Sex really does sell

I think it is quite entertaining that I received four times as many page views on my blog "The Sex and the Cash Theory" than I did on my blog "I am addicted to Badminton". Obviously sex is the preferred sporting pastime of my followers (that makes me sound like Jesus).

Maybe I should write that Mills & Boon novel after all.

My battle with the e-book

I love my book collection. When I grow up I want to have a house with a library and floor to ceiling books. Here's one I prepared earlier, just to give you a visual of what I have in mind:

Because of this, I have been a very vocal resistor of the new e-book phenomenon. The thought of discarding my dog eared books with their cracked spines and pages that smell like musty old English libraries  for a piece of technology is about as foreign to me as the Japanese language (I scored ½ out of 10 on a Japanese test in Grade 9...couldn’t tell my katakana from my hiragana).

That is until my good friend Suzi J introduced me to her Kindle . And I started to think of how much easier it would be to travel with one of those than five kilos of paperbacks, many of which often end up discarded in hotel rooms, the pockets of plane seats or donated to other needy travellers.  How much easier it would be to just connect up and download a book than to have to trawl foreign towns for second hand book stores with one shelf of English titles that usually consist of Mills and Boon and ten copies of The Da Vinci Code.

Although my biceps always appreciate the exercise they receive from holding up a book at an exact 90 degree angle to the sun when I lie on the beach, imagine how much easier a lightweight e-book would be! As long as you don't drop it in the sand. I doubt the e-reader would appreciate that very much.

I might even get to finish Shantaram after four years of looking at it on my bookshelf. Every time I go to pack it for a holiday or into my handbag for the bus ride to work, it always gets turfed out for one if it's smaller, more lightweight cousins.

And no more book sharing would mean no more unidentified sticky spots on the covers, hand written names of past owners on the title pages, or spaghetti bolognaise splatters on the pages.

But aren't all of these things part of what gives a book its character? How does a book get its character when its been downloaded from the Internet? There's something special about loaning on your favourite books to your favourite people. Giving them a USB stick just wouldn't feel quite the same. And I can't imagine for the first time author that getting a copy of your first book in your hands would be as momentous an occasion if it was sent to you as a link in an email.

For any avid reader, surely this is the great moral dilemma of our time. Are we selling ourselves out if we go digital? I hazard a guess that as usually occurs when it comes to technology, I am simply a late adopter. My Grandma probably has one by now. I just need to accept that times they are a changin' and put a Kindle on my Christmas wish list. But I still want that library.

Still a Corporate Girl

It appears that I am not a very good blogger. I discovered this over the past week when at least 20 people asked me “Have you finished work yet?”. As a blog about my creative journey, this is probably near the top of the list of ‘basic information’ questions, right below my name (Kathryn Ann Tyrrell, Kath to my mates, Blondie to my family), Date of Birth 22/12/1986...OK, OK, 1976) and hair colour (blonde with just a little help from the bottle). Yet I seem to have neglected to write an update on this basic piece of information. I have been sidetracked by sex and cash.  

So have I finished work yet? The short answer is no. In fact, even the long answer is no. The problem seems to be that I am irreplaceable.

In order for me to finish up at work, I have to find my replacement. And seven interviews on we seem to be getting as close to finding my replacement as we are to ending world poverty. It’s not that we’re not interviewing some quality candidates, but just that no one can agree. Too many heads on the selection panel being kind of like too many cooks in the kitchen. And with each person on the panel, including myself, being as opinionated as Gordon Ramsay I could be there until retirement.

I am still trying to work out if this difficulty we are having in finding my replacement means I have done a fantastic job over the last few years (ie we have to search the world over for someone as good as Kathryn) or I have come up short (ie whatever we do, don’t get anyone that even slightly resembles Kathryn). I of course choose to think the fantastic option, with periodic lashings of the second. What I have worked out for sure though is that if you ever want to know if you are getting paid the market rate, interview several people for your own job and see how they respond to “what salary package are you after?”. I used to joke if I worked out my hourly rate I was practically slave labour, now I don’t need to joke about it. I am officially slave labour.

Three more interviews lined up next week so I am praying to the book writing gods that one of these is a marketing guru. I figure by the time we appoint someone, they give notice, come on board, I do a handover....it will be Christmas by the time I finish up. Just in time for Santa to deliver me some divine inspiration for a bestselling novel. I think I can wait for that.

The Sex and the Cash Theory

Hugh Macleod has a theory. It's called the Sex and the Cash Theory - not to be confused with the Sex and the City Theory (which is a complicated theory linking the number of inappropriate men you sleep with to the number of Cosmopolitans you consume) or anything to do with prostitution. It's about creativity.

The Sex and the Cash Theory goes something like this: creative people need two jobs - one is the sexy creative one, the other brings in the cash to pay the mortgage. I came across it in Hugh's manifesto How To Be Creative. The theory centres on the basic concept that only idiots give up their day jobs to pursue their creative interests.

Which got me to wondering if Hugh would consider me an idiot for giving up my job for six months or a legend for not quitting it entirely. He would definitely think I am stupid:

QUOTE

"People think all they need to do is endure one crazy, intense, job-free creative burst and their dreams will come true. They are wrong, stupidly wrong".
UNQUOTE

He wouldn't be alone in thinking this about me. My boss called me an idiot once - he has a theory that everyone is an idiot and we spend our lives trying to stop other people from cottoning on. Seems everyone has a theory about idiots and stupid people. Although I know it's not personal I cant help wondering if Hugh is right. Am I stupidly wrong to take on this crazy endeavour?

Although I'm blonde, I try not to be too stupid most of the time. I'm a safety girl. Not like the Julia Roberts pretty woman type, which would perhaps be appropriate given the sex and the cash theme of this blog entry, but the sensible, goody two-shoes, always have to have a safety net type of safety girl. Which is why I am not quitting my job entirely. So maybe I am only half stupid.

Perhaps I will instead just focus on the first item on Hugh's list of 26 tips for budding creatives: Ignore everybody. Including Hugh.

Farewell Miami Cocktail No. 2

I am going to miss the cocktails. This is what I was thinking last night when I was sitting at the bar at Libertine drinking a Miami Cocktail No.2 with my sister Elissa, brother-in-law-to-be Jules, and Lissy's friend Gretch.

I love a good cocktail. Preferably tall ones with lime and lots of gin. Similar to how I like my men, just sans the lime and gin. But at  around $15 a pop, cocktails are another item I will have to add to my no-go zone for the next income-less six months. The zone seems to be getting bigger than a security zone for Barack Obama in the Middle East.

Which got me to thinking that I should probably send personal notes to Borders, Country Road and Veronika Maine warning them to expect a significant decrease in profits over the next 12 months.

Dear Country Road

I am writing to advise you that I wont be making any purchases in your lovely store for, oh, about a year. It's not that your summer collection is off the mark - although I am really not so sure that an ankle length horizontal stripe skirt in jersey stretch material would be all that flattering - but that I will have no money to afford to buy any of it and will have nowhere to go to wear it anyway.

Yours faithfully

Kathryn Tyrrell

PS - If you would like to consider sponsoring me with a year's supply of trakkie-daks though, as a token of your appreciation for my many years of loyalty, that would be greatly appreciated.

So farewell Miami Cocktail No.2 and Country Road, hello tap water and current overloaded wardrobe, my new best friends.

And before you go and tell me I am being all dramatic about the tap water - let me just say it has been a successful sympathy vote for me once before. Cut to 1993 when I was interviewed to be a Rotary Youth Exchange Student. I was 16 years old and sitting opposite an interview panel of 12 Rotarians. Clearly young, naive and willing to stretch the truth, I was asked what I drank when I went to parties and was surrounded by my peers drinking alcohol. After a brief pause where my mind cut to visions of passion pop, fire engines and west coast coolers, I replied "Um, I find a tap in the garden and just drink water".

Either I won a sympathy vote for my pathetic answer or they believed me (I would hazard a guess at option A) because several months later I found myself boarding a plane to South Africa for 12 months. The land of Castle Lager, Hunters Cider and Amarello. Strangely enough I never did manage to find many taps in Pretoria.

Tonight we are off to Ortiga. I have a feeling I am going to struggle to find a tap there too. Two more pay checks to go - no need to rush into the no-go zone just yet.

Addicted to Badminton

This week I have discovered another procrastinaction red alert – the Commonwealth Games. I am addicted to the swimming. And the gymnastics. And the badminton. Basically anything that involves Australia or men with washboard stomachs in low slung swimming trunks.

Can someone please come over and take my TV away because my self-discipline is clearly sketchy.

Stalking Jane Austen

It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me well that I am going to publicly admit that I have a mild obsession with Jane Austen - or more specifically with Pride and Prejudice, both the book and BBC mini-series. I practically know the words of the mini-series off by heart, which is no mean feat given it is six hours long. Even then, if I put it in the DVD player I have to watch the whole thing through, only fast forwarding through the bits with Mr Collins (I find him excruciatingly annoying). When my younger sister Alison was visiting Brisbane recently, she asked me if she could borrow the mini-series - she still talks of the look of horror that came across my face when I thought she intended to take it back to Sydney. Luckily she too got hooked and managed to get through it before she left. I have withdrawal symptoms if it gets outside of a 10km radius of Red Hill.

When she got back to Sydney, she sent me a copy of the Keira Knightly movie version for when I need a quick fix. Not bad. Except that the best scene, when Darcy is declaring his love for Lizzie against his will and better judgement and she basically tells him to rack off, feels like the producer hit the wrong button and it is on fast forward. Has anyone else noticed that?

Anyway, I digress. The reason I am talking about Jane Austen is not because I am going to try and re-create a modern day version of Pride and Prejudice (unfortunately Helen Fielding beat me to it) but because I am going to follow in her footsteps and go and spend some time writing in England. Which means that the byline of my blog is a total lie - I am not going to sit at home and talk to the cat, I am going to sit somewhere in England and talk to someone else's cat and channel some Jane Austen. Oh, and maybe drink a few pimms, visit the Tate and go to Paris for the weekend. It could become a black hole of procrastinaction.

Procrastinaction is filling up all your time with activities because you are procrastinating from doing something. I am an expert at this. When I was at school studying for exams my room was spotless and got completely rearranged every three months. I suddenly found programmes on TV about rare frilly lizards totally fascinating. And I haven't gotten any better as I have gotten older - I now head into weekends with enough brunch and lunch bookings to put the Queen to shame. For years I have procrastinated from writing through dedicated procrastinaction. So I knew that I was going to have to get out of Brissie for a while to get this book written - I just cant say no to a flat white and poached eggs.

Since part of my book is set in London, it seemed the obvious choice - I have a fair bit of research to do since it has been 12 years since I last lived there. You know the kind of research I mean - what bars the characters go to, what restaurants they eat at, where they stay on weekend trips to Bath, Edinburgh and the Lakes District. I think I might need to apply to the Government for a research grant to fund all this critical research before I go. Procrastinaction red alert.

I have a real estate agent coming over this week to list my place for rent for 12 months. I am going to try and rent it out fully furnished so I can just pack up some boxes and go. I have realised in the last few months while making the decision to do this that I have alot of stuff in my life that I don't really care too much about - even my lovely new flat screen TV. Eckhart Tolle would be proud of me.

So for 12 months I will base myself with Mum and Dad (if you are reading this from your hotel in New York - surprise!) which seems logical given the impending cut to my cash flow, and just head off when I want to. I am planning three months in London, and then whatever else takes my fancy and my bank balance can withstand, either here in Australia or abroad. If anyone has a nice little beach side or country cottage they desperately need someone to look after for a few weeks or months, I am your woman.

And when I have to go back to work next July and I am 34 years old and living with my parents, no comments please.

Footnote: I should reference the term "Procrastinaction" to the excellent Leadership Coach that was engaged by my company to coach us in Leadership skills. I am typing this as a footnote and in very fine print as I used the sessions more for personal life coaching than leadership coaching. I could be fired for improper use of company resources.