How I never made it to “Freshly Pressed” and lived to tell the tale

It’s a good thing I’m not fanatical about my blog stats. I only found them today (the stats, that is) and they’re so pathetic that if my psyche depended on them, I’d be beside myself with mortification – thus making them doubly difficult to deal with, if you think about it.

Not that I’m trying to kid myself I don’t want readers. Of course I do. Why else would I be here? It’s not as if you can read your own stuff with the cries of joy and enlightenment you hope it might occasionally provoke in someone else. But the fact that at the moment it’s provoking nothing much at all doesn’t send me into a decline. (See Aging 101: Declining is a terrible waste of time and energy and therefore pointless.)

It did set me thinking, though, about the time and energy it must take to make it to Freshly Pressed –and hard on the thought, there it was, all laid out for me – See Support, So You Want To Be Freshly Pressed.

Luckily, I don’t have my heart set on getting there, because now that I’ve read the tips, I’m thinking my chances are pretty much slim-to-nil. Unique I can do in that it’s all my own work, and none of the bad stuff we’re warned against is very me anyway, but once we come to Point of View, I’m likely to fall flat on my face. Yes, I do have opinions – far too many, probably – but whether they’re of interest to anyone else is decidedly dubious. Mostly because I’m not the magnetically fascinating little Gemini that Geminis are supposed to be, and partly because I missed out on the self-promotion gene. And also because I’m Australian in a foreign land.

Yep, I belong on that big blob in the middle of the Pacific. Where we don’t, contrary to received wisdom, have kangaroos in main streets, although they do make free with minor roads occasionally.

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We’re actually quite civilised, in our own, laid-back sort of way.

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We’ve even produced a brain or two, and the odd cultural icon

Sydney Opera House

Sydney Opera House

But this doesn’t alter the fact that we’re a mere spit in the ocean of global current affairs, and nothing that happens here is likely to reach the other side of the world, let alone be of interest there. So that’s half my opinions down the drain to start with.

Added to that, while I’m pretty sure we know more about the UK and the USA than they know about us (we need to know, you don’t, again with the spit in the global ocean) I live here and you live there, so you’d have every right to be thoroughly cheesed off if I started spouting opinions about customs and policies that were no business of mine (not that I’m not tempted from time to time). So there you go. The other half my opinions straight down the gurgler.

You might suggest that some topics are universal, but there again, I’m not so sure. In theory, perhaps, but in practice, we’re separated by more than just water. We see the world through different cultures with different priorities.

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Our seasons are back to front

Christmas shopping

Christmas shopping

and even our mutual language has shades of grey. Words used by Australian authors, for example, are often changed to make a book acceptable to American publishers – rather an insult to American readers, I’d have thought, and not exactly reassuring in terms of mutual understanding.

But hey, what the hell. See Aging 101:

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