Nikki Gemmell - Personally: Further Notes on Life

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

First published in Australia in 2013

This edition published in 2013

by HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517

harpercollins.com.au

Copyright Nikki Gemmell 2013

The right of Nikki Gemmell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000 .

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 , no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Acknowledgment is made to the Weekend Australian Magazine , where many of these columns were first published.

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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Gemmell, Nikki.

Personally: further notes on life / Nikki Gemmell.

ISBN 978 0 7322 9886 9 (pbk.)

ISBN 978 1 4607 0247 5 (epub)

A823.3

Cover design by Darren Holt, HarperCollins Design Studio

Cover photograph of Nikki Gemmell by Justin Creedy Smith

We impose narratives upon the smallest of observations, if we are writers; we search for them even if they are not there. And so to these snippets of narrative, so hard to condense into 660 words or thereabouts every week. What are they, really? According to George Johnston, the husband of the columnist and novelist Charmian Clift, she referred to her weekly newspaper outpourings as pieces because essays sounded just too high-falutin.

And mine? To this weary soul, week by week, these could be appreciations, or caresses, or pokes, stirrings of the proverbial possum perhaps, sometimes bewilderments, sometimes admonishments, teases or indignations, performances or songs of praise. Clifts word pieces implies a musical quality, and isnt that what most writers aspire to? The rhythm of the thing, its internal song.

But really, for this lot, can we just settle on conversations perhaps? Conversations with a mate who might even, possibly, be you, even though weve never met. Often, when the writing is stubbornly stuck (something that happens far too often at the moment in this kid-addled, sleep-deprived life), I imagine a bar with a best mate Ive known since primary school. In the introduction to Clifts collected columns, one of her readers noted that her writing left them feeling as though theyd not so much read an article as spent a few minutes with a valued friend. Yes. Thats it, thats exactly whats aspired to. Thanks for letting me into your world for a brief few minutes every weekend. It feels like such a privilege.

And hasnt it been a rollercoaster of a year? Thereve been the big noisy dissections of Julia Gillard and Tony Abbott, and my inbox has veritably roared with indignation or appreciation. Three new prime ministers in three months; a grandmother moved to a nursing home; the post- Fifty-Shades world; male tenderness; the rise of private tutoring for school children; the loss of wonder in our architecture; kids beginning not only high school but kindergarten and, just to make life a little easier, the acquiring of a new child, a dog from a pet shop that doesnt use puppy farms, although silly me forgot to mention that bit (the animal liberationists, those rabid haters, can now back off) all have been juicy fodder over the past year.

But the pieces that garnered the biggest responses, aside from the hugely polarising political ones, have been the examinations of female misogyny. One of these looked into the dark heart of Twitter, which almost stopped me in my tracks. Floored me, actually, took the wind right out of my sails, because the attack came from the very centre of my world: from my peers. The only way to move on was to write it away. Publishing and journalism friends urged me to name and shame, but my heart wasnt in it; Id said my bit, and if it made just one female woman-hater pause and think before letting fly on social media, then Id done my job.

Then there were the quieter ruminations, ones I assumed would pass the world by with nary a whimper of comment, yet theyre still receiving responses weeks months later. The place of mulberry trees in the Australian psyche was one of these, as was the piece on reciting bush poetry, and memories of a childhood marinated in nature, and being utterly alone in a house without family. They seemed to wend their way into hearts or, perhaps more importantly, onto the hallowed dunny wall (oh yes, Im sometimes alerted when this happens, and how chuffed I am to be Blu-tacked alongside the school merit certificates and Leunig cartoons). Those quieter pieces are my favourites, and you, dear readers, keep me writing them.

Then there are the collections of good ol Aussie sayings and nicknames, which could be written over and over again given the wealth of material contributed from this nations far reaches: from school yards and staff rooms, and from memories stretching back pre-war. Theres a sense of urgency to these pieces, as though the riches in them need preserving before theyre lost in the mists of time. Any suggestions for new themes along these lines are most welcome; Im passionate about cataloguing an Australia that is rapidly fading before our eyes, left behind by the ephemeral world of social media with its candy-like, instant gratifications.

The American columnist George Will most admired those authors who wrote about what he called the inside of public matters that is, not whats hidden but what is latent, the kernel of significance that exists inside an event. I, too, am interested in the inside. Of Australia as it is now, and as it has been, and of what weve lost. How we exist in this rapidly changing world; our fragilities and indignations and bewilderments.

How long will these pieces last in their paper form? This past year has seen a big shift to an online readership, as well as an upsurge in social media commentary. Twitter now tells me how my words are going down. But I do love that so many readers still find a quiet moment to consume my pieces in magazine form and then to tell me about it in a caf by themselves; in a miners lunchroom; under a favourite tree; in a house vibrating with stillness while the familys all away at weekend sport (I dream of that one). These acts of reading involve a snatched moment of contemplation mulling, quiet, the bliss of alone and the solid, sensual feel of paper. It gives me hope for this world.

And yet Im often getting it wrong. Tony Abbott took advantage of the email address at the bottom of my weekly pieces to alert me, most politely, of just this. According to him, my column about him was completely off the mark and he wanted to tell me so in person. We met, and I acknowledged my mistake with another rumination. I might have got that one wrong, too. Thats the prerogative of the columnist: an opinion offered, an opinion retracted, a fumbling in the dark. Were not infallible. In fact, we can make a living out of our vulnerabilities. As the American writer Ben Hecht wrote, Concerning the newspaper sages of my own day I am certain that when the future pauses to rummage among the columns we filled it will be amazed, as it always has been, by how little we saw, how confused we were, and how nimbly we met the high winds of our hour by standing on our heads.

So, thank you, dear reader, for your indulgence, for glancing at these weekly narratives conversations, shall we settle on? often wrapped around the tiniest of observations or a mere snatch of a chat. Thank you for letting me briefly into your world, whether its with a Saturday cuppa on the balcony, in a trawlers mess, at a caf down the road or tucked into a letter from Mum. Love it, love it all and love you telling me.