After three years of living my life twice over, it’s time to sign off

For someone so flighty and easily distracted, I’ve only ever had one goal. The only thing I ever dreamed of being was a writer, and all writers ever dream of is seeing their names in print.

It turns out that the only thing more special than finding your voice is the opportunity of a platform on which to use it, so I knew when it was offered to me that a fortnightly column in a major newspaper was a career high I would and will never surpass.

A loose brief, a regular deadline, a steady pay cheque, a captive audience and the prestige of a byline in a major newspaper. What more could any writer ask for?

Credit: Robin Cowcher

Pop stars and despots, true crime and romance, tarot cards and an existential crisis at the sight of crow’s feet, advice from my therapist, rabid lust for Harry Styles: fortnight on fortnight, I’ve catalogued all the major tenets of my personality for the story.

It’s careful business. How much of myself do I want to give away to strangers? What’s a relatable experience worth writing about, and what’s evidence of my pathological narcissism?

It’s been strange to share parts of myself with hundreds of thousands of anonymous readers every other week. All writers know that no matter how hard they try, everything they write is an expression of who they really are. Fiction and nonfiction, investigative journalism, listicles, novellas, erotica, a PhD thesis, a curt email exchange with your office nemesis — it all reveals us to our audience. My tag on this newspaper’s website isn’t (just) a collection of tangents, it’s a self-portrait. Recently, though, I seem to be painting it from memory.

I watch my life play out twice over: once as it happened, once again on replay, examining each word and micro-expression for adjectives and insights, editing conversations to make them fit this week’s topic. When people say that you should write what you know, they always forget to warn you about the tricky bit: When your lived experiences are your meal ticket, there’s no real way to separate your work from your real life.

It’s not just me who does this. Others do it on my behalf.

When dates find out what I do for a living, they ask if they need me to sign an NDA, in case I want to defame them in print. Friends approach me with their relationship woes and call it inspiration for my next book. A few months ago, when I was done complaining to her about the endless migraine that is my owners’ corporation, my agent told me there was a story in there somewhere. Every day, every conversation, every relationship, every song, every memory — as Nora Ephron said, “everything is copy”.

It’s not all neuroses and self-indulgence. In my three-ish years at The Age’s Spectrum section, I’ve picked up a few things. I’ve learned to work quickly and consistently. I’ve developed a misplaced confidence with semicolon use. I’ve discovered that you should never complain about men or particular super-famous authors in print, or people will come for you in vitriolic droves.

I’ve learned never to engage in Twitter discourse. I’ve learned to — mostly — shut out the nagging, naysaying voice in my head (and occasionally in the comments sections) that says my work isn’t good enough. I’ve figured out how to be honest without sacrificing my privacy, and I’ve almost learned when to keep my mouth shut. Through this column, I’ve become the writer I always wanted to be. I just seem to have forgotten how to be a real person in the process.

Already with regret and perhaps the tiniest bit of relief, I’m turning the page on a couple of very tough years and saying goodbye to this byline. I’m going off in search of new experiences, good stories, and my old self. It’s about time another writer got their dream job.

Don’t get too excited yet. I’ll still be here and there, popping up in your paper whenever a good idea strikes or someone is off sick. I’m like the hiccups, or glitter, or a bad one-night stand the morning after: the harder you try to get rid of me, the longer I stick around. For now, though, it’s time for me to stop writing about my life, and remember how to live it again.

Thank you for all the lovely messages, and the irate ones I screen-shotted and shared in the group chat. Thank you for sharing your breakfast with me every other week. Thank you for the stories. Thank you for all of it.

Signing off.