2006 Brisbane Writers Festival (13/9-17/9)

"The readers can forgive you for publishing your next book late. But they will not forgive you if you publish a crappy book next." - Rebecca Sparrow

 

The air was fresh. My sights were clear. I have never waked up in the morning in the longest time. And this was what it felt like.

On September 14, things kicked off officially for the Brisbane Writers Festival at Cultural Forecourt in South Bank. Marquees were set up. Four with colours – red, blue, yellow and green. One was a river, although it was the farthest away from the river compared to the other four. But it was larger, nonetheless. There was a marketplace, where writing related communities set up to lure writers-to-be in. Somewhere for them to pursue their fantasised careers further. There was a café. There was a bookshop. Writers would go there after their sessions for book signing sessions. Some would be as popular as a long teetering row flowing out of the marquee. Other writers just sat and wait for their almost non-existent fans to stop by. They would be nice because there were only a few.

Everything a writer could ever ask for. An alfresco coffee overlooking the gurgling Brisbane River while conceiving ever more a plot bunny. And a tent nearby to marvel at their past masterpieces. An affirmation. Yes, I have made it.

I have signed up to be a volunteer for the first two days. Something to do, I guess. It was time to network although I doubt when things have been said and done, we will move on with our individual lives not remembering faces we have smiled at. Next year, we will introduce ourselves again like strangers being too nice to one another. But it was a good chance for me to recognise some local writers seeing that I have only came to Brisbane in less than a year. It was a nice time to know who is who.

I was thrown around doing things I have never done in my entire life. I can now apply for positions in cafés because I have the experience of setting up outdoor umbrellas heavier than myself. I can now apply to be a messenger boy/girl because I have the experience of distributing packages in time before sessions commenced. I challenged my physical being. I killed my two little feet; damn you new Chuck Taylors. Yet. There was something to do. I felt useful. I slept well for two nights.

Half of the time I was ushering in individual marquees. I was in the River Marquee on the first day and the Green Marquee on the second day. Under the commands of venue managers with headsets to set them apart from normal ushers, I ran small errands and made sure I am doing well. I approached strangers offering empty seats, half of them declining my goodwill because they were just passer-bys. Some were grateful and occupied backseats. One of the sessions on emerging writers was bursting. People kept on coming in and the marquee could not hold everyone. We had to set up chairs outside the marquee and turned up the sound system. It started to drizzle but the audience were persistent. The secured their seats and huddled under their umbrellas. Alas. The Gods were kind. The rain did not gain momentum. Some times, the sessions were this popular. Other times, the crowd was disdainful. We had to segregate them instead of having them spread out all over the marquee. I wondered how the writers would feel seeing such bad outcome. Would they be thankful still of the ones who had shown up.

On the nigh I ended my volunteering, I attended a session at the Brisbane Powerhouse. Getting there was half the excitement. I got on the wrong bus and ended up in West End when I should be heading to the other side in New Farm. I walked a good distant not having the slightest idea if I was going in the right direction. Until at last, the neon lights of a salvation P stood clear from afar. I made it just in time.

The session was about emerging gay writer and how they came about. I sat amongst the thin crowd, 90% of which were homosexuals. I was the minority and I was not quit sure why I decided to pat $8 to attend this session. I have the most peculiar fascinations. Things were a flat line until the session was nearing the end and someone – most probably a lesbian – behind me raised a question of sexism in the panel. The crowd became separated in two as I watched sitting on the picket fence, trying to get a hold on what was happening in front of my eyes. They were so close to throwing chairs at the opposite sex. Granted alcohol was served that night. It might be possible. The chairperson was posed ready to spring from his seat just in case someone did the honours, as he explained dipped in nervousness that he had nothing to do with the all-male panel. I was amused. You would have thought this would happen between homophobes and homosexuals.

I would have walked the creepy road back to the bus stop to head home after the session. Instead, I stuck around, testing my blistered toe in the waters of a Brisbane writer’s life. Network I did over a glass of vodka and lime with my gay lecturer and her company. A flamboyant friend was drunk over his glass of wine. He asked me three times what I was studying. My lecturer supersized my drink and held my hands giving me probably the best advice I could have ever received, be it from a drunkard or a sober person. She grabbed my face and told me I was a beautiful person. I could only smile politely. The next thing I knew, I was strolling past the dark New Farm Park laughing at things only humorous to intoxicated fellows. We sat ourselves down at the end of the line. Gertie’s. Where all the happening people are at, my lecturer said. Credibility was to be questioned because she was really wasted.

I returned home on a cab at two in the morning.

God wept at my unholy lifestyle of getting drunk and hanging out with gay people the next morning. Saturday was a gloomy day as we made our way to the showground to attend a session on emerging writers from Universities in Queensland. Some were interesting; I had a good laugh. Others were just deadpan. I found myself spacing out in the easiest way. I have never really planted my own two feet on the ground. I am always floating in midair. I dreamed of myself having the honours of doing my readings in such sessions. People clapping for me. Half of them not even sure what the heck I was writing about. Then, I fantasised myself launching books in such festivals. Going to panels sitting at the front of an overflowing audience. Talking about a book I created from scratch. Reading bits and pieces to people all ears for something different. It was a beautiful life. I had gone as ambitiously as seeing myself on Oprah. Life was beautiful.

I purchased three books. Swiping my father’s card thin. If I looked close enough, I could see the golden surface turning a dull grey. No, not really.

I bought Andrew Stafford’s Pig City. I read an excerpt from his book in my tutorial readings from last semester. He seemed lyrically dark. There were copies of his book lying around my tutors and lecturers’ offices and that was already saying something. John Birmingham, probably one of those famous Brisbane writers, had his review splayed on the front cover of the book.

I bought Alasdair Duncan’s Metro. People looked up to him. People said he was the new voice of youth. Maybe I did not buy his book because of what other people said. My influence was not really based on what everyone thinks. Maybe I bought his book because I just have the most peculiar fascination ever.

I bought Rebecca Sparrow’s The Girl Most Likely. Because she was funny when she guest lectured a few weeks back. She turned her life upside down and wrote a joke about it. I wish I could have half the humour in her blood. I wish I could do the same for my life.

I got the latter two to sign the books after their session on Sunday.

Thus, ended the Brisbane Writers Festival for me. I came out on the other side brim full of inspiration waiting to be penned down. Alas. I am slow. I am dense. Like always, I will sit watching the bunnies flapping their wings around my head, tempting me to write them out of my system. Write something worthwhile. Be a God. Yet I sat around anticipating the day they would eventually die like rejected sperms in a girl’s body because only one sperm had the honours of impregnating her. Lucky sperm.