Day #20 – Cosmic Retribution & Dubious Execution

A few years ago, in my first few months working for a funky agency in a converted finger wharf, a Director began calling me Cathy, and the name took hold fast. I made the mistake of sending a firm but politely worded email to all senior management requesting that this cease immediately. Opening myself up to absolute ridicule, I suggested that the name was more befitting of a bottle-blonde hairdresser from Wagga Wagga and that it had the same shudder-inducing effect as nails on a blackboard. Four years later, as cosmic retribution for my snobbery, tomorrow I am interviewing a bottle blond hairdresser from Wagga Wagga. Thankfully her name isn’t Cathy, and her story is much more interesting than you might think. Last December she was in a motorbike accident that left her a paraplegic (more cosmic intervention, according to my man, who is hoping the interview will snap some sense into me and get me off my two wheels). Tomorrow, in my first phone interview since Pitch Fever began I’ll find out how her salon was redesigned for accessibility, so she could go back to work, and how the community banded together to raise money to do the same to her house. Very cool.

Melbourne's bike share at Fed Square

Speaking of the cosmos, Pitch Fever continues to generate all sorts of lovely and random offers of help and ideas from the universe. Particular kudos to a long lost (12 years in fact) namesake from school who is now a copy editor in NY and sent me oodles of advice and fabulous resources, such as media bistro and Ed 2010. Danke shoen Ms Gin! Thanks as well to the heads up from another mate, today’s pitch was to an online global environmental publication she suggested I write for. My idea was based on the low uptake of Melbourne’s brilliant new bike share scheme due to compulsory helmet laws but with none provided for use. And I seem to have secured some ongoing work from Pages, with a real live meeting next week to discuss: The Future.

However, a fifth of the way through, the sanguine optimism in the early stages of this experiment is wavering as the sheer magnitude of the pitching process sinks in. Beginning to think it should’ve just been filed away under the long list of ‘Cath’s harebrained schemes’ rather than being declared publicly to the world and therefore unable to be retracted. The constant need to find inspiration, the pervasive guilt, the disheartening and malnutritioned inbox. This recent doco about a freelancing mate of mine, who is successfully writing and still depressed by the process. The deflation when what seemed to be a cracker of an idea turns out to be utter shite when actually expressed on a screen to a potential editor, as you’re outlining why they might want to part with their money. Example: yesterday’s City 2 Surf, the largest timed footrace on the planet.

Hobbling along, nearly delirious, I was panting, purple and wishing for some sort of coronary explosion so as to be ferried off by the St Johns ambulance without having to actually admit defeat. Then, upon hearing the sweet sultry sounds of a sax on a rooftop belting out Baker St I felt a subsequent surge of energy. Grinning like a loon, and picking up the pace, I pondered how music can have such a profound effect on energy levels and mood, and whether experts recommend you jog with music or without. Apparently it’s the latter but I find I can always push myself another couple of k’s when I’ve got the Strokes in my ear. Anyway, seemed like a reasonable pitch (lactic acid build up perhaps?) until last night when I tried to figure out who would read it, who would publish it, who I’d interview and really, who the hell cares? By that stage though I felt so dazed and confused quality was not a consideration, and shot off a half-cocked email to Body and Soul, muttering something about the Bon Jovi effect.

Nottabbott Island?

Cheered myself up tonight by researching the cost of various Greek Islands to buy and emigrate to in case Tony Abbott becomes Prime Minister, and rallying the troops through a facebook group so I can take some good people with me. Since the whole country went down the loo they’re a bargain – the cheapest one is a lazy 1.5 million Euros – so I figure if we pool our pocket money, between all of us we can happily ignore the fact that our country has gone the same way.