AESTHETE

Recently I caught up with the lovely Cheryl Lin. She told me that she really enjoyed my ‘behind the scenes’ blog posts last year. In the posts, I shared the extra details of my freelance feature escapades that didn’t make it to print. So I promised Cheryl I’d write a behind the scenes post about pulling an all-nighter for the City Weekly.

When I put my hand up to document a night on the town in Melbourne I was excited. I had fantasies about bringing a flash mob of friends along and we’d dance through the streets singing Lionel Richie songs and sip cocktails until dawn. But as the deadline approached, awkward silences hung in the air when I asked people if they wanted to come with me. You’d rather stay home with a cuppa so you can do a 9am yoga class? Sure, I totally understand.

I really didn’t want to go without friends there to hold my hand. I managed to talk a couple of girlfriends into joining me at my starting venue, but their time with me was fleeting. I was absolutely petrified of accidently becoming entangled in a drunken brawl, cracking the shits and wanting to pull the pin at 1am, or worse, returning to my editor with a bitter, luke-warm story about the state of Melbourne’s footpaths at 3am.

As I left my house at 8pm on the night, I had worked myself up into such a state I thought I might self-combust. When I arrived at the first bar I wanted to scull my drink, scull another one, and enjoy my Saturday night like normal person. But petulance doesn’t get a journo far, so when sat down with a glass of red to watch zombie porn I decided to relax and roll with it.

When I arrived home at 7am on Sunday morning  I sat on my little balcony for a while and took it all in. I resolved to do more things that I didn’t think I wanted to do. I also resolved to stop trying to plan everything – I only did half of the things I had on my list that night and the story is better for the stuff I couldn’t possibly have planned. I was reminded that the best things happen when yourself up to the madness of the unknown*.

*Having said this, I had an epic early evening nap in order to prepare for being up all night. I also packed a change of shoes, a cardigan, a jacket, a bottle of water, my iPod, a notebook, pen, camera, a snack and my glasses in case my contacts became scratchy. Doesn’t hurt to prepare for spontaneity.

When I spoke to a novelist friend this week about how he tackles fiction, I realised that the desire to write fiction probably stems from an urge to control destiny. My friend said that the most important thing a writer needs is an idea of how the story ends because everything else will fall into place once they know. What magnificent power there is in dictating the end of a story. Being privy to the conclusion is freeing. Accepting the end makes the little steps along the dauntingly long road towards the inevitable a lot more valuable.

I’ve always wished I could flip to the back pages of my own life for a cheeky sneak peek at what the plot holds. Not because I have a morbid fascination, but because I think it’s natural to wonder what’s in store. None of this que sera, sera for me thank you very much. I want answers. I’m in a hurry to get where I’m going and I’ll ignore slow scenic routes in favour of the most direct path.

“There’s no need to plan every little step of the journey,” my friend insisted. Such a simple piece of advice gives me the gumption to press on without worrying about that expansive stretch in the middle. “Not knowing exactly where you’re going or what you’re doing is half the fun,” he added.

Without context, those comments could have been an extract from any conversation about this relentlessly uncertain world. It’s so easy to fastidiously plan the plot points of life and become disappointed when we don’t tick off the chapters the way we intended to because of something uncontrollable. Planning is futile. It’s best just to hit the road, enjoy the characters that spring up along the way and embrace plot point detours we didn’t see coming.

Some journalists went to London to see a boy stand in front of a girl. They watched, pens at the ready, as he declared his love for her. The number of journalists – according to the varied documentation that I’ve read – numbered anywhere between 8500 and 12,000. I understand that we live in a world of bombs, death and financial disarray. I know seeing a Prince kiss a pretty girl with the sort of fusion that turns a commoner into a Duchess is an historic, escapist and hope-inspiring occasion. For me, it was compelling enough to fight a guy at a Brunswick pub for the AFL to be switched to the wedding. I wanted to see that faultless House of McQueen gown as much as the next girl. I wanted to see the ritual. I wanted to see if the emotional exchange was legitimate. I wanted, for a moment, to feel like Duchess Catherine might have felt  – blissfully happy. I also wondered what it was like to give up all of yourself for a bed at Buckingham Palace. 

I didn’t, however, want to see the world’s entire media descend upon a city to write about what was a rather ostentatious (and stunning) stroll down an aisle. It was undoubtedly a waste of the precious resources. How much did the industry spend documenting something that was essentially a private occasion? We could never be sure. If every print journalist was paid the premium of $1 per word, that’s a lot of dollars to write the same thing about a dress, a carriage and a bridesmaid’s nice ass. What’s obvious is the money could have been much better spent. 

We live in an age where newspapers are becoming as rare as a royal Cartier tiara, magazines precious as some McQueen couture lace. Why then, with the fairly reliable Internet at hand, did we spend such a ridiculous amount of money on something that a handful of journalist could have covered sufficiently? If we’d saved the cash, perhaps the Australian media industry could have done something further to secure an exciting, dynamic media future, instead of chasing its tail… and a fairytale.

I’ve never really considered myself a journalist, not the news-hound type. I just like to find interesting stories and write about them. I write profiles and features – not news. Last year I put all of my energy into quality sentences, wit and voice. However, in the first few weeks of my new role – sitting at a desk flanked by news journos – I’ve turfed my old mindset. I find myself increasingly interested in the way that stories surface and the way I go about finding them. A fresh bouquet of sentences will not mean much if the story hasn’t been chipped at with a spade and re-potted.  

I have started working on a new feature. The subject, tone and style are different to many of my previous features. I had sketched my idea like I usually do, but the story possessed my hand, running the lead pencil forcefully across the page at such a speed that I was forced to let go.

Now both of  my hands are free to clutch the earth and take underground journeys as required. I step away from my desk and out into the world. My palms become gritty and I like the sensation. Only after I started to to unlace the roots below the flower beds did the true colours of my story bloom. From here, I could explore any one of the roots in detail and that exploration can take me in any number of directions. It’s a veritable choose your own adventure.

I’m sitting in the middle of the adventure. I can’t skip to the last page and see how it ends. I have to conduct my interviews and in the process might end up inadvertently planting a seed and watching it grow. As it stands, parts of the story that I thought would be pretty might actually be soiled and parts that I expected to be grubby are looking bright. 

After I finish this story, I’ll write another. It’s such a privilege to delve into the lives of unsung (and sung) Melburnians. I love meeting people who’ve waded through soil to produce pretty petals. If you know someone who deserves to have their story told, drop me a line: nhaddow@fairfaxmedia.com.au

The greatest thing about going away is undoubtedly floating back to the comforts of home. For me, coming home after an extended absence is like blowing up a balloon. With each breath the colour rises right in front of my face, consuming my peripheral vision. My cheeks become rosy and I gasp for air while simultaneously enjoying the simplicity of the softness and lightness.

And then, as if inhaling helium, I recount a million little details from the 12 months that lay behind me at fast-paced, high-pitch: the foreign setting, pitching story ideas to editors, road-testing relationship counselling for madison, road-testing iPhone dating apps for CLEO, never wanting to date again, unearthing private beaches with my housemates, laughing, crying, having my hair cut, writing for The X Factor website, trying to talk to Ronan Keating without touching his tattooed arms, drinking too much at writers’ club, wondering when I’d see another paid invoice, receiving one just before rent day, folding my clothes, writing for pregnancy magazines (despite being single), laughing about it, crying… then accepting a job offer in Melbourne.

The helium subsides and I regain slow, lucid consciousness. I’m so grateful for the fact that I was never offered a full-time job in Sydney. It took until the end of the journey to see that freelancing for a year was a blessing. I rise above the events in the hot-air balloon of my imagination, and all the pieces that I couldn’t fit together from the ground align like intricately cultivate fields when viewed from above.

Returning to Melbourne next week will be another fresh start – a new balloon to blow up – in the place I call home. My Sydney balloon doesn’t burst though, I’ll tie it up somewhere safe in the city for collection on my next visit. And there will be many.