Today I had my column appear in my local newspaper.

I’ve been an official columnist for a few years now, but my creative prose/pure smut had been appearing in a free magazine delivered to houses a few towns over.

There was a happy buffer zone that meant a bit of distance, but it was close enough to ensure some vague sense of relevance and allowed my fans (mum, dad and my little sister we call Kevin) to access it easily enough. It was comfortable because I still had this air of anonymity.

But now my words will be appearing in print in a paper every bastard reads every damn word of (I know this, because we used get multiple people telling us about a typo in the most obscure of classified ads).

Being the sloppy person (of rig and of character) I didn’t plan ahead of time, and found myself sitting to write this piece on next to no sleep after a delayed flight well after my bed time.

And I have to say that I panicked.

I tried to watch some of The Mindy Project to take the edge off, but all it really did was make me feel inferior in everyway and realise that I’m more like Danny Castellano than I care to admit.

Because I don’t really have a persona. I don’t have a general topic. I don’t have a direction.

When people ask me about what my column, I’m not sure what to tell them. In resumes, I would try to impress recruitment officers by telling them it was an “extra creative outlet, with topics varying from social commentary to political observations to over sharing about my humorous experiences”.

Social commentary was a broad yet professional term I used to cover pieces I’ve done where I complained about the snotty bottleo’s in my neighbourhood being too fancy to stock the cheap nasty wine I like or the rise of inspirational quotes on athletic clothing.

Political observations included my name-dropping Barnaby Joyce.

Over sharing about my humorous experiences was a pretty spot on description, which meant I didn’t have to explicitly explain how many times I’d written about my own vomit.

I don’t really know if that’s a cohesive theme. The generally vibe of my thing is basically assuming everyone’s as obsessed with me as I am. I’m just writing things under the impression the entire world wants to know what I think about chicken nuggets.

But going into a new publication I felt like I had the chance to reinvent myself. To do some real branding and have an actual purpose instead of sprouting dribble. I thought that living in the big city could have been an angle.

If I spun it a certain way, I could have quite the glamorous life in the minds of my readers. I work in the city, I’m a writer, Richard Wilkins was at my office Christmas party and I use a lift to get to my apartment – an apartment! The epitome of urban glam! I am an Australian Carrie Bradshaw having crazy adventures in the big apple!

But the truth is I’m the bogan Carrie Bradshaw. I’m kind of similar, but also not at all.

I mean, I’m currently living in Inner East Sydney, so you could say I live on the Inner East Side (I also like to call it the Middlish East, although I only thought that up this afternoon).

Carrie bloody loves her shoes, while my obsession with footwear is limited to seeing if can get an extra week out of the sandals with no grip and decaying leather.

Carrie writes about steamy escapades and sharp observations about relationships, while I write about viral cat videos.

Carrie spends her evenings out at swanky clubs, while I like to go to the dirty bar which didn’t kick my friend and I out when we dipped our fingers in a puddle of spilled tequila for a cheap buzz.

It’s practically the same thing, right?

And I got to thinking that this could be a great vibe for my new column.

Maybe instead of glamorising an over-populated swampland, I could reveal the steaming mound of rubbish it actually is. Instead of appearing sophisticated and charmingly neurotic, I could portray myself as bogan and mentally unsound. Instead of being relevant to women everywhere, I could be relevant to just myself.

Which, come to think it, is exactly the tone of my column already. I guess I don’t have to reinvent myself after all. I’m already substandard but fabulous! Just like Dorothy with her slippers, I had my mediocre powers all along, I just needed to know how to wield it. And just like that, I had my opener: I’m the girl who makes people feel better about their lives by sharing the shame and disappointment that is my existence through weekly columns.

You can find my columns in The Clifton Courier from now until someone sensible steps in and puts a stop to all this nonsense.

 

I’ll be uploading my published columns a fortnight after going to print, but I recommend picking up a subscription so you can scrunch it up into a little ball or light it on fire after reading for ultimate satisfaction.