I Miss The People That Make The Places.

The thing I miss about travelling isn’t so much the places — it’s the people.

I miss the guy I met in Midtown after the Dees pumped the Hawks, the one I got on the Bloody Mary’s at 7am with, and ran around Manhattan alongside, chasing shots and pasta and pastrami sandwiches.

I miss that girl I met in line at the W. The one with the tips for an Aussie in Brooklyn.

I miss that mate I made from Moscow.

Those scriptwriters in The High Line Hotel lobby.

The Cambridge professor I met on the boat four hours off mainland Australia. The way our kids played together.

I miss the stoop hangs with strangers on sweltering nights in the Village. T

hat soldier on the train in Venice.

The bargirl at the Irish.

That muso at the Inn.

Those boys with the tugboats.

That woman in Italy with the big smile and bigger hugs.

I miss Mama Vi at the Harlem Choir.

Those chefs at the Adelaide Central Market.

That winemaker. And that winemaker. And that winemaker.

The guy with the jet, and the sprawling penthouse. The way the crease in his smile sparkled, like he knew he owned everything, including my stare.

I miss the jazz bar owner in New Orleans with the beret and cheeky wink.

Those girls at brunch in Switzerland.

I miss running through the underground tunnels during a layover at LAX to get forty-five more minutes with that gem I bar hopped Stone Street with.

That art dealer.

Her author friend.

Those college grads in San Francisco that I taught how to really dance.

The Wall Street bankers that I only just outdanced.

I like new places, old places, foreign places, familiar places — but what I really love is the people that make the places.

The chance encounters, the serendipitous meetings, the random run-ins, the way one thing connects you and then a million tiny moments fuse you together.

I miss the chase, being chased, the buzz, being the buzz, the turns around wrong corners, the stumbles into right arms, the bumping of shoulders in vestibules, the knocking of knees at barstools.

I miss the way he’d throw his head back when he laughed.

The way she sang.

The way he sauntered down West 10th.

Moment after moment.

Forever etched into my heart, my memory, my skin.

I Couldn’t Make This Stuff Up

As the Editor of Onya Magazine, I receive a large number of emails each week from people pitching articles and ideas, as well as those seeking internships, work experience and full-time or part-time positions.

Many of these emails end up straight in the trash.

I used to feel obliged to answer all emails I received but then I decided that if some people couldn’t be bothered putting in the effort when sending an email – you know, things like spelling and grammar – then I couldn’t be bothered replying.

On the one hand, it’s kind of disrespectful to send an email to an Editor that features spelling mistakes or one that doesn’t even make sense. On the other, it’s kind of hilarious.

I love it when people approach me with pitches and ideas. I love people that are bursting with enthusiasm and passion. With energy and talent. Those people get published. Those people get internships and jobs.

It’s not about being perfect – everyone makes mistakes from time to time. But someone that makes a genuine, honest mistake is not the same as someone who just doesn’t have it.

Editors are savvy and switched on – we’ve usually worked with a lot of people and a lot of words. We know what works and what doesn’t. And, usually, who works and who does not.

Below you will find a small selection of screenshots from emails I’ve received – along with my exact first thoughts after reading them. I only recently decided to capture some of these excerpts from emails to bring my point home. Part of me wishes I’d been doing this for years; there’d be a veritable treasure trove of errors to share.

Hmm, might need a little rethink.

First up, it takes two clicks to discover whether it’s a Sir or a Madam that heads up Onya Magazine. Use those two clicks to discover the name of the person you are emailing. I don’t take well to Sir/Madam or To Whom It May Concern. If you can’t find the name of the Editor, or the person you think you should be emailing, you probably shouldn’t be a journalist or a writer. Basic research skills are a must.

Herewith, go away.

Mixed font sizes and colours. Buh bum.

To Whom It May Concern. Buh bum.

Wittingly obvious this person is no writer.

It’s really sad when people seem lovely and say nice things about your publication but it’s even more sad when they’re three years into an expensive journalism degree and still miss the fundamentals.


It’s definitely S-I-E-G-E-R. Maybe the old  ‘i before e, except after c’ game would be handy.

Dear blank,

I don’t care.

What some people fail to understand is that it doesn’t matter where you work or what you’ve done, what matters is that this is your first point of communication to an entirely new audience or person that isn’t aware of your background – so write accordingly.

Excelled? Clearly.

That’s lovely. This is actually Onya Magazine.

I cannot tell you the amount of times I have received an email asking for an internship at Vogue or work experience at Beat. I like to reply to these emails like so;

‘Thanks for your email. If you’d like to undertake work experience at Frankie Magazine, may I suggest emailing them with your request.’

I understand that people tend to copy and paste the same submissions to Editors around the country. I really get it. But carelessness and laziness is exactly that; careless and lazy. Two things a good writer is most definitely not.