It's kind of sad to admit that one of my career idols is Carrie Bradshaw. I know she isn't a real person, my career idols should be women such as Jana Wendt or Ita Buttrose, or, indeed Lisa Wilkinson, who, when she was the editor of Dolly magazine, gave me my first paycheck in 1985 after I wrote a short story about a young high school student who forewent (is that a word? Lisa would know) running for school captain because the young man she was keen on was doing just that.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
(As an aside, who was this girl?? Yes, places in the student council at Canobolas High School in Orange in 1984 were hotly sought after, but really, I was never going to back down because I was in love with Damian Chown.)
But indeed, some 15 years later, when Sex and the City first hit our screens, it was okay to admit that our lives did revolve around feelings and emotions and, dare I say it, sex.
But could we ever make a living writing about it? I have wondered for many years what I would look like on the side of a bus.
Years ago, when I was one of the few women in The Canberra Times sports department, Geoff Thomson wrote a golf column called Over the Tees, Gary Scholes wrote Through the Basket, and Barry Rollings, Around the Rinks. I know you remember, dear reader, because you're as old as me. I used to joke when I was the young up-and-coming sports journalist, that I should have a column called Between the Sheets. Use it as an opportunity to find out more about people involved in the Canberra sporting community. An intimate insight, if you like, about what made Canberra sport tick. Could we ever mix sport and sex? Of course we could. I can still think of a team full of players, without using that word in its worst definition, who would be fun to talk to. And in an era back then, where there would be less connotations drawn. (Sad, that perhaps I could not offer the same restraint in 2019 if I were offered the chance to lure David Pocock into such a column.)
There were quite a few people who would have made interesting subjects. I used to love covering the local rugby league. It was the mid 1990s, female sports journalists had to prove their worth, through a knowledge and love of the game, not because they looked the part.
I always like to think, even now, is that's what gave me the edge. I knew stuff. I didn't rely on a cute smile, or a cleavage. My dad was a die-hard league fan, I was too. I could throw, and still can, I mean dummy pass. There was a player, John Hawke I think his name was, who was quite happy for me to "quote him" as long as I didn't make him sound stupid. Others who knew you knew what they meant, even if they didn't.
Cricket, too, was a sport I felt comfortable with, given my own teenage ability for it. I was "identified", if that was a thing in 1981, as one of the best spin bowlers the world of western division girl's cricket had ever seen. I could have been a contender.
But it was a different story when I had to cover rugby union. I grew up in a rugby league family. The first union game I watched was the 1984 Barbarians game where David Campese ran riot, we were at our Year 12 english teacher's house, after finishing the HSC and realising we didn't know as much about Heart of Darkness as we thought we did. What is this game with 15 men. (Why isn't Damian Chown paying me any attention?) But when I reached a point where this was my job, writing about a sport I didn't know that much about, I realised I had to ask questions of the right people. Who, where, why, what. People like to talk about stuff they like. People like to talk about themselves.I grew to love the game.
But, in my convoluted, twisty, turning way, how can all this come back to sex? One of my favourite columns to love (and hate) is the New York Magazine's column called Sex Diaries, where they invite readers to describe their week, in relation to their desires and the like.
It's terribly self indulgent. The Brooklyn mom having an affair because her husband had one first, The intern dating a rich single dad. Oh please.
Perhaps the lesson here is not to write about things you're not sure of, unless you're prepared to ask some hard questions. And be honest.