Downsizing

This article was first published in Australian Vogue, April 2000

When I first became a publisher, my mentor Hilary McPhee gave me three pieces of advice: Rule One - Don't Cry in meetings. Rule Two - Don't f** your authors and well, I've forgotten rule three. I knew things were amiss when I took to crying in meetings and moved in with one of my authors. Hilary was right on both counts, and I suspect the third thing – whatever that was – was probably was the most important thing of all.

At 35 you would think I was too young to be having a mid-life crisis, but after 13 years of full-time work, I was burning out. I was starting to experience what psychologist Peter O'Connor described as one of the 'symptoms' of mid-life crisis: I wanted to be an Aid Worker. There were other signs too. As a publisher I would often write letters of support to authors applying for grants to stay in studios in Venice, or Ireland or France. Whenever they rung me to tell me they had got a studio I would be delighted for them and encourage them to go boldly, to write truly. But lately I had found that when I received such a call I would feel irritated, even jealous and grudging in my congratulations.

I started to fantasize that a writer's life was a carefree one of travel and creativity. I forgot about the breakdowns, the paranoia and tears that also seem to be the lot of the isolated author. As for financial hardship I stopped thinking of that. Not enough money for food? Well, one could always become a Breatherian.

So, to cut a long story short I decided to go part-time in my work as a publisher. Decided to pursue my dream of becoming a writer of journalism and fiction. I wanted to have fun too. So, slowly and painfully over several months I thought about, then discussed with my bosses, ways to disentangle myself from full-time work. I went through various stages: status anxiety (would people remember who I was or would I become reduced to reminding everyone I met that I was quite well-known in a few inner-urban circles when I was young?). Financial anxiety: well that's not just a state of mind, so I will have to get use to that. But I also felt excited.

I had a good job - a great job. And I loved books. Still do. So a lot of people couldn't quite believe what I had done. As the word got out that I was going to be working fewer hours and would be less active as a publisher the rumors began. More than half-a-dozen people rung to ask me if it was true I was pregnant - why else would a woman my age throw security to the wind? (Unless it was my voluptuous appearance but I couldn't bear to think about that one for too long.)

I started to entertain a series of fantasies about the possibilities of my new life, a new one every day.

Fantasy One: I will write best-selling novels. Fantasy Two: I will become incredibly fit. I will go to the gym everyday, swim and seakayak on the weekend and do yoga several times a week. Fantasy Three: The Seachange fantasy. I will move to the country, live on the land and have sex with David Wenham. Fantasy Four: I will become deeply spiritual and meditate every morning (before the gym, yoga, swimming etc). Fantasy Five: The aforementioned Aid worker fantasy. Fantasy Six: I will have a child. Fantasy Seven: I will become a travel writer, trek through Tibet, and kayak around the Fijian islands, all expenses paid.

In short, I will become a single mother growing her own vegetables renovating her own cottage somewhere around Byron Bay, and work two-and-a half days a week in Sydney, with regular trips overseas to have exciting adventures and write about them, and I will. . . . well, you can see things aren't adding up.

Day One of New Life: Get up early as if it is a work day and move into total denial by spending money as if there is no tomorrow. Or, more to the point, as if I am on a full-time wage. I decide I need the right wardrobe to express my new lifestyle and go shopping. I buy a mix of reliable cheapies and overpriced designer casuals. 100% cotton dresses from Elliott Kennedy, Naot sandal from Israel, cargo pants from anywhere and brightly colored Bond singlets from Gowings. To top off my new healthy and carefree look I have some blonde streaks put through my hair. Confusingly for some, I also book into a 30-day Buddhist retreat outside of Katmandu. Hair is always important in a Buddhist.

Clearly I am having an identity crisis of some kind.

That evening I look closely at my finances and realize that despite my dashing new outfits and hair cannot afford to pay next month's rent.

Day Two: All adventures can now proceed as planned - but first I will have a good sleep in. I wake up at 7.30am as I have on most other weekdays. I lie in bed with my eyes tightly shut trying to revel in my newfound freedom, but to no avail. I give in, get up and find myself sitting at my computer checking emails by 9.30am. Just in case.

I spend several hours fighting the temptation to ring Emily. Emily is the woman with whom I work most closely and a conversation with her is always a very lovely start to the day, and feels as necessary as a cup of coffee. Make do with emailing her instead, and brewing my own coffee rather than buying a flat white from the local café. (Budget.).

I wrest myself away from the computer and clean the stove, then the oven, then the bath. Eleven hours later I collapse exhausted.

Day Three: Up and at the emails by 9.30am, though in what I think of as a major breakthrough I am still in my pajamas.

I spend a couple of hours going through old tea-chests looking for hippie winter gear to wear to Katmandu and find a stash of clothes I had bought in India fifteen years ago. I parade around the flat in a series of woolen leggings, Kashmir ponchos woolen wraps and oilskins until I have discovered a stunning but cozy series of meditation outfits. Unfortunately the exercise does not make me feel twenty again, but leaves me with feeling that I am 35 and getting around in the clothes of a woman half my age.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of anxiety. Try to get fit, start novel and generally pull myself together. Fail at everything but gym attendance and start to wonder if it is healthy to spend my afternoons at the gym gazing at myself in the mirror.

Day Four: A total disaster. By 2pm I have gone to the cinema to see American Pie on my own because a) I can't convince anyone else to go with me and b) I can't figure out another way to stop myself compulsively checking email and work voice mail. Then to gym again.

Day Five: I rally and dabble with the idea of turning my weaknesses into strength (I read about it in a self-help book somewhere). I write an article on the meaning of love for a new Australian magazine in a cunning plan to become one of Australia's leading love 'experts'. Then - you guessed it - off to the gym.

Day Six: Have begun to develop the behavior patterns I associate with writers: paranoia, loneliness and general anxiety about my place in the world. Begin to wonder why noone loves me. If I had a publisher I would have started to hate her. However, since I haven't written a word of my novel I have not got a publisher yet.

Day Seven: Realize I have to go absolutely cold turkey. Finalize plan to go on 30 day retreat where there is to be no phone, computer, books, alcohol, sex or coffee. When in doubt, get thee to a nunnery.

POSTSCRIPT: Day one-hundred-and-twelve. It seems my physical and mental purification program has been too efficient. I get up and go to beach because it is hot with blue skies and very gorgeous. Struggle with my shade-thingy in what looks like a sketch from Mr. Bean and I wonder how everyone else manages to make their tents look so neat. This is the most physical activity I engage in all day. I do not check emails even though I should. Do not write article on my time in the monastery (which, was fantastic - even the bit when the hawk swooped down and stole my sunglasses off my head) even though the deadline is looming. The little pieces of journalism I have done lately have over-used the word 'thing' because I am beginning to forget words. I do not go to gym and have not done so for two months. I do not have any fashion anxieties as I have taken to living in a nightie thing and/or my bathers. I do not start my novel, though I do read someone else's (already published and not by me). I continue to have many conflicting fantasies but will think about them on another day. I briefly consider the possibility that I have gone from being too uptight to too relaxed, but thinking is too much like hard work and I go back to working on my tan instead.

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