Lopping tall poppies - Page 2
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Ryan Heath
SO, AS THE DARK CLOUD OF IMPROPRIETY SWIRLED around my workday head in February, and the four o'clock London "sunsets" numbed life out of me, I found it hard to enjoy my new role as "controversial author" or "wouldbe generational spokesman". Throw in an ill-judged offer for readers of my website to contact me with feedback of any kind and the first weeks of the book's release were not pretty, especially when there's no one to hug after the last awful midnight email. I would go to bed at two or three o'clock reciting the hate mail and wake in the dark cursing the city of dirty streets and pale freaks I mistakenly called home.
Having the book extracted in several daily papers was a welcome surprise, but the reviews were not. In the course of one weekend, they ranged from The Australian's "Savvy believable, thought-provoking and entertaining ... it is an achievement." to The Sunday Age urging its readers not to buy the book because reading it would mean "they will never take anyone under thirty seriously. Ever again."
As a sub-plot, I was waging my own generational war with my publicist, Brendan O'Dwyer. While we ultimately learnt much from each other, I was in no mood to be told by a sixty-something bloke that "it simply wasn't possible" to organise a series of debates and launch events in Australia with just six weeks' notice. It had taken me a year to be convinced that he knew much more about the ABC than I did, but I was obviously yet to convince him that when I said I would do "whatever it took" to make the book work, I meant it. I would do five launch parties if it killed me.
IT WAS IN THIS FRAME OF MIND THAT I ENTERED BLOG-LAND with a temper twinned with Courtney Love's. One PhD compared me with Adolf Hitler on the New Matilda website. I cut him off at the knees. Phil Scott wrote: "If he thinks baby boomers have all the jobs. Just try getting work as an underwear model when you're sixty." I replied "Ouch. Damn. There goes my whole thesis." Priscilla Stone was told: "Frankly that's a really stupid comment Priscilla ... I don't feel the slightest guilt in making such a harsh comment ..." Respected academic John Quiggin was soon to learn about his "lazy academic twenty-six-weeks-of-holidays-a-year arse".
None of it was dignified; much of it was misspelt. And yet I felt at the time that it was the only way to stay afloat at the end of a project that I had nearly abandoned in July 2004. I had drafted an email to my commissioning editor, Tony Moore, explaining why I wanted to withdraw the manuscript I had rushed to complete in three months. It was no good. The best thing for it was to make some cash from the effort via newspaper articles. I never sent it because he broke his silence the next day with encouraging words.
And, as I assured my publisher, Tracey Ellery, as she gripped my forearm after one of her delicious home-cooked barbecues, I'm glad I didn't.
There were only two things that genuinely hurt me in the process. The first was Diana Bagnall – a writer I respected – calling my book "the biggest dummy spit ever" in The Bulletin. The other was my boss, Sir Gus O'Donnell, the head of the UK Civil Service, pointedly leaving me out of a thank-you speech at a reception to mark his first six months in office.
Just as I was clearly worn down by it all, and unable to maintain a smile, a female friend bluntly asked me: "Well, what did you expect?" I expected more sympathy. And I realised I didn't deserve it.
Discretion may be the better part of valour, but it's not much use in the generation game. I bought the deal, and I paid the price. Frustration, passion and dismissal all work. But they are two-way streets. Or maybe roundabouts?
There is a bit of me that resents their flamboyance and timing. They did "it" so simply and with such cool. It's not so much the scale of achievement that awes – it's the ease. Armed with optimism, they reshaped their world in a way we can't. Too many facts and consequences get in the way in today's more accountable grind. Too many developing economies want their turn. Too many ecosystems can't take any more pressure. Too many of their spoilt brat kids now want a piece of the pie. Too much, too bad, too late.
BUT IF THE JEALOUSY SIMMERED AND THE ANGER BOILED on the page, it was positively frozen in real life by the time of my book tour. "Reasonable Ryan comes to town" could have been the strapline. Anti-climax, the review.
Even Stan Zemanek, after a warm-up of white wine, vodka and lefty friends who thought him truly vile, could not bait me. Fat jokes seemed unfair; he sent me roses and a dinner voucher – but not the late-night hug I had been looking for the month before. While Stan Zemanek surprised, it was Hugh Mackay who humbled. To even appear on the same stage was an honour and challenge, and there was a definite "wow" factor when he told a Sydney book crowd that he really thought I "was trying to increase understanding between the generations". Closer to home, being able to dedicate my Sydney launch to my parents made me proud to be their son.
While some commentators may not feel the need to defer to reality, individuals from my generation challenging their history and demography ignore them.
My generation may not want spokespeople (Natasha Stott-Despoja in 1999 aspic, the last image of a generational spokesperson). But no generation of Australians has been happy to go without owning its homes. There has never been a more educated generation. Every employer above the minimum wage demands technology skills today. And Baby Boomers enjoy the good life too much to keep their good jobs forever. So they might hold on long enough to squeeze Generation X, but for those of us born later, life is not going to be tough forever.
As they say, though, you're only young once – so history can wait a while. I've slotted back into generation expat and have a summer of mini-breaks to take. The only question is how I will manage to fit my Masters swimming club and Friday nights at Rollerdisco around them. ♦