"Come on, Jules, it'll be great. Let's go."
And so we did.
Around the pool in the languid afternoons, unrestrained joy could be heard in the voices of festival goers who had spent several hundred dollars to hear favourite writers reflect on what inspires them.
Some showcased writers found the festival experience excruciating, especially those who had been writing in a cave for a few years, far from the public gaze. There was a young writer there who could scarcely make eye contact, let alone speak about writing her dazzling short stories. For others, when communion with the masses happens in a place like Ubud, it makes struggles worthwhile. A few hours on a marble terrace overlooking palm trees and rolling hills in front of a doting audience; how hard could it be?
But the success of some can cripple the confidence of others. Tales of lucky breaks and future book deals can undermine the meagre efforts of lesser mortals. Taking time out from the brilliance to sip ginger tea under an elegant white canopy, it was difficult to avoid eavesdropping on the chosen few. Should they travel to China and research ancient art? Should they set their next book in France or Greece? And the nagging from impatient publishers waiting on the next offering! Naughty green-eyed monsters were seen escaping from batik bags in a most unseemly manner.
I’d been avoiding festivals because I didn’t like that monster, but by the same token the derision of the ‘writer as celebrity’ culture is sickmaking. It is as if signing books or sitting on a panel at a festival event means writers have sold their souls to the devil. Literary purists like Ann Patchett eschew fame. At the Brisbane Writers Festival last August, she dismissed her Orange Prize win for Bel Canto. She "just wanted people to read her books". Writing school clearly didn't teach Patchett to connect the dots. Her prize transformed the book into a literary juggernaut. Millions of copies have sold in over thirty countries.
It is tough for authors in the scary new world of books. With bookshops losing out to a slick e-world, the times they have changed. Authors are required to tune in to the change or be damned.
In Ubud we signed up for workshops, hoping for tips from the experts. Man Booker prize winner DBC Pierre may have written "Vernon God Little" in five weeks, but the editing took two years. Over three hours, between slurps of jetlag-curing Balinese coffee, he taught us how to structure a novel. The session resembled his book; rollicking and slightly mad, but brilliant.
The workshop on literary criticism was illuminating, if not for the constant interjections of one attendee hell bent on self promotion. Why she was there, if her work was already flawless? The skilled presenter kept to script, not the least bit ruffled. Literary criticism is not for the faint hearted. As we considered moral and ethical issues, the local wildlife provided a charming distraction. For non-Balinese writers, our best work will evolve without burping geckos and crowing roosters.
The festival ended up resembling its most gracious host town; messy and chaotic, but overflowing with goodwill and generosity. Like a precious gemstone covered in a layer of fine dust; brush it ever so gently and see its beauty dazzle.
What about Paul Kelly, strumming his best in a downtown bar? Or Australian author Alex Miller’s advice to aspiring writers?
"Stop taking notes at festivals, go home and start writing."
I'm glad I went. I think.
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