Dilemma of the week
Well. We're all at it these days, aren't we? Rushing from meeting to meeting being busy and important. Saving the world from financial collapse. Penning articles about the state of the nation. I was struck with awe at The Quiet American's provocative piece on Obama and thought it only fair to share with you my own musings on my own topic of specialisation: myself.
I have spent the entire week huddled in my beloved spiritual home, The British Library, sweating lightly over pitches to the press. These days I have a publicist, whose job it is to get people to buy copies of The Novel. This involves me writing articles for Sunday supplements about my life. Be brutally honest, they say. Reveal something about your life. This has led to an excruciating 5 days of inner turmoil, my innate distaste for exposure in battle with my secret show-pony self. I have written serious pieces debating how we as a generation are redefining the notion of the family. I have put together a Valentine's Day article on the death penalty for homosexuals. Anything to avoid what they actually want.
In despair I turned to everyone's favourite press hound and Agent Provocateur, FKJ. 'Be funny' she said.
So I sat down and knocked out this pitch:
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How do you conceive a child without having sex? Perhaps it’s being a vicar’s daughter that attracts me to the idea of an immaculate conception. Or perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m a lesbian.
I’ve recently moved to Milan with a friend. He is setting up a business whilst I intend to learn the language and get pregnant. So far, so expat wife. But not quite. We're both gay.
This is an article about the absurdities of trying to conceive a child without having sex, about the differences and similarities between our situation and that of straight friends who are trying to conceive and about the differences between Italian and English attitudes. I will talk about the embarrassment of going to buy syringes at the pharmacy in the UK (suspicious looks whilst the pharmacist decides whether or not I am a drug addict), whilst in Italy they offer a vast selection of sizes; of how the romantic lighting and a bottle of expensive wine the first time we tried soon turned into a prosaic reality to be fitted in before people come round for dinner. I will describe the oddly communal nature of it all – a friend wandering into the bedroom for a chat whilst I’m lying with my legs up against the wall post conception attempt and lighting a cigarette in a strange echo of the classic post-coital fag. How the attitudes of Italians to pre-natal care is worlds away from the North London regime of vitamins and yoga – “My gynaecologist told me I should cut down on cigarettes, maybe to 5 a day. Trying to stop completely would be too stressful for me and so might harm the baby. And wine is good for you. It strengthens the blood.” And how, if this whole thing works out, we will have to confront the next hurdle – our combined horror at the thought of the baby-daddy seeing me naked during labour…
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I pressed save. Then I pressed send. Then I began to panic.
I went for a walk around the library. I looked at the great stack of leather-bound books in the central well. I asked myself what Virginia Woolf would do.
I went back into the reading room and wrote a note to the publicist. I told her I thought I should retain some gravitas, at least. I told her to ignore the pitch.
Disaster averted. I need a stiff gin. And then I shall leave the country.
I have spent the entire week huddled in my beloved spiritual home, The British Library, sweating lightly over pitches to the press. These days I have a publicist, whose job it is to get people to buy copies of The Novel. This involves me writing articles for Sunday supplements about my life. Be brutally honest, they say. Reveal something about your life. This has led to an excruciating 5 days of inner turmoil, my innate distaste for exposure in battle with my secret show-pony self. I have written serious pieces debating how we as a generation are redefining the notion of the family. I have put together a Valentine's Day article on the death penalty for homosexuals. Anything to avoid what they actually want.
In despair I turned to everyone's favourite press hound and Agent Provocateur, FKJ. 'Be funny' she said.
So I sat down and knocked out this pitch:
-----------------------------------
How do you conceive a child without having sex? Perhaps it’s being a vicar’s daughter that attracts me to the idea of an immaculate conception. Or perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m a lesbian.
I’ve recently moved to Milan with a friend. He is setting up a business whilst I intend to learn the language and get pregnant. So far, so expat wife. But not quite. We're both gay.
This is an article about the absurdities of trying to conceive a child without having sex, about the differences and similarities between our situation and that of straight friends who are trying to conceive and about the differences between Italian and English attitudes. I will talk about the embarrassment of going to buy syringes at the pharmacy in the UK (suspicious looks whilst the pharmacist decides whether or not I am a drug addict), whilst in Italy they offer a vast selection of sizes; of how the romantic lighting and a bottle of expensive wine the first time we tried soon turned into a prosaic reality to be fitted in before people come round for dinner. I will describe the oddly communal nature of it all – a friend wandering into the bedroom for a chat whilst I’m lying with my legs up against the wall post conception attempt and lighting a cigarette in a strange echo of the classic post-coital fag. How the attitudes of Italians to pre-natal care is worlds away from the North London regime of vitamins and yoga – “My gynaecologist told me I should cut down on cigarettes, maybe to 5 a day. Trying to stop completely would be too stressful for me and so might harm the baby. And wine is good for you. It strengthens the blood.” And how, if this whole thing works out, we will have to confront the next hurdle – our combined horror at the thought of the baby-daddy seeing me naked during labour…
-----------------------------------
I pressed save. Then I pressed send. Then I began to panic.
I went for a walk around the library. I looked at the great stack of leather-bound books in the central well. I asked myself what Virginia Woolf would do.
I went back into the reading room and wrote a note to the publicist. I told her I thought I should retain some gravitas, at least. I told her to ignore the pitch.
Disaster averted. I need a stiff gin. And then I shall leave the country.
posted by Lady V at 1:48 pm
4 Comments:
I think PR-guru FKJ has got the right idea--make 'em laugh. I would also suggest that you don't need to give them ALL the details in a gritty, social realist to pique their interest. A few tantalizing tidbits would be more effective, I think, and also assuage your jitters. Sort of like doing a sexy striptease in candlelight vs. doing a spread-eagle under bright fluorescent lighting.
There will be PLENTY of time for the crushing tell-all memoir after you've achieved your fame darling. Don't worry, I'm already accumulating a multimedia collection for this purpose.
The mistake you're making is to imagine that you have to tell the truth. It's just another work of fiction but this time about your alter ego. Or, rather, about one of your alter egos (you don't want to confuse them too quickly).
Take me, for instance. Or, rather, "me" ... or, as "I" am known, "Captain Caped Crusader"...
You know what? I can't sustain this -- I've already confused myself. But you're much more talented than me.
Go on. Be that six foot tall gymnast you've always wanted to be. Set her free!
silly tot
you can be FUNNY and SERIOUS
you can make em laugh without compromising your integrity
well it's all about getting the balance right innit
alas our feast and famine lifestyle has not served us well, has it dear.
come on, you can do it.
and i second all the above
don't you?
badger scratch
ps YOU HATE VAG WOOLF
so stop asking yourself what she would do or i will have to stomp the rivers at night for a floating tot with stones in her cardigan pockets
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