On Cricket Et Al, we frequently mark anniversaries of the public sort; this week throws up an anniversary notable only to me, it being thirty years since I packed in my last waged job in favour of freelance journalism. With the vast majority of readers, transitions of this kind do not register; you are, of course, just one byline among many. But survival in this craft is tenuous, so I thought I’d jot a few thoughts down.
Back in September 1995, I must say, I did not think much of it. The decision was taken on the spur of the moment. I had been doing this and that at The Australian about two and a half years. I wasn’t paid much but, because I worked in the bureau in Melbourne, had an unusual degree of discretion, nobody knowing quite how to take me. Then, one day, I thought I needed a change, and quit. I didn’t know anything about freelance journalism; I’m not sure I knew all that many freelance journalists. But how hard could it be? I was twenty-nine, single, childless, frugal, motivated, workaholic, and could always go back if it didn’t work out. Almost at once, however, my interests and the mainstream media’s began diverging, to the extent after a while that the twain was clearly unlikely to meet again.
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