The fact that I often feel miserable and discouraged at writers’ festivals might well speak volumes about my windblown constitution, but I doubt it’s something I’m suffering alone. Let me be clear – I’m not talking about after the festival when you feel the textual high fade, the melancholy of the complete, I believe I’ve heard it described somewhere (though Google is not forthcoming). I’m talking about during the festival itself, at exactly those times when you’re supposed to be feeling validated and encouraged in the swelter of ideas, alongside fellow participants in the writing journey.
A year and a half ago I read Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy, and six months later in Melbourne at The 2012 Emerging Writers’ Festival, I felt exactly like Daniel Quinn – as though the city was unravelling my identity. My experience of this year’s festival was much better. Perhaps I got more sleep the week before, or was feeling more solid for other reasons. It certainly helps being a panellist; this can open doors to talking with other shy people. But even this year, I wavered between encouragement and discouragement.
I need to emphasise that I’m not trying to critique the program or the excellent job the organisers do in putting these events together. I can genuinely say that I had an enjoyable, valuable time at the EWF in 2013, that I’ve come away with a stronger, more focused desire to write. You can’t ask for much more than that.
But I’m curious about the nature of these melancholic moments. At the risk of sounding like a low-rent Alain de Botton, I’d like to tentatively suggest what might contribute to these dampening moods at writers’ festivals – where it is I am experiencing loss – and consider how we might moderate them somewhat.
Overall, I think it has something to do with the gap between the expectations and ideals exemplified by even good writers’ (as opposed to readers’) festivals and our experience of the reality. So for example, I suspect there is a melancholy of isolation amidst community.
Writing is an isolating business, and at times I long for communities of encouragement. Not every day, or even every week, but I like to know it’s there, to be called on (and contributed to) as required.
A festival is an attempt to bring a community into concrete existence. But if you don’t know anyone (or know two people and don’t want to be seen to bother them with your constant, possibly needy presence), this can be a more isolating experience than staying at home would ever have been.
Related to this, I think there is a melancholy of silence amidst discourse. Writers’ festivals based around panel discussion trend towards being readers’ festivals. These formats are restrictive genres; despite the question time, they inevitably privilege the speakers. Of course, all writers should be readers (if only) – this isn’t the point.
The issue is that ideals of sharing and egalitarianism, give and take – true literary community – fade in the fact of uneven power and the tendency for all the components of a festival to become performances, to be witnessed and applauded. Writers in the audience lose their voice; they are functionally pigeonholed into a different role. Despite good intentions, these festivals can become another way for the louder and more privileged to establish themselves.
It’s for this reason that in my own house writers’ festivals, panellists are chosen on the night, and the goal is to degenerate into wider discussion. Do social networking sites such as twitter also even the playing field somewhat? This strikes me as eminently possible. If I’m talking at one of these things, feel free to tweet.
Both of these suggestions identify just how difficult it can be to welcome all writers into these events and hear their voices in the formal sessions, or a quiet gathering later in the pub. There may be other angles on this topic. Could there be a melancholy attached to speech overshadowing text, that those who love engaging with the written word might struggle in the simplifying environment of constant speech? Or do we experience crises of relevance? Such events, even if they fill an ornate town hall with frowning lord mayors and a lot of dark wood, have relatively small audiences. Who are we reaching as writers? Are we only talking to ourselves?
There’s not a great deal we could do with these last factors. And clearly, I’m focusing on more negative manifestations. There are times when, listening to a speaker, or chatting over coffee, one genuinely feels a connection, an encouragement and a direction.
But I think it’s worthwhile, and even practical, to consider how to magnify warmth and hospitality, how to draw all participants into sharing and dialogue. We might then be able to reverse the trend towards readers’ festivals – goodness knows we have enough of those – and ensure that events such as these serve the needs of writers in community.
I’d be genuinely interested in the ideas and experiences of others on this topic.
Ben Walter is a Tasmanian writer.
Image – Domenico Feti – Melancholy