The swallows are back, swooping low over the bluebells under the oak trees and it is Literary Festival Season once again. As writers live solitary lives and often find the door to socialization blocked by a chunky barricade of deadlines, Literary Festivals provide us with the chance to emerge, blinking like Mole from ‘Wind in the Willows’ into daylight. We click ‘Save,’ don clean tops of some kind and set out into a world full of people we have not invented.
There are, of course, LitFests and LitFests. Probably my least favorite, as writer or as punter, is the vastly corporate ‘if this is 2pm, it must be Myfanwy Alexander’ events where one is regrettably reminded that a book is a consumer good as well as a spirit-nourishing work of the imagination. However, even there, the creeping widflowers of human interaction crack the monolithic concrete because the signing queues are always a joy.
A book is produced by a team and if you are lucky, as I am, your publisher is staffed by heroic figures who combine efficiency and creativity with that quality the Italians call ‘simpatico.’ In other words, we are members of the same gang and therefore in need of voices from the outside, the voices of the readers. That is the wonder of Literary Festivals, the opportunity to discuss your work directly with those who have invested their time in reading it. For that reason, although there is the icy dread which comes from fearing to spell the dedicatee’s name right (who knew there were eleven ways to spell Sheila?), the privilige always triumphs. Fancy being able to talk about your work with someone who has enjoyed it: what an opportunity! Best of all are the queue-end lurkers, waiting until the end so their enthusiasm for a longer chat does not inconvenience others.
So thank you to all the organizers, supporters and volunteers: the Festivals you run are vital to a writer’s craft, as well as being an utter blast.