the whole thing you'll have to buy the book. I wasn't going to sit there and photograph the whole thing, thus breaking my own copyright (yes, I don't own the copyright on this essay. That's publishing for you.

You maybe wondering why I put lots of silly photos here instead of just buying and coverting the thing like I should. Well, the truth is that, irony of ironies, having written for an academic text instead of a nice little novel my first real published work is in a book I can't actually afford to buy. At least, not at Australian import prices. Nobody ever said this writing gig would make you rich or give any material gain. It does make me very happy though. Especially today.

Back to Sydney, then. Which, I'm pleased to say, is a dirty city. I love New Zealand to bits but the activist in me always felt a little uncomfortable in its shiny and clean streets. Where was the dirt? The homeless and the night shelters? They'd been swept somewhere tourists couldn't follow. But Sydney is a different beast. A true metropolis with plenty of disolussioned folks wandering the streets. Mostly, actually, they're not the locals but the throngs of tourists looking for work. It's the high season here and short term work is hard to come by. My travelling companion extrodinaire, Sarah, told me her woes of two weeks hard door knocking to no avail. But she's celebrating now, having find an au pair job on the south side of the city looking after a two and four year old. Needless to say, I was not envious.


Sydney's bizarre mix of high rise, Victorian facades and strange fountains. A little like Santiago, perhaps, but with much more green. Just not in this photo, obviously.

The other thing to be said about Sydney, besides the fact it can be brutally hot without a cloud in the sky, is that if you head to the park on a Saturday you're fighting for breathing space between groups of weddings. I counted at least seven wandering around the edges of the harbour looking for the perfect shot of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House in the background. It's always funny watching brides trying to get up slopes in their dresses. Or crossing busy intersections. One particular example was slowly picking a bunch of grapes to death whilst the groom, bridesmaids and camera man tried to set up the perfect shot. The poor woman looked bored out of her mind.


No idea who you are, Jacquie, but thanks ever so much for inviting everyone to share your nupturals lying all over the ground so we can pick them up and throw them away for you.

On Monday the great job hunt begins. I suspect it won't be so hard as many have found it as my intention is to get out of the cities and go do some hard, but rewarding fruit picking in the outback. But, of course, I doubt my new status as a published academic will turn many heads. No problem. We famous authors can't all be about big cities and constant attention now, can we?


Well, what did you expect in a Sydney blog post? Torquay, perhaps?