I knew from an early age I wasn’t the only John Martin in the world.
My father was called John Martin, as was his father.
But the problem has only got worse as I’ve grown older.
Now there are so many John Martins in the world that I’ve occasionally wondered whether we’re entitled to a collective noun. A flock of John Martins, perhaps? A confusion of John Martins? Or a worry of John Martins?
So today’s column is not so much about me as all about them.
Although ChatGPT found an estimated 6600 John Martins living in the United States, it was less sure about us in Australia.
It did point out, however, that there was a convict named John Martin on the First Fleet in 1788 and another convict, John Martin, who arrived on the Second Fleet in 1790.
I have anecdotal evidence that John Martins lurk in the most unlikely places.
In 2007, I wrote a column for The Canberra Times. One day, a woman rang up and abused me for not doing something she said I had promised to do.
No matter how much I denied it, explaining that I hadn’t even spoken to her before, she hardly let up.
When I finally got her to calm down, I promised to get to the bottom of whatever wires had been crossed.
My suspicions were confirmed when I discovered that another John Martin worked in a different department on a floor below me.
ChatGPT wasn’t prepared to estimate how many John Martins there are across the world.
But use your imagination. A lot.
When you factor in the language variations, from John Martin to Jean Martin, Juan Martín, João Martins, Johann Martin and Giovanni Martin, we’re well and truly flocked, confused and worried.
Throw in the surname variations, such as John Martyn, John Marten and John Marton, and you have an overpopulation problem.
I receive two or three emails a week purporting to be from book marketers, agents or someone from a book club. All of them write glowingly and at length about one of my novels, which “deserves to have a wider readership”.
This is tremendous for my ego. But I soon figured out that they all use the same language I use on my own website. AI-powered scams that nowadays go straight into my bin.
Occasionally, they even come to the wrong John Martin.
Thus, I am sure Tales from the National Elf is a good book, but it’s written by a different John Martin.
And I want to make it very clear that I am not the John Martin who writes gay erotica.
I rode my father’s coattails into the journalism caper.
But he worked mainly for the ABC, and I got my start on The Examiner newspaper.
From memory, we only once went to the same job. The subject must have been confused to be interviewed by a small flock of John Martins.
I never picked Dad as someone who would vandalise the bench in the press box of the Supreme Court.
But I saw his carved name with my own eyes one day when I happened to be working there.
He wasn’t alone. The bench read like a Who’s Who.
So I scribbled my name under his.
Us John Martins have to stick together.
Leave a Reply