10 Things I've learned about blogging

Adventure Girl learns a lesson in putting it on show

I've been writing for Rhonda Perky's Bits for just over a year now, and it seemed as good a time as any to take stock of some blogging lessons I've had to learn the hard way.

1. People always think you're blogging about them. I discovered this first when I wrote a post about friendship. In a later conversation I learned that several of my friends believed the post was aimed at them. It wasn't.
2. People you are blogging about, never think it's about them. Yes, I mean you. No, not you. You. In the previous scenario, the friends the post was actually about, never made the connection.
3. At some point you will offend SOMEBODY. Okay EVERYBODY. This is pretty much to be expected as a writer. Just ask Helen Garner.
4. When you do offend, it won’t be over what you expect. Something which was written as a throwaway line (which we've already established is probably not about THEM) can cost you a friend, or at least earn you a cold shoulder or three. People have sensitivities you simply don't know about until you inadvertently stick them with the blogging equivalent of a giant needle.
5. People you know will read what you write. I know this sounds obvious, but when you're tapping away, expunging your deepest and darkest emotions, you can forget that your audience also includes THEM. It can be flattering, but also a little weird, when you can tell just by the way a person looks at you that THEY HAVE READ AND THEY KNOW.*
6. Other people you know will not read what you write and it’s not the people you expect. I remember writing a post, thinking, 'OMG my friend is going to LOVE this,' only to discover she never actually read it.
7. The line between TMI (Too Much Information) and NEI (Not Enough Information) is different for everyone. It is impossible to avoid tripping over the line at some point, for somebody, simply because the line is vastly inconsistent between individuals (see 3 and 4 above).
8. What seems clear to you is not always apparent to your audience. They are not inside your head, and what is inside your head doesn't always make it in entirety onto the page. Example: I wrote a blog post on being abused by my last boyfriend. When a friend indicated they had read the post, I felt I could talk a little more freely about what had happened. The response was, 'Wait -- he HIT you?' 'Yes, he hit me. More than once. Didn't my blog say that?' Apparently not clearly enough.
9. Only blog when you have something to say. Sometimes you are more prolific than others. In the down periods you may feel pressure to post while your ideas are still half-formed or virtually non-existent. You must resist; your readers will wait. Otherwise you will end up with a page of half curdled mush that nobody wants to read, and for which you wish you'd never hit 'Publish Post'.
10. Write something true to yourself. Write from what resonates, what keeps you up and night, and what you want to shout across the ether-sphere. You might be surprised who will end up reading and responding from halfway across the world. (Yes, I mean you).

*This applies equally to tweeting.

--AG

Pick me! Pick me!

Christine Priestly on writing the writerly CV

My professional CV has been in circulation in one iteration or another for well over a decade: a catalogue of passionless buzzwords. But when it comes to trying to break into the literary world, that lack of passion slaps me in the face.

I have spent years trying to sell my studies and writerly pursuits as relevant in the professional non-writing world. Now I need to do the exact opposite.

All that business-speak, reams of flow-charts and mission statements, all that jargon-riddled documentation, needs to somehow morph and be moulded into experience that is pertinent and relevant to the literary world.

I need to show why I should be picked above all the other budding 'industriests', that I am dedicated, conscientious, able to work to deadlines, enthusiastic, and that this enthusiasm will translate into producing f-off awesome work.

It’s harder than I thought.

I read over my newfangled CV. Everything turned topsy-turvy, Magic Faraway Tree-style. What will they make of my extra-curricular activities, the stuff that usually sits in the ‘yes, I do have a life outside of work’ category, suddenly thrust into the centrepiece? How can I make the transition from ‘hobby’ (read: die-hard passion) into ‘career’?

And then there are those ten prominent years of analysis and techie-speak, climbing the corporate ladder, which somehow seem like a waste of time, irrelevant, barely transferable. How can I make them fade into the background?

But I know they can't be faded, nor should they be. Those years haven't been wasted and those skills are transferable. If I've learned nothing else, I know I can pick up the ball and run with it when I need to.

So pick me, I say, let me learn and work from the bottom up, because everyone has to start somewhere.

-CP

An issue so close...

Christine Priestly on getting 'almosted'

A couple of months back I submitted a short story to The Big Issue for their big-bang annual fiction edition.

You'll hear either way by 11 June, they said.

11 June arrives. Friday. I pretend not to check my email obsessively.

My inbox stays barren.

I was sure this piece was in with a chance. As soon as I'd finished writing it, I thought The Big Issue. It has to be.

Still no word on Friday night (maybe they'd had to work through to meet their deadline?), or Saturday morning... or Sunday night... (it's the long weekend, maybe I won't hear now until Tuesday...?)

Tuesday comes and goes. I get antsy, post off some more stories. Just to feel like I'm doing something. I hate this waiting, not knowing.

Should I contact them, follow up? Or will that just drive them nuts? They did say they would contact either way, didn't they?

I decide to wait, follow up in a week or so, give them a chance. No one likes a nagger.

And then I kind of forgot about it. Consoled myself with the distraction of new possibilities.

Almost as soon as I had stopped looking, stopped hoping, my inbox filled up. Two acknowledgements from previously silent publishers, and one big fat ALMOST.

Not that I realised at first. It began with the usual, we got lots of great submissions, blah blah blah, too bad, so sad... My stomach began to gnaw. A typical opening for a group rejection. Except that it wasn't. Mine had been considered in the final few.

It wasn't an acceptance, but it wasn't a gut-wrenching blanket rejection either - AND there was the door left open: we may like to contact you...

And then a friend said to me, you should throw an 'almost accepted' party.

So who's in?

-CP

The outsider

Christine Priestly shares her share of another's creativity

Recently I met a fellow writer and was privileged enough to workshop one of her pieces. It was a personal letter about the decay of a creative partnership which was also a relationship. The downfall of one became an emblem for the other. A beautifully melancholy tale, it described her experience sitting outside the creative process of another – a lover, a partner, watching his creation extend and morph beyond them.

What touched me most was her depiction of what it was like to experience the work of a lover and wonder where it came from. Music, art, writing, all comes from a place inside you that no one else can ever know. It is deep and it is raw.

It’s not something I had ever experienced from the other side. I didn’t know the ache of wanting to be inside that part, knowing you never will. Of wondering what your lover felt as they described one character’s love for another, one character’s hate for another. Wondering if they will ever feel a fraction of that for you.

Now I know.

It aches in the worst possible way. As though someone was there, in that part of them, long before you and forever after, someone who stole it for any other.

I’m not jealous like this when I pick a book up off the shelf. Who is that author to me? And with any non-writer, non-artist, I might assume that part simply isn’t there.

But this is different.

Because I know what it’s like to write those words, to create them. I know it’s not creation at all.

And yet because I’m a writer, I know that each piece, each character, is not its own entity, but a part of you. A part that exists both internally and externally. When I write, I write to discover; in a sense I am not a writer, I am a reader. I experience the suspense, the joy, the pain, the emotions, as they fill the page. If someone asks me where a story came from I can’t tell them. Perhaps I write to uncover it myself, as I dig and I dig.

Then I wonder, is it like that for him? Are his words real, or imagined? Perhaps they are cruel manipulation, suckering the reader, with no genuine emotion at all.

And then I realise where the pain comes from. From knowing I will never truly know.

-CP

When like meets like

Christine Priestly shares why you should never date a writer...

Over the years I have watched lovers watch me 'in progress' during one writing fit or another. Working to deadline, real or imagined, letting my body moulder. During these fits, food becomes sustenance, sex a kind of manic release, and excercise something you do when your retinas begin to burn. You shower and dress only when you are forced to leave the house, and any outside contact seems alien and slightly awkward. You also, oddly enough, lose your ability to speak. Your verbal vocabulary vanishes into incoherence, and you struggle to maintain the most basic conversation.

These are things I have known about myself for years, but struggled to make known to and understood by my friends, family, and partners. All they see is an anti-social, ill-tempered, crazed bitch who lives on stale crackers and refuses to get out of her manky pyjamas for stretches at a time. How often have I caught myself saying, 'I'll be human again soon, I promise.'

More recently I have had the opportunity to witness this from the other side.

My lover - a fellow writer - has attracted the interest of a publisher, so for the past month my phone calls have become rude interruptions, Saturday nights have been spent in the throes of lap-top passion, and I have been haunted by a vague scent-impression of male deodorant and the image of my lover wearing something other than cruddy track-pants.

I’d love to say that tumultuous madness is part of our charm.

'You're lucky I didn't tell you to fuck off for an entire two weeks,' he told me.

He's right; in his shoes I might have done the same.

I find this curiously alluring. We develop our own habits, our own process, but the one thing we share is obsession. In the lunatic hours of the morning we call it a hobby, a craft, a desire, but the reality is it's so much more.

...And I thought our self-absorbed delicate egos were the things to watch.

-CP