Something I look forward to each year is the Melbourne Writers Festival, This year's starts this weekend and once again I'll be there amongst it all. This year is the 25th Writers Fest and I'll be attending for the 13th year. Last year I wrote the following about my 13 years anongst literary luvvies.
Melbourne Writers Festival – Keeping the pages turning.
-Terry Nalder
2009 was my 13th Melbourne Writers Festival. I wonder how many people have been to that many consecutively – maybe Mr Steger. I also wonder if I qualify for long service leave or a gold pass. I know sometimes I think I should have had my money back or my sanity checked at least.
There are many memories from the thirteen years mostly a series of ‘moments’. I remember the stifling heat of the Melbourne Town Hall, the quirky confines of the Malthouse and the expansive harshness of Fed Square with all its echoing audio. Just when you thought the bookshop had at last gone from a claustrophobic hell to a semblance of sense in the tent at the Malthouse back to sardineism have we returned at Fed Square All that available space and yet try to get a clear path going in the bookshop and you deserve a medal-could it be so hard? I could never understand why the signings couldn’t be done in the alcove at the Malthouse and now I don’t understand why Readings has such a god awful, unpleasant squeeze at the current location.
Over the years there have been some memorable moments such as a saxophone solo from James McBride, a bit of a song from Malachy McCourt, a power point presentation from Reif Larsen, the incredible sulking performance by some hot shot Russian writer (Robert Dessaix deserved penalty rates for persisting with that one) and many more. I’ve personally enjoyed the personal five minutes or so you sometimes get with an author, among my favorites Ben Okri, Frank McCourt, Susan Johnson, Graeme Blundell, Jeffery Deaver, the ever charming Alexander McCall-Smith, PD James, the much missed Elizabeth Jolley,Kate Atkinson and Isabelle Allende. Counter that with grumps like Morris West, John Banville and Helen Garner and it all makes a good mix. There’s the writers who want to talk (David Sedaris was disarming), those who looked bored by the process, those who’ll happily craft a personal dedication, others who will do their name and nothing more. I’ve seen one or two who’ve had perhaps one glass of red wine too many, been hugged by an Irish woman who was clearly still working through her ‘issues’ and even watched with horror as a wheel chair bound (well she couldn’t bring her sofa with her) author pushed her way through the crowds at the Malthouse shouting ‘Get out of my f**king way, can’t you see I’m in a ‘f**cking wheelchair). Not to mention that great bonus that comes along regularly of chancing a session with someone you’ve never heard of who quickly becomes a fave – Carlos Ruiz Zafon in my case.
So as I clock up 13 Fests amongst the literary luvvies still baffled by the bad manners and the etiquette of queues and signing lines I thank everyone involved. Whether there was a Booker, Pullitzer, Franklin, Vic Lit, Vogel or Walkely, whether they were debut novelists, long time bestsellers, the latest hot young thing or the much loved stayer. There have been those I’ve met, those I’ve heard and even some I’ve mourned. Turning up has kept me turning pages and, if for nothing else, that’s what makes the Writers Festival part of my year.
Melbourne Writers Festival website
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