Am I Doing This Right? Read online

  But during this time, I had an epic breakdown. I was suffering the worst migraines I’d ever had, and needed to go to hospital. I started on antidepressants. I wasn’t coping at all.

  I knew I couldn’t keep putting tap shoes on the show’s stars and sitting in the shadows—and I reckon my body was telling me that. It was telling me that I had to stop working backstage. For good. The money I made being a dresser was incredible but it’s never been about the money for me. It’s about the work. I have to create. And then something happened. One day, during a quick change, one of the women in the ensemble cast mentioned that I’d be good at radio. Probably because of my persistent need to banter. I am allergic to silence (which is not so helpful backstage). While I liked doing stand-up in some ways, I also found it really hard: what I wanted was someone to bounce off.

  Radio, hey? I had never seriously thought of that.

  After a few weeks spent googling courses and calling different schools, like the Australian Film, Television and Radio School and the Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts, I fucked off the idea of going back to school and cold-called a radio station in Newcastle. They said that I could volunteer there. YES.

  It was December 2011. I was 26 and I’d just left my well-paying job in Sydney (not to mention giving up my dream of being an actor) to live with my parents, make no money and volunteer at a radio station. I knew only one thing: this had to work out. I knew I had to give it everything. So, I gave it everything. I had a new goal now. National radio.

  I went into the radio station at 4 a.m. five days a week, to watch the breakfast show being done and learn how it all worked. At weekends, I came in to learn ‘the panel’ and then, after a few months, I was asked to do ‘mid–dawns’. This is the midnight to 5 a.m. shift, when nobody but lonely truckies, shiftworkers and my best friends would be listening.

  A few months after being asked to do mid–dawns, I was offered a paid producing role. This wasn’t instead of the mid–dawns. It was as well as. So, I would do the midnight to 5 a.m. shift, have a coffee, and then produce the brekky show from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. Then I would pass out.

  The first time I was live on air, I was so nervous. My voice was shaking. I was shaking. I sounded like I might burst into tears at any second. And the buttons! So many buttons. Plus, the phone was ringing with people calling in with their random stories and I had no idea how to get them on the air or if I was even on air myself.

  Then I got the chance to do weekend shifts on air too, and, because I am a complete nutjob, I took it. For a while there, I worked crazy hours, seven days a week, for such bad money I’m too embarrassed to reveal it here.

  I worked hard. Really fucking hard. Having produced the brekky show (7 a.m. to 9 a.m.), I then did an on-air stint from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. I was exhausted, so I drank a lot of coffee. And because I drank a shitload of coffee, I needed to pee a lot. At one point, I went to the toilet during a song and left a fader down. Oops. Nothing went to air for five minutes. Fuck fuck fuck.

  Then I did it again, another time. I wish I could tell you I didn’t do it a third time, but…yeah, no. I got demoted.

  I went back to producing, which I liked, but I’d had a taste of being on air and, goddamn, I wanted more of it.

  I put the feelers out to another network, one of Australia’s biggest radio companies. I wanted to be at one of their stations, NXFM—it was the station I grew up listening to. Everyone knew it and loved it. It was the sound of Newcastle.

  So, I emailed the generic station email, butterflies in my stomach as I typed. I didn’t think they would even read my email. If they did, I didn’t think they would bother with me: I wasn’t experienced enough. But I got a reply, saying they would meet with me. I should have been pronounced legally dead because, yeah, I died.

  I met with the then content director, and I was so nervous and desperate, I even wore make-up to the meeting. As soon as I set foot in that building, I knew this was where I had to be.

  He asked me to give him two weeks to find a place for me, and, even then, it would only be casual work, panelling shifts. Who cares? He could have asked me to clean the toilets and I would have asked him to pass the Ajax.

  I looked at my phone every five minutes during that two weeks. Every time, there was nothing. Until—obviously—I was getting my first-ever pap smear.

  ‘So sorry,’ I said to the doctor who was busy inspecting me with a plastic duck bill, ‘but I have to take this.’

  The content director was calling!

  ‘Hi, Tanya,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ I told him. With my knees up and a woman aged in her 40s looking into my vagina.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a casual job for you.’

  Yes.

  For the next three months, I worked my arse off at NXFM. I was panelling the drive shows, and by panelling I mean I was inserting the traffic reports, and making sure the ads didn’t run over the program. At first, it was Fifi Box and Jules Lund, and then Dan Debuf and Maz Compton. (I would go on to co-announce with both Jules and Dan, nationally. If you’d told me at the time that would happen, I would have died all over again.)

  I wasn’t allowed to be on air during the day (when people listened), but that was okay. I did the mid–dawns again, and I tried so hard. (Too hard, looking back.) The feedback I got was pretty harsh, but I needed it: I got better.

  Finally, I was put on weekends. Yes!!!

  A few months into my time at the station, I was asked if I wanted to audition for the breakfast spot in Griffith. Griffith? Ah, no thank you. I’d already gone back to Newcastle, which I’d thought was as regional as it would get for me. But…breakfast. Wow. I really wanted to do breakfast. So I moved to Griffith.

  It was amazing. I was doing breakfast radio! I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing. Like, I didn’t have a clue. So I just made it up as I went along. And you know what? It turned out pretty…okay. It felt right. People were calling in and I would talk to them and we were connecting, and I was doing radio like a real radio person!

  After eight months, I was asked if I would like to leave the small smoke of Griffith for the comparatively bigger smoke of Toowoomba, in Queensland. There, I was paired with a cool dude named Hamish—he’d been on air for 15 years and generously showed me the ropes.

  After 18 months in T-ba (as it’s known), I got the call to move to Canberra. It was 4 January 2016. It was hard at the start—really hard. My co-announcer, Ryan, and I were bullied. We were taking over from a well-loved, long-running show, and people weren’t happy. (More on this later.) But once we warmed up, we were making some pretty good radio. Or we thought so, anyway.

  This was when I really started to get involved with making my videos. When I started, I had someone else filming and editing them, but then I was like, Nah, I can do this myself. And you know what? It was once I started doing my own thing that I really began to get some traction. So much so that in February 2017, one of my videos—‘Realistic Make-up Tutorial’—was viewed 250 million times. I know. I couldn’t believe it.

  Some of the people who could believe it, weirdly enough, were the casting agents who’d rejected me all those years ago. Suddenly they were knocking on my door, asking me to audition for this and be a part of that. I got approached by US management people, and I went to New York and LA in July 2017, to meet some managers and casting agents.

  Tanya’s diary

  13 July 2017

  I wish you could be inside my head right now.

  I’m in a backlot of Formosa at the Lot in West Hollywood. I’ve been cleared by security (twice) and walked to the building (the wrong one, twice)—met the receptionist, talked too much. Now, I’m here.

  I have been told I’m 45 mins early—which is a first, ’cause I’m a mess and always late.

  I’m sitting downstairs out of the building in the 43-degree weather because I feel so stupid for turning up so bloody early. Like I know they are already off me. I look too keen.

  The building I’m sitting in front of is OWN and Harpo Studios, which is also next to the building of Funny or Die, Will Ferrell’s digital company that has 15 million likes on Facebook. They created Drunk History and Between Two Ferns and it’s the best digital comedy company in the world.

  As I sit here, writers are walking past me with their notepads, people are moving sets and props, actors are walking around with costumes and sunglasses. It’s not how I thought it would be. People are just working; yes, it’s Hollywood but it’s just work for everyone on this lot.

  A guy has walked out in a Funny or Die tracksuit. Again. It’s 43 degrees. He’s loudly talking on the phone about casting. He is pacing and he looks at me while I adjust my fucking underwire. I am literally wearing a bra I have owned for seven years. It does not fit. It’s a C and I’m now an E. It’s really gross under the shirt.

  As I sit here in La-La Land in an ill-fitting bra and jeans where the crotch has rubbed through, I can’t help but think I am so lucky to be here. Firstly to have passed security. But, mainly, because this industry is tough. And to be on this lot, to be in this realm, even if it’s for 10 mins: I’m really grateful.

  I’m going in for my meeting now.

  Also, if Oprah walks out of this building next to me I will pass away.*

  As you probably know, I’ve since left Canberra radio, and now present national weekend breakfast across the HIT network.

  Yes. National. Six years ago, I set it as my goal and I bloody got there.

  So, that’s me. That’s how I got here. That’s why you’re reading this book.

  It’s not the end, though. This is the beginning. That’s why this isn’t an autobiography.

  There have been so many times when I have wanted to give up. So many times. But I’m so glad I listened to the little voice inside of me that said, ‘Don’t give up, keep going.’ I guess, on reflection, I’m so glad I got so many ‘no’s and ‘unfortunately’s, because of how appreciative I am of the ‘yes’s.

  I am all too aware that I will continue to get ‘no’s and ‘unfortunately’s, and that’s fine…because I’ll just keep going and push through. I’ve done it before. I’m well versed.

  Don’t give up. Someone once told me that in a casting for a Telstra ad. She said: ‘Outwork them, don’t give up. Because your resilience will define your career.’

  I’m glad I listened to her.

  So now, you, reading this, listen to me.

  Don’t give up. Outwork them; your resilience will define your career.

  It’s strange how I tried to be an actor for so long, then realised the most successful role I would ever play would be myself.

  ________________

  * Spoiler alert: I did not see Oprah.

  THE MOST AWKWARD THINGS IN LIFE

  Is anyone else just really used to being awkward? I’m at a point where I’m like, Oh, this is me now. This is who I am. I am just really awkward. For a long time, I would get embarrassed. Now I think, All in a day.

  Here’s a brief list of awkward moments you might relate to (or not):

  Talking to someone you think is talking to you…but actually they’re using handsfree.

  Pulling a door that says Push. Then trying to open the door again…by pulling. Not pushing.

  When the staff at the cinemas say, ‘Enjoy the movie,’ and you reply, ‘Thanks, you too!’

  Thinking someone’s going to high five you but they’re just waving at someone behind you.

  Accidentally bitching about someone and not realising you’re talking to that person’s brother.

  Walking fast and accidentally getting to hold a stranger’s hand. Also, swinging your arms when you walk and hitting someone’s crotch.

  Saying goodbye to someone, then realising they’re going the same way as you (the WORST).

  Going in for a hug and then realising, way too late, that the person just wanted a handshake.

  Asking someone at a store for clothing in a different size and realising they don’t work there.

  Parallel parking in front of a café (‘Look away, café patrons; why are you watching me? Go back to your phones.’).

  When someone says they’re going to a funeral and you say, without thinking, ‘Have fun!’

  When you wave at someone you think you know and you def don’t know them.

  Cuddling someone from behind and realising they’re a stranger. (There is definitely a theme happening here.)

  Not checking your text messages before you send them. (Like the time I sent this gem to my boss: Hey, I’ve sent you audio of my last wee. Enjoy. He wrote back: Tanya, I hope you meant week. Luckily for him, I did. There was also that time I texted my mum telling her about the awesome clock shop I’d found:

  Me: Mum, I found an amazing cock shop. They have huge ones here. Just the kind you like. I’ll take a pic for you, you’ll love it!

  Mum: That’s good darling. I don’t need to know about that though. Don’t send pictures!

  Me: I meant clock. Huge clocks!!!

  Mum: I’m not judging, whatever you get up to is your business.

  Me: I meant clock, Mum.

  Mum: Don’t send pictures Tanya.

  Me: Mum, I meant clocks and we should come here together for a holiday.

  Mum: It’s OK darling, that’s an alone activity.

  ADULT EXPECTATIONS

  The way I thought I was going to be as an adult is significantly different from the way I actually am. Now I think my expectation just isn’t living up to the reality…

  Expectation: Married with kids. The kids are always dressed well and have nice manners.

  Reality: Eating grated cheese. From the bag.

  Expectation: Amazing family events and barbies.

  Reality: Napping all day.

  Expectation: Knowing how to do my tax and knowing how banking works.

  Reality: Crying while googling ‘how to live’.

  Expectation: Always groomed and amazing.

  Reality: Ah, it will do. Ugg boots. Where is my bra? Fuck it, I’ll go to Coles pantless and braless. I have no dignity or shame.

  Expectation: Huge seven-bedroom phenomenal house. The Home Alone house!

  Reality: ‘Yeah, hi, Ray White, there’s another rat infestation in the flat, and the hole in the wall has gotten so bad, I can see the neighbours touching themselves.’

  Expectation: More than enough money to live comfortably.

  Reality: ‘HEY, MUM!…Can I borrow $60? I will def pay you back.’

  BANK

  I recently went to the bank to ask about a home loan.

  I wore a blazer to an informal meeting, because I don’t know how to live. I just thought: Look important and fancy—like you know things. Wear a blazer.

  I now know the blazer was too much. The bank person I spoke to was in jeggings.

  All I really wanted to know was how much I needed for a deposit, and stuff like that. Pretty basic. But when you go in, they have to go through all your banking history, to see if you’re a good candidate for a loan.

  The woman in jeggings looked me up and down as she went through my internet banking with me, asking me questions along the way.

  ‘Right, Tanya,’ she says. ‘There’s just a few more questions before we can proceed. I’ve noticed you’ve got some strange transactions going on here.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, racking my brain. What was the last thing you bought online, you idiot? My brain is frazzled and can’t keep up. Bank Lady keeps going, though.

  ‘Who is…“Pimp Monies”?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, trying not to laugh. ‘Um…’

  ‘And who is “Amy Is My Pimp”?’

  I can’t speak. I’m about to crack it.

  She looks me square in the eye. ‘Do you have…another source of income?’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, relieved that this is her main concern. ‘It’s just a joke! I never have any cash on me, so I always transfer money to my friends to pay them back, and I think it’s funny to write “pimp money” as the description. You know?’

  She does not know.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So, this isn’t real? You’re not…a “lady of the night”?’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I’m a radio announcer!’

  ‘Okay,’ Bank Lady says. ‘And your friend isn’t a pimp?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘She is.’

  BROTHER

  I have a 24-year-old brother.

  When I was 27, single and living at home with my parents, because I was super successful, he was 19. For eight months, we shared a wall. By that, I mean his room was next to mine.

  I would often hear him in there late at night doing random activities. I can only assume he was knitting, with all the banging of his elbows against the shared wall. And he must have always been sick with a cold, because there were so many tissues in his bin.

  He didn’t seem to like me all that much. I didn’t know if it was an age thing or what. But he was always mad at me.

  I remember him saying one day, ‘Why does it take Alanna [our sister] an hour to get ready when she goes out, and it only takes you 15 minutes?’

  I replied, ‘Well, that’s because I refuse to straighten my hair, I refuse to wear false eyelashes, I refuse to spend an hour doing my make-up.’

  He said, ‘That’s why men refuse to go near you.’

  How could I be mad when he had such awesome burns? He’s a boy genius, if anything.

  BALI

  Bali is not for me. Yes, the cocktails are $3, and the massages are heaven, but it’s fucking hot. And not Australia hot. It’s dripping-wet-within-five-seconds-of-leaving-the-hotel hot. And I’m an air-con, sit-down gal. I’m also chubby, so walking anywhere in Bali means that the thigh rash is real. Here is my guide to Bali for chubby girls. You’re welcome:

  A lot of what you can buy will just be sunglasses. That’s okay, they’re, like, $5 each.

  You will turn pink.

  The clothing often says One size fits all, but it should read One size does not fit Tanya and it’s confronting in a change room.