A Comment on Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I went on a date with a man who was very hostile. He had asked me out without knowing anything about me, but by the time I arrived at the café he had Googled me and decided he didn’t like me. I know this because he immediately began criticizing my opinion writing (he only believed in ‘facts’), my public profile (he is very ‘introverted’), and my social media use (he doesn’t even have a FB page).

He should have cancelled the date, but instead he arrived, barely looked at me, and then left after a cursory 29 minutes. I would not wish to repeat the experience.

Why am I telling you this? Because this, my friends, is why I don’t read the comments on my articles.

Reading the comments on the big websites I write for is like sitting down to coffee with someone who can’t stand me. They don’t know me, but they hate everything that I represent. I don’t want to subject myself to people who don’t like me, and so I choose to stay away.

Let me explain. Yes, there are some positive comments on big websites. But for the most part, people don’t comment a lot when they agree with an article. They might share it on their social media feeds, or press the ‘like’ button, or even message me about it, but they won’t bother logging in to the site and leaving a comment.

People log in and leave a comment most frequently when they are angry. And they are angry when they strongly disagree with the thesis of a piece. And when they strongly disagree with the thesis of a piece, they often decide the writer is a moron/an idiot/an *insert your choice of insult here*. Because angry people don’t see shades of grey. They see right and wrong, and if the writer is ‘wrong’, then they must be ‘bad’.

And so these commenters tell me how bad I am. They tell me how wrong I am. They tell me in all sorts of colourful language, with all sorts of capital letters, under all sorts of social media handles, most frequently anonymous. And they are allowed to do that, just like the dude I dated was allowed not to like me. But I didn’t have to date him, and I do not have to read the comments.
It doesn’t enrich me to read negative comments about my pieces. It frustrates me to read comments about me that are not true, and it frustrates me more that there is nothing I can do about it. And it depresses me no end to know that people like these commenters exist – people who are homophobic, anti-feminist, anti-choice, racist, or anti-whatever it is I have written about at the time.

Now, it’s true that there may be a useful comment in there somewhere. It’s true that someone may have a point of view that would enlighten or inform me. But sadly, I would have to wade through hundreds of insults to get to it, and the cost-benefit equation doesn’t add up in my favour.

When I stay away from comments, this frustration doesn’t exist. When I stay away from comments, these people don’t exist. And – whilst I know intellectually that they are still out there, just like the dude who didn’t like me still walks this earth – I don’t have to experience the frustration and sadness they bring to my life.

Happily, I still have this Facebook page, where people can leave a comment and communicate with me directly. For the most part, people are polite and friendly on my Facebook page, partly because they usually choose to visit my page if they already like my work, and partly because commenters are easily identifiable on Facebook. People are far ruder when they are shielded by anonymity than they are when you can see photos of their children.

But until such time as commenters are accountable on websites, I will continue to shield myself from their onslaughts. I am just a writer doing my job. And I would rather sit down for a coffee with someone who likes me than with someone who wants to tear me apart.

End Violence Against Women

On Tuesday I was sitting in a coffee shop with my friend Lana, reading a post by the journalist Clementine Ford. She had compiled screen shots of some (some, just some) of the horrendous abuse she received from men (and the odd woman) around the world for daring to express her opinions and for defending herself when attacked online.

I was stunned by the vitriol. Stunned by the hatred. Stunned by the language. C**t. Slut. Whore. Rape threats. Threats of violence. It was horrifying.

What was even more horrifying is that so many of these men used their real names. Their social media profiles showed pictures of them smiling with their families, or linked to Facebook pages listing their hobbies and interests. There were pictures of dogs and friends and holidays. This is how little they fear consequence or retribution. Because there IS no consequence online.

It was not me being attacked. I tend to fly under the radar when it comes to online abuse; I write about parenting and relationships and life and anxiety and just don't attract that kind of attention.

But those messages reflected such a profound misogyny, such a deep seated contempt of women, that the actual target was irrelevant. When you attack women with those kind of words, you attack us all.

Everyone gets abused online from time to time. Men also get abused online. But men are not threatened with sexual violence. Men are not threatened with harm towards their families. Men are not degraded and intimidated into silence.

I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear the fact that people feel they can attack women in this way. I wanted to do something. I wanted to show my support for Clem, but not just for Clem, for all women who are abused online.

And so I gathered some friends. I asked that we each tweet the names of the offenders listed on Clem's post, or at least the names of some of the worst offenders. I asked that we use the hashtag #endviolenceagainstwomen, and link to her post so people know what we are dealing with.

Please note that we do not wish to abuse or threaten or slander these men. We are simply naming them as being the authors of abusive tweets. Their messages stand for themselves.

I wanted to stand up and say that this is not okay. That this kind of abuse will be noticed. That there are consequences. That we will stand together and support each other. That when you attack one of us, you attack us all.

By this morning, my little group of friends had grown into a group of hundreds, and it keeps growing. You will see our tweets and read our Facebook posts. If you wish to support us, please share this post and others like it. If you are on Twitter, please retweet our tweets or cut and paste them into your own timelines.

I don't believe for a moment that this will change our culture of violence. I don't believe for a moment that this will end violence against women. But it's a start. A small step. A show of strength and support.

You have to start somewhere. We are starting here. Today.

I Admitted to Not Liking Gaytimes. I Never Expected This.

In a recent Facebook post, I admitted to not liking Gaytimes. The ice cream, not the physical expression of same sex love.

But really, the reaction would have been less vitriolic if it had been the latter. I have never been subjected to such violent abuse in all my time on the net.

There was disbelief:

Denial:

Pathetic justifications:

 Outright condemnation:

I was unfollowed:

Dropped:

Begged to delete my post:

And asked to think about my mistake:

But still, in the end, Jono had the last word:

And with that, it was over.

I was asked to write for free for a funeral planning site.... and this is what happened....

Firstly, the email and my responses:

Hi Kerri,
I am researching online for possible opportunities for my client to share content with within her industry.

Her new website is (redacted).

She has been in the funeral industry for a very long time and wanted to start a truly independent resource for people going through a funeral or a tragic loss. As counselling is a huge part of that I thought your site would be a great fit.

As you are a very successful writer I wondered if you would be willing to maybe write a blog post for her site?

I understand you may get a lot of these requests from agencies looking for links but we really are after quality content sharing with or without links. We believe if we provide quality and genuine helpful advice, people will link to it when they need to.

Would love the opportunity to chat further if you are interested.

Regards,

(name redacted)

Me: What are you able to pay?

Him: Hugs and great content.

Me: Seriously, help me out here as I just don't get it. You're asking a professional writer to write for free for a funeral planning site? 

Him: Yes, I wanted to offer you a chance for more exposure to your site also.

So I turned to Twitter to vent my frustration:

And the reaction was awesome:

Yup.

Keep Personal Correspondence Out Of The Public Arena - A Very Unpopular Argument

Yesterday I got into a discussion/debate with a number of commenters about a recent post in which a woman shared correspondence between her and a man she met on Tinder. The man wrote her a detailed email explaining that whilst he very much liked her, he wasn't attracted to her body because it was fat. The woman responded to him in her blog in an angry message explaining why he could kiss her arse.

I think (believe, know) the woman had every right to respond with whichever words she chose to the man in question. What alarms me is that she chose to do it publicly.

The woman is not alone. Recently Em Rusciano, a columnist I greatly admire and like personally, published a column about an awful man on Tinder who body shamed a potential date. Again, the correspondence was shared.

And Em is also not alone. This is a huge trend in social media at the moment. When people receive private correspondence that they do not like, or find hurtful or abusive, they share it online. And I'm not stupid. I understand the reasoning. There is an intense desire to shame the person involved, to expose them for the nasty piece of work they are. And there is an empowerment in shaming someone who has hurt you. It feels good to get it out in the open, and receive approbation and affirmation from countless strangers.

But that doesn't make it right. I don't believe it is okay to share personal correspondence online.

For one thing, we all make mistakes. We all hurt people. No, we are not all arseholes, but even arseholes are not arseholes all the time. If you feel it is okay to shame someone else, then you have to be prepared to be shamed yourself. And how would you feel if your own personal correspondence was shared? If you were nasty to a lover, or friend, in an unwise, unguarded moment, and they shared your text or email with the entire world?

And if you answer "I wouldn't care, because I wouldn't do that, and if I did I would deserve it," then ask yourself carefully: have you really never written anything of which you have been ashamed? Have you really never made fun of someone behind their back, or shot off an angry text, or been cruel? Have you really never done anything to which someone else could take offence?

And even if you answer no, think about this. Do we want a world where people jump online every time they are disgruntled? Where we no longer deal with personal issues between ourselves, but take them into the public arena for the world to referee? We try to teach our children to work through their differences without running to their parents or teachers, and yet what are we teaching them by racing to the internet every time when we have a dispute with another person?

If a person offends you, deal with them. Tell them how you feel. And if they continue to upset you, block them. Delete their messages. When you block someone they don't exist anymore. They are gone. It is a very powerful tool.

And obviously if they are threatening or harassing you, go to the police. Take out a restraining order. Threaten them with legal action. If a person is dangerous, you're certainly not going to protect yourself by shaming them publicly.

There are undoubtedly some situations in which disclosure is in the best interests of the public, for example when they involve authority figures or criminal activities or threats to public safety. But to have 'running to social media' as the default position for issues between two individuals creates all sorts of problems. We will become a society in which the morality is held externally, in the Greek chorus of the online world. And we will lose our personal resilience, to be able to deal with interpersonal difficulties without the assistance and intervention of a thousand strangers.

I know most people will disagree with me. But you can also rest assured that any personal correspondence sent to me will remain private. And I bet that even those who disagree with me will find that
reassuring.

THE TROLL EDITION

If there is one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite. I mean, there are lots of things I don't want to be. I don't want to be a leper, or a communist, or a parking officer, or a contestant on a reality show. But I also don't want to be a hypocrite. Not being a hypocrite is one of my Core Values.

And so, in giving with my Not Being A Hypocrit-ism, I must be prepared to be criticised. I make my living, in part, by writing opinion pieces, and if I am allowed to have my own opinions then other people must be allowed to have their opinions of me.

And here's the thing: not everyone will like what I write. Sometimes I write pieces that get floods of positive feedback, messages and emails and tweets and balloonagrams from the sky. (Okay, not balloonagrams, but we do like balloons here, so if you feel moved to send one, please contact me for my address.) But no matter how well received a piece is, there will always be someone who doesn't agree. No matter how much people love my writing, there will always be someone who thinks I'm shit. And no matter how many people love my work, there will always be someone who cannot stand the very sight of my name. (I must say, I'm included in that last one - I've always thought 'Kerri' was a pretty poor moniker.)

So if someone wants to express their dislike for my work, they should feel free to do so. Not that they need my permission, of course. But I'm giving it anyway (which will probably piss them right off). I genuinely, truly do not care if someone says I am a terrible writer, or that my opinions suck, or that my hair looks really bad now that it's been cut. (Oh GOD, I lie, I do care if you don't like my hair. Do you like my hair? Please tell me you like my hair!)

Obviously if someone is threatening, or brings up my family, or reveals intimate details of my life (it is MY decision when I tell you about my secret marriage to Simon Baker, NOT YOURS) I will come out fighting. But criticism, no matter how rudely expressed or laughably phrased, is absolutely fine.

So when Lana told me about some nasty comments about me on GOMI ("Get Off My Internets") recently, I was amused. We talk about it at length (well, five minutes is a length) in this video below. I also address those rumours about my divorce and my sex life with a female online personality. Exciting stuff indeed. Keep it going, GOMI!!!!!!

Social Media: The Never Ending Argument

"Kerri, you don't know when to stop!"

If I had a rabbit for every time my parents said that to me during my childhood, I'd have an entire nation of rabbits. Because I didn't know when to stop. And I'm still not sure when to stop. When it comes to arguments, or opinions, or ideas that I hold passionately, I can go on and on and on like the proverbial bull at a gate. (Who, presumably, would stampede over those rabbits, but that's just mixing metaphors.) I feel an intense need to convince others of my opinion. and if I can't actually convert them to my way of thinking, then at least have them acknowledge that my point of view is valid.

Before social media there was a natural limit to my arguments. I only had contact with a certain number of people every day and there were only a certain number of topics we would discuss.

But Twitter and Facebook and blogs have changed all that. They offer me an endless number of potential subjects to debate, and an infinite pool of people with whom to debate them. I could, quite literally, spend all day every day on social media arguing. And I have spent hours and hours doing so.

Strangely, however, it's actually had a paradoxical effect. It has started to teach me when to stop. Because there is no organic end to arguments on social media. You can finish with one person and have ten more waiting in the wings to take up the challenge. You can write a tweet or Facebook post or blog about an issue and be inundated with responses from people itching for a fight. It never ends. It never ends unless you put a stop to it.

So I am learning to do so. I am learning when to say Enough. I am learning how to let things go, how to accept that there will always be people who think differently to me, how to maintain inner peace in the face of heated opposition.

But it will always be a challenge. I will always be a person of opinions. And I suspect I still have a few more rabbits to collect along the way.

How we came to be

When I was 38 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my sister suddenly died, I was a mess, as you can imagine. I was having all sorts of health problems and suddenly plunged into grief and I had two young children to care for, and it was without a doubt the darkest, most oppressively difficult time in my life.

Friends rallied around, of course, and I will be forever grateful. But in that hideous period, the kindness of two near strangers stood out. One, a teacher, volunteered to bring both my kids to the school gates for the remainder of the term so that I wouldn't have to walk into the school. She knew how difficult it was for me to face people, and I will never forget her sensitivity and generosity.

The other, the class parent for my daughter's year, arranged a food roster for me. Every single night for weeks I had a hot meal on the table for my family thanks to her. I'd never met her, but that woman made a profound difference to my ability to cope.

Fast forward eighteen months, and I am sitting on the grass at a class picnic with my now toddler on my lap. I am chatting to that class parent, properly thanking her for all she did to help me. The conversation segues into a discussion of social media. I explain that I'm on Twitter (I'm feeling quite proud because I already have a couple of hundred followers) and wonder if she's ever heard of it.
"Kerri, we've been chatting on Twitter for months. I'm Sharpest Pencil."

The woman was Lana Hirschowitz. Until that point I had no idea that the hysterically funny person I'd been tweeting online was the very same woman who arranged meals for me after my sister died.

My worlds collided.

Since then, Lana and I have spent a ridiculous time communicating, across every medium one can imagine. We talk on Twitter, in public and (far less politically correctly) in DMs. We talk on Facebook, on Instagram, in emails, and in texts. We talk on the phone and we catch up in person. I have many friends who I adore, but Lana is the only friend who lives in all of my communities - the online, the Jewish, the school, and the anxious.

Of course, being South African, Lana is as different to me as cheese is to a polar bear. Her accent is irritating and she's bossy and she doesn't like most of my clothes. She is a dog person and I am a cat person. She is also a cat person, but whatever. And we disagree on nearly everything, which is weird because we also agree on nearly everything.

But our conversations are hilarious, and often bizarre, and for fun, we thought we'd share them with you.

This is the second in our serious of #5minutes with Kerri and Lana. We are in bed. Don't ask why. Just go with it and look at those ginormous pills.

Enjoy.

Episode 1: Friends don't let friends wear panty liners on their backs

When Your Writing Compromises Another

Yesterday I read ‘An Open Letter To My Ex-Wife’ on Huff Post. Apart from the fact that the writing itself was sappy, self-indulgent, and utterly manipulative (Have sympathy for me! My wife left me despite me loving her so, so much I wrote this beautiful love note! How awesome a husband must I have been to be so loving! And so brave, too, to rise from the devastation of the break-up and pen this letter!) it infuriated me that anyone – the man, the editors of Huff Post – could compromise another person’s privacy so fully.

These days, anyone with access to the internet can tell their life story, share every intimate detail of their interpersonal interactions with the entire world. And with such easy access to a readership comes a seeming lack of boundaries, a falling away of the moral codes which prevent us from sharing stories that compromise another person’s privacy and integrity.

I understand why the author of the Open Letter wished to communicate with his ex. I’ve written many emails to my ex partner, and him to me. But why an open letter? The recipient of an open letter is not the purported addressee, but rather the public. D’Ambrosio was not communicating with his ex; he was communicating directly with his readers. He was attempting to convey to the world what a wonderful, loving husband he was, presumably to garner sympathy and/or manipulate his ex into taking him back - or, more likely, to pull sympathy away from her and her decision. And it is not fair on his ex, who presumably did not consent to having his version of their joint narrative shared with the public. There is a line that exists between sharing one’s own stories and exploiting the other people in your life, and he crossed it.

And he’s not the only one. I am so dispirited by the myriad of pieces I read every day that ruthlessly and insensitively appropriate other people’s narratives. Mothers reveal their children’s deeply personal struggles, adult children write of their parents’ private lives, siblings write of old wrongdoings, without permission, without considering the extent to which it would compromise the other person.

Now, obviously our own narratives are shaped by our experiences in relation to the other people in our lives. Without sharing details of the way their lives impacted ours, we would have no stories. I am reading Dear Sugar’s brilliant book at the moment, and she writes of her husband’s infidelity (presumably with his consent) and her father’s abuse (presumably without). And in both cases, these stories are vital to the message she is conveying to the reader. In the first case, she is writing of the complexities of marriage, and how infidelity does not necessarily have to be a deal breaker. In the second, she is advising a girl who needs to cut off contact with her father, for reasons similar to her own.

Stories in contexts like these have meaning and purpose. They are not exploitive because they are fundamental to the story, and withhold the most personal of details. But when a story is there purely to titillate or garner hits, and it could compromise or embarrass the subject, then it is exploitation in its purest form.

Fiction writers often claim to write fiction to ‘tell the truth’, and that resonates strongly with me. If your writing could compromise other people in your life, then write it as fiction. Write it anonymously and change the names. Write it under your own name and change identifying details. And if you can’t do any of that, show some damn restraint. Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. Writers need a moral code too. And readers don’t like to be party to someone else’s impropriety.

An Open Letter to Westfield about a Thrilling Proposal

Anyone who knows me will be aware that Westfield Bondi Junction is my spiritual home. I spend hours there, either doing the grocery shopping, grabbing a coffee, getting my acrylic nails repaired after I bite them off, or just wandering aimlessly, absorbing the seething humanity.

But there is something missing from Westfield. It's got the shops and the cafes and the movie theatre and the supermarkets and the high end boutiques and the people who stop you and try to rub hand cream on you even though you're carrying bags in both hands and walking quickly towards the exit.... But it doesn't have a cultural centre.

It doesn't have Culture.

And this is where I come in.  I can be Westfield's Writer in Residence. I can bring Culture to the mall. I could be set up at a desk on a little platform in the middle of the centre - perhaps surrounded by a small picket fence - and write away on my laptop. People can stop and watch as I write, marvel at the creative process, breathe in my literary energy. They can ask questions and I will answer them, inspiring and supporting other writers to stretch their wings and let the words fly. And I, in turn, can be energised and nourished by their presence (and get free Wifi and coffee, and the occasional chocolate snowball from the cafe on Level 2).

Of course, it's not just Westfield Bondi Juntion that needs Culture. Every Westfield could have its own Resident Cultural Person. Other Writers in Residence, or perhaps Artists in Residence, Musicians in Residence, even Interpretive Dancers in Residence (in fact, I could probably double as an Interpretive Dancer in Residence when the writer's block kicks in).

Westfield would benefit from the injection of art (and from the hoards of people flocking to see us in action), and we would benefit from being around those who inspire us - The People. (Also, there are much better sandwiches at the Food Hall than there are at home.)

If you agree, or are interested in applying for your own position at Westfield, please comment below, or hit Westfield up at @westfieldau. Support the cause! Bring art to your local mall! And make sure I get my egg mayo sandwiches every day!

Why Arianna Huffington is Wrong

Arianna Huffington is an impressive woman. She is an impressive woman who continues to make money from her website, the Huffington Post, which does not pay its bloggers. Though she has staff on the payroll, she does not pay the people whose blog posts appear on her site and generate page impressions and, therefore, income.

Last night at Carriageworks Annabel Crabb asked Ms Huff why she did not pay bloggers. She responded that she didn't need to. She believes that people want to write, and they will write anyway, and she offers them a platform - much like Tumblr or Facebook - on which to express themselves. They gain valuable exposure, which is payment enough. And besides, why should she pay them? They are willing to write for free!

She also (very cleverly) pointed out that Annabel's guests on her TV show are not paid. So that's pretty much the same thing, right?

Well, let's take that point by point.

• The Huff Post is a platform, but it is not a site like Tumblr or Facebook. The latter are free-for-alls. Anyone can post, anyone can write. But the Huff Post is not a public platform. Only a select few get to write for the Huff Post. They are chosen specifically so that their words will earn income for the company. So the comparison is invalid.
  
•  Yes, many people want to write. Many people enjoy expressing themselves creatively. And yes, as Ms Huff states, they will write anyway. But writing for yourself is like painting for yourself. It's lovely to express yourself in a painting or work of art. You can't expect to be paid for that. But if someone wishes to take your painting and hang it in their own environment, so that other people will be lured into that environment and spend money, they should damn well pay for it.
  
• Not paying guests on a TV show is not the same thing as not paying a guest writer. A guest on a TV show is an interview subject, and it is anathema to journalism to pay for interviews. Whether or not Annabel pays her interviewees is utterly irrelevant. I can guarantee, however, that her producers pay the writers, the camera operators, the makeup artists, the directors, the lighting people, and everyone else involved in the making of the show. And that is the only appropriate comparison.
  
• Underpayment or non-payment of particular professions is a serious problem from a feminist perspective. Traditionally, women have engaged in roles which are performed for love, rather than money. Teaching, nursing, social work etc have been underpaid for years because the people performing those roles - usually women - will do them anyway. This does not make it right. These people who are working in fields they are passionate about deserve payment as much as people working purely for money.
  
• Yes, there are thousands of people willing to work for the Huff Post unpaid. They are willing to work unpaid because they feel they don't have a choice, because the systems in place - the systems maintained and perpetrated by the Huff Post, among others - give them no choice. And this is the very definition of exploitation: taking advantage of people who feel they have no choice.
  

Arianna Huffington is an impressive woman. But until she pays all her writers, she will not be the inspiration I am looking for.

#MyFirst... Act Of Rebellion

Today I am starting a new Blogger Challenge.
Why?
Because all of us bloggers need ideas.
Because all of us readers want great content.
Because it will be FUN.
And because I really want to read what you guys have to write.
So.

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)

I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First (Insert Topic Here) on your blogs anytime during the week. If you have never done that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.

Then link to your piece in the comments below, or on my Facebook page.
Also tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
 
 Ready? Let's begin.

Today's First is

MY FIRST ACT OF REBELLION

I was always a conservative child. I did the right thing and came home on time and studied for exams and wore my skirts at an appropriate length. (Then again, it was the 80's. We wore our skirts down to our mid calves. It wasn't fashion at its most provocative.)

I was anxious, and so I was careful to do the right thing; less, I suspect, from a sense of moral obligation, than from a sense of terror at what might happen if I didn't.

But one day it all changed. One day, I pushed through the wall of fear and embraced my inner rebel. And it was Good, I tell you.

It was very, very good.

I was in Year 11 at school, and I was hot, and bored. It was a Hebrew class. I didn't like Hebrew. I had no intention of moving to Israel and I didn't think that Hebrew would be particularly useful for my future career as an actress. But I went to a Jewish school, and Hebrew was compulsory right up until Year 12. Recently, however, the school had relented and agreed not to make us study Hebrew for one of our HSC subjects. We were, however, required to study Non-Hebrew - an absurd, non-assessable class for a couple of periods per week for those not taking the subject formally.

Well, you can imagine the motivation of the students in Non-Hebrew. A bunch of pubescent girls in short (okay, mid length) skirts, a bunch of pimply boys in short (okay, mid length) shorts, a teacher from Israel who could barely speak a word of English, and zero interest in the subject.

It wasn't pretty.

I kept talking to my friend D throughout the class (no doubt about Josh Goldenbum, who I had pined for unrequitedly for the past two years) when finally the poor teacher snapped.

Something in Hebrew! she cried. I didn't understand her. I didn't speak Hebrew. Still, even I could interpret the intonation, and I figured from her vigorous pointing at the door that she wanted D and I to exit the room.

We did.

But that was not the act of rebellion.

You see, as we stood in the corridor outside the classroom, I noticed a gap above the door - a space of about five inches between the top of the frame and the ceiling.

And an idea came to me. A horrible, brilliant idea.

"Let's get some paper," I told my friend D. Several lockers in the hallway were open, and we pulled various bits of paper out and began scrunching them into balls.

"Here goes!" I cried, and I lobbed the first ball over the door frame.

I heard a titter from inside the classroom. Adrenalin surged through my body. This is what it feels like to be bad, I thought. D and I threw ball after ball of paper over the door. The laughter grew stronger. The Hebrew teacher kept teaching.

And then suddenly, it came. The sweetest sound I had yet heard in my short life.

"BULLSEYE!!!"

I had hit the teacher on the head with one of my missiles.

It was a moment to cherish.

What happened after is irrelevant now. What matters is that I faced my inner demons and learned to be at one with my own darker urges.

For the record, though, I got put on detention. It was even more hot and boring than the stupid Hebrew class.

On My Sister's Birthday...

Today was a significant day for two completely different reasons. Firstly, it was my sister's birthday. June 18th. She would have been 43. I thought of Tanya all day, but then again, I think of her every day anyway.

And today was significant for another reason. It was my first time on a new TV show, The Daily Edition. I am going to be a regular on a weekly panel called The Debrief with two fabulous bloggers, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and Beth from BabyMac.

I had a great time before the panel began. A stylist looked at our clothes and suggested I wear the other scarf, not that scarf, which was terribly exciting, because she was a stylist, and she said "Yes, that works," and not "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE SHOCKING TASTE" which is what I had feared she'd say. (Although to be fair, the brief for the panel was possibly 'two stylish bloggers and one with shocking taste', so that could have been her reasoning.)

A ridiculously good looking man. And a happy woman.

I had fun with Woog and Beth practising saying key phrases such as "Well, I'm glad you asked me that," and "Let me elaborate for your elucidation," and "What a fascinating point. May I respectfully repudiate?"

And then a very tall and very handsome and very.... broad shouldered man walked into the room.

It was Kris Smith, one of the co-hosts of the show.

The man is good looking. Like, movie-star good looking. Like, slightly luminescent-with-a-hint-of-fairydust good looking. I felt shy, so I didn't approach him. And if you believed that, you've never met me, because I am SHAMELESS around celebrities and immediately pounced on him and asked for a photo.

And then I thought, I have to call Tanya. Because Kris Smith was married to Dannii Minogue who was one of our favourite Young Talent Time stars. And Tanya and I LOVED Young Talent Time. She would be so excited!

And then I remembered. I can't. She died five years ago.

I miss Tanya on her birthday. But it's in moments like these - those everyday moments that are part of the fabric of life - that I miss her the most.

Ever Criticized A Blogger???

Yesterday, the Sunday Telegraph featured an article by gossip columnist Ros Reines, in which she slammed Mummy Bloggers in general and a few key players in particular, and shot an arrow at the burgeoning field of Daddy Bloggers, too.

Now, I support Ros's right to have an opinion. We all have opinions; I've certainly formed one about her column. What I object to is the mean-spiritedness which permeated her article.

The women and man mentioned in the piece are real people. They are real people with feelings and families and insecurities and hopes, and Ros tore them down quite knowingly with her words. Remember that these people aren't doing anything to hurt anyone; one is a broadcaster and writer, and the others are bloggers. None are vicious or cruel, in fact, the worst that Ros could accuse them of was being 'self-indulgent'. So why be so unkind?

Most forms of self-expression are 'self-indulgent' to an extent - writing, music, painting, dancing, they all are external depictions of an internal state. There is nothing wrong with this. It is life. It can be art.

If we don't like someone else's self-expression, then the sensible thing to do is to stay away. If you don't like someone's music, don't listen to it. It's simple. And if you don't like someone's blog, don't read it. Easy. There's no need to be mean. Just close the screen and be gone.

But by the same token, we as writers need to stop taking criticism so personally. Not everyone will like us, and that is okay. No writer (or musician, or artist, or dancer) can appeal to everyone. I cannot think of one piece of writing in the entire world that is universally loved - not Shakespeare, not Austen, not even Marian Keyes!!!! And if Shakespeare & Austen & Marian Keyes aren't universally loved, what chance on earth do I have?

My style of writing doesn't resonate with everyone, and I really am fine with that. I try to focus on the people who do enjoy my work, and forget about the ones who don't.

People, it is OKAY not to have universal appeal. I hope that you all remember that.

And Ros Reines, with the very deepest respect, I hope you can remember that too.

Proper, Funny Writing?

On the weekend I attended the Problogger conference in Melbourne. I was one of the speakers, on a panel with Allison Tait and Valerie Khoo, and I discussed the ways in which I use my blog to promote myself as a writer. A 'proper' writer. A writer of columns and articles and books and online posts. A funny writer, but a proper writer nonetheless. A proper, funny writer. If you know what I mean.

Hopefully, then, there will be many new readers clicking on to my blog today for the first time, waiting with baited breath to read, for the first time, a stunning example of my proper, funny writing.

And what a surprise they're going to get.

Because I don't have a piece of proper, funny writing for you today. Instead, I have a diagram.

So for those of you new to this proper, funny blog, let me explain:

A few weeks ago, I despaired of ever being able to stop biting my nails. And I called upon my loyal blog readers to help me in my quest, by offering to name a particular nail for me, and providing me - and said nails - with emotional support. I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love expressed (and the sheer ridiculousness of the monikers chosen). Now, finally, I have chosen my ten names, and can reveal them to the world. (Sadly, I can't reveal the nails themselves, as they are still rather short and stubby - particularly Al, who had a bit of an accident with a rough edge and a tooth - but they will get there soon.)

Hence the diagram.

To those whose names adorn these typing fingers, thank you. I will look after them well. To those who missed out on naming a nail, fear not. There are still my toes.

And to those who came here looking for a proper, funny read, I apologise. Please come again soon. I promise that next time I will be hilarious. And if not, you can name my left ear. It's huge!


In other news, the winner of the Where's Wally costume (notasponsoredpost) is Jenny M, because I love the idea of her son being dressed as Wally for his Buck's Night. Jenny, please email me!!!

Go On. I CAN TAKE IT!

I don't usually ask for feedback on my blog. This is for several reasons.



Artist's impression of me after receiving negative feedback.

1. I figure I really can only write the way I write. So if you tell me you don't like my writing, then I have no alternative but to curl up into a little ball and cry copious tears of rejection. And then blog the next day the same way I have always blogged.
2. If there is something I can change, and I try to change it, there are always frequently disasterous consequences. Cases in point:
   
   a) When I bought the domain name kerrisackville.com and nearly lost my entire blog whilst trying to change it over;
   
   b) When I changed my blog layout this past Sunday, and lost my entire commenting system, and spent 72 hours weeping and gnashing my teeth fixing the damn thing.
3. Inevitably, some of you will like some things that others of you ate, and some of you will hate some things that others of you love. And I will want desperately to please you all, and feel wrenched in two by the cognitive dissonance that comes from wanting to change what I also want to stay the same. If you know what I mean.
4. If there is something that you all agree you hate, and it is clear that I have to change it, then I will have to change it. And I hate change. It scares me. Bad things come out of change. (For further clarification, see point 2).

However, I am off to Melbourne tomorrow to attend the Problogger conference on Friday and Saturday, so I am in an introspective mood. More importantly, someone told me on Twitter that they didn't like the colour scheme on my blog, and that has thrown me into a state of panic and despair.

So I am asking for your feedback. What do you like about my blog? What do you dislike? What would you like to change?
You can comment on the layout. The colours. The content. The font. The commenting system. The picture of me looking sexily nonchalant as I sign a book. Anything you want. Be honest. I can take it.

Or I'll curl up into a little ball and cry copious tears of rejection.

Whatever!!!

Love The Way You Blog - The SONG

LOVE AND HATE

I LOVE writing. I can work from home, which means I don't have to get dressed in a suit (I am in a T-shirt and velour trackie pants right now - YES, velour!). I don't have colleagues so I don't have to make polite conversation with anyone (I hate small talk, it's boring) and I can get up and wander into the kitchen whenever I want to have a snack or a cup of coffee or lie down on the floor and go to sleep (though I do try to do that on the couch).

Whenever something interesting or funny or bizarre happens to me (which is a lot, because I just have one of those lives) I make a mental note of it and then promptly forget all about it. But if I actually write it down, then I can turn it into a blog post or column as soon as I get home, and BAM, there's my work done for the day! You can't do that if you're a doctor or lawyer or one of those people who makes batteries for cars.

I HATE writing. I sit here alone in my office, with no-one to talk to, which is why I spend half my bloody life on Twitter. I hang around in trackie pants all day, which is utterly tragic, and sometimes I even forget to have a shower. And with no set lunch break, I eat on and off for most of the day, so that by the time it comes to dinner with the family I can do no more than pick on a lettuce leaf and regret the fifteen different meals I ate earlier on.

I have prostituted my life for my work. I have taken every experience I have ever had, every thought that has ever crossed my mind, and every opinion I have ever made, and turned them into a piece of writing to earn a bit of money. I have scraped the bottom of the barrel of my consciousness, searching desperately for scraps that I can turn into a story, constantly worried that I have exhausted the supply and that there are no ideas left. There are days I wake up and I have nothing. NOTHING. No experiences, no thoughts, no opinions at all. And I am desperate, utterly desperate. Bet that never happens to those people who make batteries for cars.

I fucking hate writing.

But I bloody love it too.

In Bed With Mablogga

There is a great line in the 1991 documentary "In Bed With Madonna" (also titled "Truth or Dare") in which Madonna's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend Warren Beatty comments on her refusal to speak off camera.

"She doesn't want to live off-camera, much less talk," he says. "There's nothing to say off-camera. Why would you say something if it's off-camera? What point is there existing?"

I've always remembered that line, even though it had nothing to do with my life whatsoever, as the only person interested in taking my picture at the time was my mum. But somehow it stuck with me, and now, twenty-one years later, it resonates more than ever.

Because yesterday I was at a writer's festival, and two hilariously funny things happened. One took place at a session in which I was in the audience; another took place at a session in which I was on the panel. You would love these anecdotes, I can guarantee it. But I can't tell you anything about thenm because the other people involved in these incidents might read this blog and be embarrassed, and I wouldn't want that at all.

It is killing me that I can't tell you. It's eating away at me as I write. I've told several people - my husband, my mum, five friends, and a teacher at pre-school who didn't seem at all interested - but I can't tell you. I can't blog about it. And that makes me feel deeply frustrated.

So I realise, to my horror, that I am just like Madonna. In fact, to paraphrase the ever-cool Wazza:

I don't want to live off-blog, much less talk. There's nothing to say off-blog. Why would you say something if it's off-blog? What point is there existing?

Can you relate?