A New Year’s Career

New Year’s resolutions seldom last. That is the reason why I don’t make them. Nowadays I’m likely to be in bed by 10pm on New Year’s Eve, drinking tea in a nightie bought by my nan, so wide is my arc of avoidance around the concept of New Year’s Eve festivities and their attendant pledges. Two resolutions I remember making in recent years were ‘Accept all invitations’ and ‘Trust my instinct’. The first was broken when a man I passed on the dodgy end of Waymouth Street one pitch black night turned round and asked not for spare change, as I expected, but to invite me to have a drink, and the second eventually led me down the road to SSRIs and psychoanalysis. I often wonder whether the two were interrelated. But this year I broke with tradition and made a 1007 resolution: to find a career.

That’s not to say I don’t have a job; I do, and a very pleasant one of persuading students into collectivism at my alma mater. Yet during my post-Christmas schlep I saw the film In Good Company and compared my work history to what I imagined Topher Grace’s hot shot ladder-climbing executives would be like. Probably it would have been more sensible to say, “In 2007 I’ll stop comparing my life to those of fictional characters”, but I thought that finding a career would be an easier promise to keep.

My resume is ‘interesting’. Everyone says so. This is because the shit kicking, minimally paid, character building labour I carried out while I was studying has been painted over with glossy adjectives, and because my job history spans industries from unionism to universities to public transport to private business. While all this works in my favour, an issue that inevitably comes up is why I haven’t ever had a job, as in a permanent ten year gig, and I must admit it’s because I’ve never offered one. I like to think it’s not because I’m lazy or incompetent, or have a problem with my attitude or body odour, but because it is a reflection of the precariousness of employment in Australia, the increasing fragmentation of jobs into contract, part time and casual positions, the decline in union power and the introduction of Australian Workplace Agreements in place of Enterprise Bargaining. Still, I don’t think the explanation that my interesting-but-scrappy resume is simply an illustration of the socio-economic climate and will one day end up in a museum as a sign of the times, will quite wash with any interview panel — far more likely to be something seriously wrong with me.

Another question that invariably comes up is “Why aren’t you trying to get a job in your field?” This one is often posed by older people who have kept the same position for a lifetime, and who when they studied something at university, or even if they didn’t, were pretty much guaranteed to get a job in the area they wanted. Although it must be a failure on my part as a writer that the ‘Hobbies and Interests’ section of my CV is taken as absolute and doesn’t express the multitude of topics and industries that fascinate me, I’m still trying to formulate a frank but diplomatic answer that can get around the point that they’re completely out of touch. Even the Golden Children I observed while working at a local uni, those with career specific qualifications like doctoring and lawyering, can’t immediately get a job doctoring or lawyering.

So when the question “Where do you see yourself in five years time?” comes up in an interview I have two stock responses: one, that I’ll be adapting classic novels into mini-series scripts (starring Colin Firth) for the BBC and two, that I can’t say with any certainty, I’ll simply have to go where I am bid if I want to feed myself and my dog, and trust that the cosmos will look after me. Neither answer has proven particularly popular. I’ve been chucked out of an interview for saying the first (“Considering that, you’re not quite what we want, but I will look out for your name on the book store shelves”) and no doubt the lack of drive and ambition conveyed in my last answer has counted against me too. Sincerity doesn’t count for much in the job-hunting game: it took me a while to conclude it’s down to who you rub shoulders with and how good you are at giving head.

The number of jobs I’ve applied for in my relatively short lifetime have been many, a number matched only by the rejection letters and phone calls I’ve received. While my entire readership (all two of you, including you, mum) might think this has made me bitter, I assure you it is most unconscious. Lately I heard that it is more difficult to be an optimist than a pessimist; being a masochist makes me a perfect candidate for the long road to sunshine. This is why I’ve saved all my rejection slips, dating back from 2003, to make into a cutting-edge piece of sculpture to put in the museum along with my resume. It’ll be a smash hit, gain lots of media attention and will generate solvency and fame for its creator. Then, at the dinner parties I’ll subsequently attend at the houses of celebrities, I’ll tell amusing anecdotes about my job interviews.

There was the greasy man who told me I was aloof, little realising the reason why I recoiled from him was because a gigantic glob of snot fell out of his nose and landed on his nylon tie as he pontificated.

There was also the time when I was rejected not 10 minutes after leaving an interview, via a call to my mobile as I rode the train home in my most impressive corporate attire.

Or the informal two hour chat I had with an internet marketer, trying to pin him down to get answers to the basic questions of what the job entailed and how much money it paid. Apart from saying that I’d make a pile and get flown to New York for conferences, he never gave me any clarification; to this day I am still in the dark as to whether it was a cover-up for an international prostitution ring or something else not entirely legal.

Just in case this plan falls through, I have another stratagem. I have decided to send out a letter of application (which is too narcissistic to publish here) and a link to this article to various interesting people, asking them to give me a break and make them part of their entourage as a publicist, secretary, dog-walker, promotional post-card designer, etc, with a view that this will be a leg-up into a long and prosperous career. Then I will sit back and wait for their responses and publish in a follow-up column any that I get — and any that I don’t, figuring that they may want to avoid the bad publicity. Here are some that have made the short list so far: Chris from Belle and Sebastian (because I think he’ll be sympathetic to my plight), Tim Freedman (because he enunciates clearly), Hawksley Workman (because then I get to live in Canada and see my friend Jen, then introduce her to him so they fall in love and get married), Margaret Atwood (ditto, except from the falling in love and marrying Jen part), Major Michael Mori (because he is my definition of a decent human being), Andrew Davies (because he writes BBC period mini-dramas starring Colin Firth and can be my mentor), Haruki Murakami (because then I can improve my Japanese) and the Merchant Ivory production team, if they haven’t disbanded.

You do not choose your career these days, it chooses you — that’s the pessimist’s observation. That this doesn’t mean you can’t nudge it in the right direction is the optimist’s. So will these interesting people take their chances on an unknown kid? Can I get away with using a mild form of blackmail to determine the outcome? Will I have a brilliant career in 2007? If not, there’s always 2008.