In the last few years quite a few of my friends, former students and writing colleagues who have had books coming out for the first time have asked me for advice about how to handle the media side of book publishing. Specifically, how to deal with being interviewed – for print, TV, radio and online. As a result I have developed a one-off hour-long media training session specifically for writers.
As an arts journalist and broadcaster, and the author of a ridiculously self-revealing memoir (‘Shy: a memoir’, Text Publishing), I have not only spent many years interviewing authors, but I’ve been on the receiving end of some fairly challenging interviews about my book too.
Given how much of a book’s ‘success’ these days depends on how you ‘sell’ your own book to the media, I think it’s really important that we all find ways to make this process easier.
Feel free to contact me if you’d like to get together for one of these sessions (either in person or on Skype) or even just find out more about them.
Comment from recent media training students:
Author Jenny Valentish (‘Cherry Bomb’, Allen and Unwin): “Never has playing ‘worst-case scenario’ been so reassuring. Sian is an expert guide through media minefields, generous with her own experience and analytical of yours.”
Author Kate Mildenhall (‘Skylarking’, Black Inc): “Thanks so much Sian for your excellent (and hugely revealing) media training session. Feeling a little braver because of you!”
The Westgarth Ensemble presents: ‘Supernatural – uncanny music from the world of opera’
By the pricking of your thumbs you’ll know that something wicked this way comes! From Purcell’s beguiling sirens to Verdi’s plotting witches, from Lully’s majestic goddesses to Mendelssohn’s flitting fairies, the Westgarth Ensemble will lure you into unnatural worlds as envisioned by composers from the Baroque era through to the 20th century.
Last time these four singers performed together they were cross-dressing in Who Wears The Pants (St Paul’s Cathedral 2015). This time they’ve cooked up a cauldron of musical magic that ranges from the uncanny to the frankly unbelievable. Arias, duets, trios and quartets to make your hair stand on end.
Many of these songs have been inspired by the words of William Shakespeare. In the year we mark the 400th anniversary of the Bard’s death, the Westgarth Ensemble will present excerpts from Macbeth, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Falstaff, amongst many other creations from myth and legend. Come along and be enchanted!
When: Saturday May 28, 3pm
Where: Armadale Uniting Church, 86A Kooyong Rd. Armadale. (Not far from Armadale Station)
Who: The Westgarth Ensemble
Claire McDonald (Soprano)
Katrena Mitchell (Soprano)
Sian Prior (Soprano)
Kerrie Bolton (Mezzo soprano)
with Gregory Smith (Piano)
Admission: $20 ($15 concession) at the door
Background: The members of the Westgarth Ensemble have been singing together since 1997. Graduates of the Victorian College of the Arts Opera Studio, they have all worked for a range of Australian opera companies and ensembles. In recent years they have been presenting themed concerts in venues around Victoria. In 2015 they performed ‘Who Wears The Pants’ at the Armadale Uniting Church and St Paul’s Cathedral.
Do you ever feel embarrassed about ‘over-sharing’? If the answer is yes, you’re not exactly Robinson Crusoe. The interwebs are full of people saying sorry for offering us ‘TMI’ (Too Much Information). Facebook friends apologise before relating their latest online dating disasters. Colleagues beg forgiveness on Twitter before recounting tales of professional exploitation. Close buddies send emails admitting to feeling anxious about admitting to feeling depressed. Everyone’s sharing and yet everyone’s worried that everyone else is over it.
As the author of a memoir that could earn me an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records for over-sharing, I’m here to sing the praises of confessional communication. Our culture is replete with positive examples of people admitting to their shameful fears.
In Puccini’s opera La Boheme our lonely heroine Mimi over-shares with her handsome neighbour Rodolfo at their first meeting. He instantly falls in love with her, because vulnerability can be deeply seductive. On national television this week comedian Luke McGregor admitted to feeling hopelessly inept in all things sexual (Luke Warm Sex, ABC 1). Afterwards the Twitterverse almost imploded from the weight of McGregor’s new fans praising his courage and confessing their own sexual confusion. I continue to receive missives from readers describing how my memoir Shy (Text Publishing) has made them feel less freakish and less isolated by social anxiety. So why do we all feel so guilty about over-sharing?
Sociologists might point to ‘self-presentation theory’, the idea that we are all ‘performing’ in social situations. We’re all adopting appropriate ‘masks’ or personas to ensure we appear confident and therefore socially acceptable. If we remove our mask and admit to uncertainty, potentially we undermine the unwritten rules of public performance. This kind of confident performance can go too far, though: just look at Donald Trump, all bluff and bluster, bullying and braggadocio.
Perhaps we fear that our over-sharing moments could be perceived as pleas for pity, and few of us enjoy feeling pitiable. Pity and compassion are sometimes mistaken for each other, but there is no shame in soliciting compassion. Judging by the number of hits on Brene Brown’s TED talk on The power of vulnerability (upwards of 24 million), there is much to gain from admitting that we are not perfect. Brown argues that we are ‘neuro-biologically hardwired to feel connection’ with other humans, and that admitting to vulnerability is a brilliant way to connect.
So let’s all embrace over-sharing. At worst, we may look momentarily foolish. At best we may feel more compassionate. And less alone. Or is that TMI?
This column was first published in the Sunday Age in April 2016.
Once every change of season I pack my bags, travel to a nearby suburb and get semi-naked amongst a group of strangers. This intimate ritual has become a highlight of my social almanac. Before you jump to conclusions, let me be clear: there’s no hanky-panky involved. The ritual of undressing is called Clothes Swap and it involves a loose collective of about twenty-five women, many of whom only ever meet at these events.
Here’s the drill: you peruse your wardrobe and haul out anything you haven’t worn for at least a year and are unlikely to wear in the near future. The jeans you grew out of and hoped you would shrink back into (now they reproach you for your non-shrinkage every time you open the cupboard). The T-shirt you bought on impulse the day you were too hot in your long sleeves (even though that colour always makes you look like you have an iron deficiency). The boots you ordered online that were never going to fit (what were you thinking?). You are ruthlessly honest with yourself about whether you need this Stuff (the phrase ‘first world problems’ can be very helpful in this process). Then you stash all the Stuff in a big bag and wait for an email to arrive from whoever volunteers to organise the next Clothes Swap.
If you are hosting a Clothes Swap you choose the biggest room in your home and clear the floor. You make sure there’s a mirror in a nearby room. Then you sit back and wait for the stream of women to arrive bearing food, wine and bags of Stuff. Once the clothes have all been heaped into a pile on the floor, the swapping begins.
There is something both liberating and reassuring about getting undressed in front of other women. All those different body shapes and sizes remind you that there is no such thing as a normal female figure, let alone an idealone. Those of us now in middle age hand over our reproaching jeans to younger women who have not yet reached the age of reproach. The younger ones learn that women of their mother’s generation can have decent taste in clothing. And we all take vicarious pleasure in seeing our pre-loved Stuff looking fantastic on someone else’s body.
There’s currently a debate trending about whether well-off middle-class people should be ‘de-cluttering’ their lives. Books are being published with titles like ‘The Life Changing Joy of Tidying Up’. There are too many objects taking up too much mental space, according to these self-help tomes. One women’s magazine is even running a de-cluttering ‘challenge’. Other commentators have countered that you should hang onto your Stuff because your memories are embedded in it.
At our Clothes Swaps we respect both sides of this ‘first world problems’ debate. Yes, we tell each other, we all have too much Stuff. But there is a reason I haven’t yet been able to give away the pleated mini-skirt my mother wore when she was pregnant with me, and that I then wore with Doc Martens as a twenty-something feminist. Our lives are inscribed in the Stuff we own and giving it away can feel like giving away our history.
On the other hand, my mother’s mini-skirt would look fantastic on the twenty-something feminist daughter of my friend who comes to Clothes Swap. Perhaps my history can merge with the history of my friend’s daughter as she treads the streets of our hometown in that little woollen skirt.
The women at our Clothes Swaps are generous, and not just with their clothes. They often compliment each other as they’re trying things on. If they find something in the pile they think would particularly suit another woman, they hand it over. If they take something home and realise it doesn’t suit them, they bring it back to the next Clothes Swap for someone else to try on.
They’re not interested in patting themselves on the back about re-using and recycling resources, about saving money and avoiding waste. There is nothing self-righteous about the mood at Clothes Swap. Mostly we’re semi-hysterical with laughter as we re-live the childhood pleasures of a game of dress-ups. New friendships are formed between strangers as we zip each other into tight frocks. Inhibitions are shed as we’re challenged to try on new versions of ourselves in front of the mirror.
In a world where women are often encouraged to judge, condemn and compete with each other, a Clothes Swap can be an oasis of intimacy and empathy. And to be honest, who doesn’t love getting Stuff for free?
(This column was published in The Guardian in March 2016)
This year for the first time i am running some short courses for RMIT University in non fiction writing. There are three different courses available. Details below (click through headings to book a place at RMIT):
Whether you’re writing a memoir, a media release or a newsletter article, you need to do more than produce a faithful description of ‘what happened’. If you want to craft an engaging piece of writing, you need to find the ‘story’ at the heart of the ‘situation’ you’re exploring. Whether you call it finding an angle, offering an insight, or arriving at a poetic truth, it’s a task that requires structure, discipline and an empathy with your readers. In this hands-on course, we’ll cover how to convert a bunch of facts into a gripping tale to grab your audience or customers.
Creative Non Fiction Writing September/October 2016
We are living in the age of ‘reality hunger’. The reading public has an insatiable appetite for well-crafted true stories. This course will introduce you to some of the essential skills required to write publishable works of non fiction. From essays to memoirs and autobiographies, from personal columns to self-help books, the ingredients remain the same: well-planned and focussed research, a clear and convincing voice, and an ability to ‘show’ rather than ‘tell’ your readers what you want them to know. You will also learn how to structure and write a persuasive publishing proposal.
Feature Writing September/October 2016
Media editors are always looking for fresh and engaging freelance feature content, especially when it comes to travel articles, opinion pieces, personal columns, profiles and informative features. In this course we will introduce you to the basics of feature writing and show you how to pitch and sell your work to relevant publications. You will learn how to find an eye-catching ‘angle’, how to write to the traditional formulas of feature articles and how to write for a ‘house-style’.
A few people have expressed interest in reading the column i refer to in ‘Shy: a memoir’ about Magazine Woman. It was first published about ten years ago in The Age.
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There she is again. Just when you think you’ve seen the last of her for a while, she pops up again in all the usual places.
She’s in the bathroom mirror, standing just behind you, smiling seductively with her hair all tousled and her fashionable pink terry-towelling bathrobe framing her perfect neck. Her skin is clear, her scent is fresh, and she’s putting you to shame again. She’s Magazine Woman.
She joins you at the beach in her sleek black swimsuit, her hair now combed back in a perfect, salt water slick. As you scurry self-consciously into the shallows, she strides out beside you, throwing one smooth, long leg out in front of the other, smiling all the while at the admiring onlookers. A perfect dive, and she’s strokes ahead of you already, because, remember, she’s always, inevitably fitter than you.
In fact, she comes to the gym with you and perches elegantly on the exercise bike, back straight, armpits dry, and as you crouch and sweat and frown, she’s still smiling that beautiful smile.
No one else can see her, except perhaps those bored enough to flick through the dog-eared ‘Vogue’ or ’Marie Claire’ magazines as they pedal away. You wonder if she escapes the confines of those glossy pages for them just as regularly as she does for you.
And she sure gets around. You’re far from home, in the change room of a small boutique in a distant shopping mall, and as you look up from that tricky zipper, she’s turning around, making sure her identical new outfit looks as good from the left angle as it does from the right. (And it does.) So you take it off and hang it back on the rack, once again reminded of your bulging thighs or sloping shoulders or non-existent bust. You can’t win when she’s around.
So just who is she? And why does Magazine Woman plague your sub-conscious in this way?
Is she your ideal self, the stunning beauty you wish you could have been, or are trying hard to be? Sometimes she looks a little like you, but slightly thinner, or taller, or with a flush of rosy colour highlighting her well-sculpted cheekbones. At other times she looks completely different, fair where you are dark, or curvaceous where you are stick-like.
Is she your past, youthful self? She’s always young, and reminds you of the time your skin was smooth and your hair was thick and shiny with health. And she has an air of confidence (remember, ignorance is bliss) that you must have felt at some time before the responsibilities started piling up.
Or is she the enemy, the Other, upon whom who you focus all your envy and resentment, because you know very well you were never, ever anything like her, and never will be?
And yet we can’t keep away from her. Hundreds of thousands of us buy her image in dozens of different magazines every day, to pore over her wardrobe, her hairstyle and her make-up, feeling that strange mixture of pain and pleasure that she always induces.
In one part of our media-savvy brains, we know all about her hair-brushing, her air-brushing, her waxing and teasing and plucking, her tinting and fudge-ing, her rigid work-out regime, her dental and her cosmetic bills. We understand she’s a pawn of the industrial/entertainment complex, designed to stimulate our desire for retail therapy, and distract us from the real problems facing this mad, over-consuming society of ours. We even know she may soon be replaced by an image that is entirely digitally constructed, using the very latest tools of the computer animation industry.
But another part of that contrary organism, the human brain, insists she’s all pure and natural, no artificial colourings or flavourings, no genetically engineered improvements. She’s what we should have been, and what we could yet be if only we would buy more products.
So we meet her at the hairdressers. She’s the one with the hairdo we know will suit us down to the ground, if only our stylist could get it right for once.
Then we return home and take a bath with her, pouring in the salts and the scents, paying homage to her beauty and begging her to become one with us. She’s our greatest friend, our worst foe, our nemesis – she’s Magazine Woman.
I’ve been tootling up and down the west coast of Victoria in my campervan for the past week, storing up some beauty before the working year begins:
I’ve been having a summer mini-break in Sydney. And having my usual internal debate about whether I should move to that stunning city. And returning home to Melbourne and realising that if I moved north then Sydney wouldn’t be this lovely place I get to visit regularly, but a place with whose nutty geography I would have to negotiate on a daily basis. So I will stick with my sultry summer visits and my holiday snaps for now.
There are so many things I loathe about the cult TV show ‘Grand Designs’ I can’t begin to count them. Mostly it’s the ‘grand’ part; the size of the domestic spaces being created. We westerners take up too much space. We demand airy rooms, vaulting ceilings, walk-in robes and bathrooms the size of bedsits. We are swimming in cubic metres.
When I invested in a small campervan last year it was partly in reaction to this space-gobbling trend. Even if I could afford a beach house it would have felt grotesque for one person to gobble up so much living space for herself. Yet I need to be beside the seaside, often, for my mental health. By the sea there are vaulting skies and airy breezes and I can swim in countless cubic metres of ocean. I blame my grandmother. She provided our family with beach house holidays all through my childhood and adolescence. I followed her into the surf before I could spell my own name and the shocking pleasure of it has never left me. So last year the campervan was purchased and the coastal journeys began.
Some pleasures are obvious: the freedom of hitting the road and heading wherever I like. The dawns and sunsets accompanied by the rhythmic crashing of waves. The hazy horizon stretching further than my ageing eyes can see. Above all, though, there is the pleasure of being physically contained within a tiny space. The van is the length of a station wagon, the living space not much bigger than a double bed. In that space I feel cocooned and contented. I lie back on faded cushions, reading novels, sipping on coffee freshly brewed on my one burner stove. I take photos with my aging smart phone, re-charge it from the van’s battery and send pictures of sunsets to friends in town. Their envy comes back to me in the form of emoticons.
There is also pleasure to be found in using limited resources with great efficiency. Perhaps this, too, is a family inheritance; I come from a line of generous but frugal folk. The van itself is a marvel of economic design, dreamt up by my stepfather in the wakeful hours endured by octogenarians after midnight. It wasn’t the first campervan he’d designed. He has criss-crossed the dry centre of Australia in his own house-on-wheels many times. We constructed mine together in his back shed; the master and his apprentice. Under the wooden bed base he created ingenious storage compartments (for books, mostly) and a sliding draw hand-crafted from found timber. It stores things like bird books and binoculars, insect netting and fly spray, sunscreen and thongs.
Down the back of the van in the ‘kitchen’ there is a water container, the single-burner stove and some drawers recycled from an old wardrobe. The insect netting is made from table runners found in a Barwon Heads op shop and the cutlery comes from a picnic basket scored at a swap night; objects costing next to nothing but offering daily utility. A recent Greenpeace poster entitled ‘The Buyerarchy of Needs’ perfectly sums up the makings of my little van: use what you have, then borrow, then swap, then thrift, then make – and only buy if you must.
Small pleasures begin to feel like grand discoveries. The shady tree perfectly placed to keep the Esky cool on a warm afternoon. The camp-park dotted with eucalypts, dotted in turn with dozing koalas. Jetties with pelicans perched like avian sentinels atop whitewashed poles. Tiny beaches hiding around rocky corners with just one set of footprints leading across the dry sand – but whose?
At night I lie in the back of the van (my home cinema) watching DVDs on a small laptop. I go to sleep still salty from the surf and wake up with stiff, mad hair. I am like a child in a cubby house, hiding from adult demands. In a small space you need never experience options paralysis (where shall I sit? which bathroom shall I use?) because your options are reduced to a minimum. Believe me, the relief is immense.
You can keep your grand designs, your elaborate homebuilding projects, your extravagant domestic spaces. Give me four wheels, a mattress, a wetsuit and a good body wave, and I’m happier than a tycoon in a jacuzzi.
At a family Xmas dinner this month everyone around the table was asked to nominate the highlight of their year. Amidst the wedding anniversaries and the births of grandchildren my nomination drew puzzled looks from everyone but my stepfather. ‘It’s simple,’ I told them. ‘It’s the van. It’s leaving home but taking home with me. You should try it some time.’
(This article was published by Fairfax in January 2016)
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