Pete the Professional
Jun. 5th, 2004 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringIt's been 46 years and on thinking back, I cannot recall a time when I've actually been paid for writing something. Free copies of magazines or some other goodies, but as for actual hard cash, nope.
All that changed today. I'm a professional author, inasmuch as selling two copies of my book goes. First of thousands, I hope.
On the bookcrossing front, for the past month, every second weekend a volunteer guide at Old Parliament House has been leaving books there in a fortnightly frenzy. I've turned up late on Saturday arvos looking for them when I see the release notes, but no dice. Thought I'd get in first, leave a few books around and check out likely hiding places.
Ran into Robert Hawke on the door. "Bob Hawke!" I grinned and he grinned too, letting me in for half price. Remembered me from the Constitutional Convention, you see. A nice chap. One of many security guards making it hard to be unobserved for too long. The security cameras hither and there didn't help neither. Nor the many volunteer guides.
I poked my nose into the Senate and this young lady guide offered to open it up for me. No thanks, i said, I've seen it before, but I wasn't going to miss a chance to let one go in the old Reps chamber. I like the memories there. Quite apart from it being the scene of some great dramatic moments in our history, it was, for two weeks, a place of the people debating their constitution in 1998, with me hanging over the railing in the Press Gallery, trying to scoop up as much of the atmosphere as I could.
I was hoping to be left alone, but no, appaerently unsupervised visitors try to sit in the historic chairs and read the historic books. I thought about my initials, carved in the historic wood of the gallery overlooking the chamber and considered that she might have a point. I snuck around to one of the backbencher rows, left the book I was carrying on one of the green leather seats, and whipped out my camera to take a shot.
Would you like to have your picture taken with the Mace? What? How dare she interuppt my stealthy Bookcrossing with such a stupid and well-meaning question. Of course I would!
I retrieved my book - a set of stories about politicians written by one of their own, the much-admired Fred Daly - left him casually on the Reps table and was instructed on how to hold the Mace, a fibreglass replica, by the feel of it. Australian coat of arms uppermost, crown over the right shoulder, no smiling. Another visitor aimed my camera at me and took a shot. I forgot in the heat of the moment to turn the flash on, but no matter. I then propped Fred up against the rows of Hansard and squeezed off one of my own.
Would you like to take a photo of the book where Fred Daly sat? He was a minister, you know. That sounded pretty good too, so I sat Fred up on the corner of the front bench and took another shot. We got to talking about Fred after that, the guide knew an anecdote or two, and there was some discussion of how I came to have a book with me. I'm a secondhand book dealer, I explained, as if bookdealers normally wondered around historic buildings taking pictures of their books in trousers that bulged with yet more stock. Look, it's autographed, I went on manically, and showed the signature to the gent who'd snapped me.
It must be worth a bit. Oh no, I replied, there's thousands of them around, look, take it, it's free, showing him the "Free Book" label on the inside.
And take it he did. A very pleasant and grateful chap. His son had just taken a seat in a State Parliament and he'd pass the book on to his son, who was keen on things political - as you'd expect.
So that was a book released, if not into the wild, at least into very welcoming hands.
Wandered around leaving my remaining books here and there. One in the Prime Minister's office, high up on an empty bookshelf, one of the few in the building not stuffed full of ancient bound volumes of Hansard. Another in a typical backbencher's office, and a third in the suite that was reserved for the Queen during her occasional visits. Later on I left a fifth outside in an alcove out of the weather.
But before I left, I took a stroll through the National Portrait Gallery in what was once the Parliamentary Library. Spotted an Ivor Hele and two Hugh Ramsays I hadn't seen before amongst the wonderful collection. Deborah Mailman, painted on an old wool bale, is one of my favorites, but there's Nick Cave, Rose Lindsay in front of two of her husband's drawings of her and dozens of others. Glorious stuff!
All that changed today. I'm a professional author, inasmuch as selling two copies of my book goes. First of thousands, I hope.
On the bookcrossing front, for the past month, every second weekend a volunteer guide at Old Parliament House has been leaving books there in a fortnightly frenzy. I've turned up late on Saturday arvos looking for them when I see the release notes, but no dice. Thought I'd get in first, leave a few books around and check out likely hiding places.
Ran into Robert Hawke on the door. "Bob Hawke!" I grinned and he grinned too, letting me in for half price. Remembered me from the Constitutional Convention, you see. A nice chap. One of many security guards making it hard to be unobserved for too long. The security cameras hither and there didn't help neither. Nor the many volunteer guides.
I poked my nose into the Senate and this young lady guide offered to open it up for me. No thanks, i said, I've seen it before, but I wasn't going to miss a chance to let one go in the old Reps chamber. I like the memories there. Quite apart from it being the scene of some great dramatic moments in our history, it was, for two weeks, a place of the people debating their constitution in 1998, with me hanging over the railing in the Press Gallery, trying to scoop up as much of the atmosphere as I could.
I was hoping to be left alone, but no, appaerently unsupervised visitors try to sit in the historic chairs and read the historic books. I thought about my initials, carved in the historic wood of the gallery overlooking the chamber and considered that she might have a point. I snuck around to one of the backbencher rows, left the book I was carrying on one of the green leather seats, and whipped out my camera to take a shot.
Would you like to have your picture taken with the Mace? What? How dare she interuppt my stealthy Bookcrossing with such a stupid and well-meaning question. Of course I would!
I retrieved my book - a set of stories about politicians written by one of their own, the much-admired Fred Daly - left him casually on the Reps table and was instructed on how to hold the Mace, a fibreglass replica, by the feel of it. Australian coat of arms uppermost, crown over the right shoulder, no smiling. Another visitor aimed my camera at me and took a shot. I forgot in the heat of the moment to turn the flash on, but no matter. I then propped Fred up against the rows of Hansard and squeezed off one of my own.
Would you like to take a photo of the book where Fred Daly sat? He was a minister, you know. That sounded pretty good too, so I sat Fred up on the corner of the front bench and took another shot. We got to talking about Fred after that, the guide knew an anecdote or two, and there was some discussion of how I came to have a book with me. I'm a secondhand book dealer, I explained, as if bookdealers normally wondered around historic buildings taking pictures of their books in trousers that bulged with yet more stock. Look, it's autographed, I went on manically, and showed the signature to the gent who'd snapped me.
It must be worth a bit. Oh no, I replied, there's thousands of them around, look, take it, it's free, showing him the "Free Book" label on the inside.
And take it he did. A very pleasant and grateful chap. His son had just taken a seat in a State Parliament and he'd pass the book on to his son, who was keen on things political - as you'd expect.
So that was a book released, if not into the wild, at least into very welcoming hands.
Wandered around leaving my remaining books here and there. One in the Prime Minister's office, high up on an empty bookshelf, one of the few in the building not stuffed full of ancient bound volumes of Hansard. Another in a typical backbencher's office, and a third in the suite that was reserved for the Queen during her occasional visits. Later on I left a fifth outside in an alcove out of the weather.
But before I left, I took a stroll through the National Portrait Gallery in what was once the Parliamentary Library. Spotted an Ivor Hele and two Hugh Ramsays I hadn't seen before amongst the wonderful collection. Deborah Mailman, painted on an old wool bale, is one of my favorites, but there's Nick Cave, Rose Lindsay in front of two of her husband's drawings of her and dozens of others. Glorious stuff!
