7.30am
Wake in the dark before alarm goes off with an inexorable sense of dread that the wheel can’t be spun fast enough to avert disaster, AKA Just another day in the life of an Australian arts freelancer. LOLZ
7.35am
Bleary eyes backed up by reading glasses. Scan the news on my phone. Genocide, environmental disaster, flat-out fascism from unhinged world leaders and their milquetoast boosters, all present and incorrect. Timeline cleanse featuring fluffy kittens, film stars, fashion and hunks on Instagram to calm the apocalypse-borne despair. Nailed Wordle in three.
8am
Alarm buzzing, time to up and at ‘em. Existential crisis intensifies in shower, this time accompanied by an impromptu a cappella rendition of Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’. The Voice will not trouble me, but I can do this! Is that my neighbour joining me through the floor, or the neighbourhood dogs whelping??
8.15am
Dress for the job you want, they say. Pull on the same ratty old hoodie and worn-out joggie bottoms I’ve worn for three days, as trawled from the bedroom floor. Ready to sic a pick on the cultural coalface, just as soon as I’ve had at least two strong coffees and a heart murmur.
8.30am
At my desk, 150 new emails. How many of these can I delete, sight unseen? One, two, skip a few … Whyyyyyy has that one about being flown to a dance salon in Singapore been lingering in junk mail until it’s too late? I swear gremlins are working against me.
Drink a gallon of water to combat the caffeine shivers. Or is that just my crumbling apartment walls, devoid of insulation like my soul? Must. Mainline. More. Fluffy. Kittens.
8.45am
Ooh, opening night ticket* offered for an eight-hour abstract show deconstructing Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure on a ‘minimalist’ set consisting of four chalked lines drawn on a shed floor. Starring that woman from Married at First Sight, who has been reduced to wearing a bin bag and is sporting a forlorn look of career contemplation I recognise all too well, thanks Tay-Tay.
*No plus-one. Politely respond requesting a guest. Debriefing with them is a legit part of the process, bouncing ideas and recalibrating my perspective.
That, and we’re paid peanuts (who am I kidding, I can’t afford peanuts in this economy), so we gotta lock in the perks, however meagre. Theatre tickets are exxy, after all, and industry-standard plus-ones plus a free bar help make the humiliation bearable.
8.55am
Reluctantly RSVP to the 892nd entry in a never-ending, but fully flagging, superhero franchise. Maybe this one won’t be a mess of weightless CGI, mindless McGuffins and stakes so low, despite yet another Armageddon out of here plot fixed in a jiffy with a dash of Deus Ex Machina. At least Florence Pugh’s in it.
Check IMDb. Three-and-a-half-hour film. Curses. At 7.30pm, far across town on the Wednesday night before it releases. Publicist, no doubt harangued by distributor execs, wants us to share reviews by 7am the next morning. Briefly wish it were the 1950s, when we wore pork-pie hats and had to run to a wooden telephone booth in the foyer to dictate a review in black and white.
But I am 46 and 3⁄4, not 76, and have no memory of those days. I’ve virtually no memory at all these days. Although I do seem to recall my first magazine gig was in a fuggy office laden with overflowing ashtrays, misogyny and no open windows.
9am
Ignoring all emails now unless they are directly relevant to the three deadlines I am trying to meet consecutively, like I’m competing in the Iron Man competition. The triathlon, not the Marvel one.
But first, this alluring missive about frequent flyer offers is commanding my attention, and that one about exceedingly modest real estate I can’t come close to accruing a deposit for, and maybe that 5000-word New Yorker feature about post-industrial bees.
9.15am
Have forgotten what I was doing, which is a sure sign it’s time to make a cup of tea. Stare out the kitchen window at birds frolicking in the trees and the weird neighbour shouting at clouds while the kettle boils. Mindfulness is basically weaponised procrastination and necessary.
Remember to eat breakfast – a stale cookie and a slice of plastic cheese – setting a new record for fuelling the brain before it grumbles into slow death shutdown.
9.30am
Back at desk, composing an emotionally staunch response for whichever of us is struggling in the freelancer WhatsApp support group. A necessary lifeline for work-from-home connection and a timely reminder that we are all up against it. It’s not just me. Oh, wait, do I need the pep talk??
9.45am
Begin review of last night’s contemporary dance work – yes, if you want to make freelance arts writing work, you’d better be multidisciplinary. Think of it as a one-person band with half the instruments broken and/or out of tune, as the general public sneers at you while refusing to part with their hard-earned cash – including annual leave and Super, lol.
Show was staged on a sinking ship in the harbour. There might be a metaphor here if I can just locate it.
Spend over an hour crafting the most beautifully knitted intro connecting the key themes to their cultural context via a personal insight into why this matters now. Realise I’m 500 words in and haven’t mentioned the show’s name yet. Delete beautifully crafted intro.
11am
Time for another cup of tea and a vacant stare. Is it too early for lunch??
11.15am
Restart review of last night’s contemporary dance work. Definitely getting the feeling this might be allegorical. Is that water lapping at my ankles metaphorical, or is my decaying apartment flooding again??
Spot breaking news that almost every boundary-pushing, non-mainstage creative company, forging exciting pathways for artists while delivering exhilarating work that upends the canon, has been defunded for the next four years. Business as usual. Insert appropriate meme:
12.30pm
Review now reads like it hasn’t been concocted by shrieking monkeys. Read, reread, and finesse. Ready to file. Send off to editor. Ten-minute disassociation break. Bites nails.
12.45pm
Receive a call from an old-school publicist who prefers a nice chat to emails, which is blooming lovely, but strikes me with the fear I’ll forget what we’ve agreed. Lots of gossip over the arts funding massacre, commiseration over bank accounts.
They’re offering a pretty darn ritzy international A-list celebrity interview that will set editors into a frenzy as they will get so many eyeballs on it once it’s published. OF COURSE this dream ticket is in a heinous time zone for Australia. Is the 4am wake-up call worth it? That used to come with one caveat: ‘Is it Madonna?’ But I agree.
Immediately synopsise deets and send through in a confirmation email so I know it’s real and pop straight into phone diary with reminder alerts. Have no actual memory.
1pm
Email from editor. Didn’t attach the review. Rookie (and alarmingly regular) error. Actually filed it this time. Remember to chase production pics.
1.15pm
May as well triage emails while I’m in here. OFC editors are looking for the other two features on the go. Can I smash one out before lunch, or will I faint?
1.30pm
Lunch it is. Sunday’s roast chook goes a long way. Time to not actually learn how to speak a language via dawdling on Duolingo.
2pm
Back at it, trying to translate the true meaning behind a dodgy transcription of an interview with a performance art clown who fashions balloon sculptures like it’s the Rosetta stone.
No matter, listening back and tweaking as needed gets me right back in the conversation, and there’s endless amusement at wonky words that always seem to lean towards inadvertent innuendo.
3.30pm
Chat’s flowing into shape on the page/Word doc, once I figured out what said clown actually said. Yes, I can corral this 10,000-word transcript into an 800-word count yarn while maintaining both of our artistic integrity.
Maybe the off-cuts will come in handy one day? When’s the anniversary of Stephen King’s It?
4.30pm
Miraculously managed to file second story for the day and even remembered to attach it this time. Fist pump. Quick check of emails. Review is already live, whoot.
Time to share that on multifarious nefarious social media platforms owned by technocrat oligarchs. Of course I should tailor the vibe to each site, but fark me, who has time?
5pm
Another phone call, this time on an unrecognised number. Might be the ATO. Not answering. Quick scan for terrifying MyGov email. Escape unscathed another day. Should prob invoice for these two features while I remember.
Check bank account. Still terminal. Draft pass-mostly-aggro ‘sick of your shit’ emails. Pause. Disassociate. Redraft politely pleading ones begging for three-month-old invoices to be rushed through. My time, so very often, is not money.
5.30pm
Begin third story for the day, which should be a fun little listicle highlighting the most appealing events in an upcoming writers’ festival. Prioritising women, people of colour and queer folks, because natch. Sorry Tim Winton.
6.30pm
After deep diving through the festival’s website, I still only have a list of ten events with no accompanying text. Why, oh why do I pour so much into these things?? Oh crud, I forgot tonight’s screening of a long-lost Czech stop-animation about anthropomorphic rabbits who foment a social uprising. Who needs dinner?
7.30pm
Got to the cinema just in time to ask for the second wine pour down so as not to feel like a total lush. Of course, the listicle is barely formed, ready to do it all again early tomorrow morn, but for now, socialism in surreal puppetry form.
9.15pm
Checking emails again on the tram home. Crud. Also forgot I’m on the radio tonight talking about how mushroom poisoning can offer a new perspective on arts funding.
Just need to get home first and hope the gods of internet connection will shine their favour on me while crossing to the ABC from my blackspot study.
10pm
On-air interview done. 14-hour day over. Invoiced $300 lol. Thank god I love this gig. Now, to pour a full epic wine and unwind. Maybe just one more look at those emails…
Ohhhhhhhh that celebrity chat is now TOMORROW at 4am??? Better get prepping…
If you have been affected by any of the themes in this article, please do reach out to other freelancers: it’s tough out there!
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Source: The secret diary of an arts freelancer, aged 46¾
