Thirty years ago, I accidentally stumbled into a writing career (I use the term loosely) that has so far resulted in 24 drafted manuscripts, a teetering pile of short stories and poetry, zero published novels, one agent (since retired) and more rejection letters than I can poke into my ‘motivation drawer.’
This is going to be inspirational as hell.
I’d like you to come on a journey with me. Picture the room, coffee shop, wherever you’re reading this, going all swirly and some music playing backwards before it kicks into some grunge because… now it’s 1996. Rod Mackay (stage name Plod) is the singer and guitarist in an Australian alt-pop band called Frenzi. We’ve just released an album that’s getting some airplay on Triple J, which for non-Australians is basically the only radio station that matters if you’re an indie musician who thinks getting paid to play music is selling out.
We have a song called ‘Across the Water’ that I wrote about… well, it’s a breakup song, so I’ll let you join the dots. Spoiler… it didn’t end well. At least in the song. In real life we sorted things out. But no one wants to hum along to that.
One evening, my phone rings - an actual phone - just for talking on. Vomit green. Long, curly cord. I picked up the receiver. It was heavy and smelled how it looked.
‘Hello, is this Plod from Frenzi?’ asks a voice I vaguely recognise. An Aunt maybe? The agent about the rent inspection? Mum?
‘Um…. yes?’ I reply, with the paranoid tonal twitch of someone who was once a teenager and therefore knows how hilarious prank calls are… if you’re the one making the prank calls.
‘This is Kate Langbroek from Triple J.’
Okay, bridge too far. I know Kate Langbroek. By that I mean… I know Kate Langbroek in the same way I know the queen and the prime minister - both of whom are far more likely to be calling me at home in the middle of Sale of the Century.
‘Aha.’
‘Yeah, hi. I got your number from APRA.’ (APRA is the Australian Performing Rights Association who keep track of who wrote what song so they know who to pay their seventeen cents in royalties to each year.) ‘I’ve been playing ‘Across the Water’ on the show. I’m officially Frenzi’s number one fan.’
‘Aha.’
Now, when a Triple J DJ calls you and says they’re your number one fan, you don’t ask questions. Because you already know this is the girlfriend of one of your mates in the band, and if you play it cool, they’ll crack before you say something stupid like, ‘Really? How awesome. I love your show.’
Which would send your bandmates rolling down their respective hallways in tight balls of mirth because they own your soul now. They will never let you forget that slightly naive thing you said, once.
They’ll nickname you ‘Love Your Show.’ Or something shorter, like ‘Lovey.’ Or something really nasty like ‘Lover Boy.’ And you’ll hear that nickname so many times you’ll eventually decide to take your nickname back. You’ll show them you own it, and they can’t hurt you with it anymore. And you’ll get it tattooed across your knuckles.
And when the subject of your unique tattoos comes up in the prison cell, you’ll be all, ‘No, it’s my nickname from when a famous radio DJ called me to tell me they were my number one fan,’ and Killer will just stare straight through you and say, ‘Aha.’
‘I’m writing a book called ‘Dear Jack,’ my band-member’s girlfriend continued to prank call, in what I had to admit was a passable impression of Kate Langbroek.
‘Aha.’
‘It’s about the stories behind breakup songs. We’ve got contributions from a bunch of songwriters, and the book is going to print tomorrow, like literally tomorrow, and we just voted on your song being added with your background story. But I need your backstory… like… tonight. Not… like… tonight. Like actually tonight. Can you write it for me? Like… now? Like… actually… now?’
‘Wait, what? Is this legit Kate Langbroek?’
‘Aha.’
‘Really? How awesome. I love your show.’
The Moment Everything Changed (yet didn’t really change) - cue eerie music
I have to admit I panicked then. I had no clue how to write a story. I was a songwriter, not a… whatever writers were called. Writing songs wasn’t writing. It was songwriting… whole other word. Songwriting was a thing you did when you got drunk with your mates and tried to buckle some weird-arse poetry around a chord riff. Writing was… I didn’t even know… what they made us do at school sometimes instead of playing music? I thought there was something about paragraphs involved. I’d need to look up what they were on the Internet. Wait. No! It was 1996! The Internet was pretty much just a bulletin board about how to make your cursor leave a trail of sparkles!
‘So are you in?’
‘Sure, I’ll drop it in your post office box (metal thing - ask your parents) tonight.’
‘Ta, can’t wait.’ Dial tone… (ask your parents)
So I sat down and wrote the story behind ‘Across the Water.’ The actual breakup, the actual pain, the ridiculous exaggeration of the pain. Then I added in the bits that the song didn’t get into, like the getting back together afterwards, that had no place in any actual song.
I wrote that story in one sitting. I reread it twice. I didn’t have time to worry about whether it was bullshit that no one would ever want to read. What tense it was in. Who the protagonist and antagonists were. The primary and secondary story arcs. Whether the key characters had agency, greyness, convincing backstories. I just told the story the way it happened, then exaggerated everything and changed the ending - just like in real life - and shoved it in Kate Langbruek’s PO box.
And here’s the thing that surprised me, the thing that changed everything without really changing anything at all… I loved it. Not the story. It was shit. I loved the writing. REALLY loved it. Not in an ‘Oh, I’m instantly in a flow state, and I am a natural born writer, buy my books.’ This was an entirely new experience. I’d written things at school because I’d had to. I’d written letters to the newspaper about potholes because I’d had to. This time I was writing something because I wanted to, not because someone told me to. Well, to be fair, Kate Langbroek told me to. But I wanted Kate Langbroek to tell me to do things. I honestly did.
I really felt something else writing that piece, too. Something I couldn’t have explained back then. A raw act of creating that was a complete cycle of idea, invention, and human connection that was as instantaneous as it got pre social media. I wrote something, Kate read it, the editors approved it, and it was published a few days later. It was as good as posting something on Substack used to be before notes.
Something shifted when I wrote that piece. I became a writer that night after Sale of the Century. I’ve been called many things… hurtful things… and I’m not going to get into any of that here.
Not sure you can still find ‘Dear Jack’ anymore as it’s been out of print for a while.
So, here’s the song and story as they appeared in the book:
The Song that Triggered the Thirty-Year Detour
Even better, I rummaged around in my drawers and pulled out something even more embarrassing. I found an old film clip of the song (that I hadn’t watched for 30 years). It was played on a tv-show called Rage back in the day and came second in a contest run by a tv-show called Recovery, where the winner got a record deal and the runners up got to break up their band because it was all just too fricken hard.
The old clip is a slow burn, quirky, and has a whole lot more hair, but it ends with a bang, and I kinda love it even now. It was filmed all in one shot. You can see me switching on and off the video camera at the start and end. How rock ‘n’ roll?
The Point of All This (if any)
I didn’t plan to become a writer. That phone call in 1996 just sort of hooked its foot around my ankle and shoved… and I stumbled into a writer and apologised and asked if I could try on their shoes. And I bloody loved those shoes. They were too big, hence all the blisters, but that gave me a feeling even beyond the blisters. A feeling of connecting with another human through words. A feeling I can have anywhere, anytime, hidden far away from the people I’m trying to connect with. Like the one I’m having right here and now.
Almost thirty years later, I’m still chasing that feeling. I still write every chance I get - in queues, in coffee shops, here on my toilet… ah… I mean… at my desk or something. I’ve written 24 manuscripts, have enough rejection letters to wallpaper this… ah… small office, and I still haven’t published a novel. By any reasonable measure, this continues to be a spectacularly unsuccessful career. Yay!
But here’s the thing… I am unsuccessful. I truly am. And, it doesn’t matter. It’s not the accolades that drive me, praise the merciless gods. It’s the act of tapping into that unnamable, indescribable part of the universe that only a writer or a reader (so pretty much anyone, really) can possibly understand.
There have always been better writers than me. Du Maurier, Martin, Atwood, that guy at the chemist who reinterprets my doctor’s scripts, and thousands of others I’ll never hope to match. AI is just another name on that list of writers destined to outwrite me.
Publishers might keep saying that my mental health fuelled saga, my true story of a galactaphobic factory worker who becomes god, or my quest of a daemon-possessed exile hunting for the source of life in a broken world are not romantasy enough, are not crime-fictiony enough, or just simply are not sellable enough, and that’s okay. Everyone knows that publishers don’t know anything about books! But being published won’t change my relationship with writing. It will just make me unbearably smug and pretentious. I’m thinking a scarf and beret would be quite fetching.
Until then, and possibly even for some considerable amount of time afterwards, I’ll keep on writing.
Why?
Because I bloody love these thirty-year old shoes.
Thanks Kate.
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And How’s Arthur?
Arthur is going well, thanks for asking! He recently discovered that sticks are basically the greatest thing ever invented, which is hilarious because I’ve been trying to explain the concept of the smart phones and social media to him and he just keeps coming back to his darn stick and… wait… oh… I get it now Arthur… good dog!
Fabulous piece, Rod. I can see why the word 'accidentally' crops up here and there in your writing. Given your 30 year itch that you keep scratching I look forward to seeing how writing has shaped your journey over that time. Although said in mock jest, your para re publishing is true. It won't change your relationship to writing, even if you hit the jackpot. I love writing and it is enough. I can still wear my cap and have incredible conversations with relative strangers. Keep up the great work amigo.