Encounter in Eltham

Last weekend I had the pleasure of being a guest at the Eltham Festival of Stories at Eltham Library (that's me on the right, above). It was a wonderful opportunity to catch up with some old friends, and meet some new ones, like Ailsa Wild, author of the Squishy Taylor series (she's the cool one in the middle), and the lovely Teagan who interviewed us both with panache (she's the one with the mic).

The topic of our panel was 'Where Do Stories Come From?' and I'd expected to be talking mostly about Crow Country, which is my best-known book. But as it happened, the lovely Teagan wasn't able to get hold of Crow Country -- all the copies were out from the library, which is nice to know! -- and she read New Guinea Moon instead. So I mostly talked about that.

New Guinea Moon is partly based on my own childhood memories of growing up in the Highlands of PNG in the 1970s. My father was a pilot, and my memories of the Mt Hagen ex-pat community and my later adult unease with their colonial attitudes, even at the time of Independence, were at the centre of the novel.

After we spoke, as always happens when I talk about New Guinea Moon, members of the audience came up to say that they, too, had a connection with PNG. It amazes me that so many Australians have a personal history with our nearest neighbour, and yet PNG receives so little attention (compared to say, the UK!) and we know so little about the place. Someone always wants to tell me, my aunt was a missionary or my grandfather was an engineer or even, I grew up there too.

This time a woman came up to say that her uncle had also been a pilot in the Highlands, from the 1970s until he was killed in a crash in the early 2000s. I asked his name, but somehow I already knew the answer. I remembered her uncle vividly. He had worked with my father and been a good friend of my parents; we'd all been shocked to hear of his death, which featured in a story on the ABC's Foreign Correspondent a few years ago. In fact, the character of Tony in New Guinea Moon was partly based on my memories of him. We both ended the conversation in tears.

It's strange how sometimes what seem to be the most personal, private stories end up being the ones that other people find most easy to share. And what a coincidence that she had happened to attend this particular session on this particular day, and that I'd happened to discuss this particular book. It turned a lovely day into a really special experience.

Being A Writer When You're Not Actually Writing

So this week I was on the Sunshine Coast, at the Voices on the Coast Literature Festival. This was the view from my window in the morning:

Over three days I got to hang out with some lovely authors I'd met before, and made friends with some I didn't know. I gave six talks to groups of sweet and responsive kids, several of whom bought my books afterwards and got me to sign them, and some of whom told me that they had already read one (or more) and really loved it (or them). I arrived home last night exhausted but very happy.

The weird thing is that I have done quite a few of these events now, and every time, before I leave, I get so nervous that I throw up.

It's not the public speaking. I love talking about my books! That's fun.
It's not the socializing (though I am shy and I do get anxious before meeting new people).

I thought about this really hard and I realised what I'm most nervous about before these trips is the actual travelling. What if I can't check in; will I be able to find the bus at the other end; what if I don't know when to get off? It's the same if I'm driving myself to a gig. I fret about whether I'll get lost; will I make it there on time; will I find a parking spot, and if I do, will I be able to get into it?

What this fear boils down to, is that I will get into trouble somehow and have to Ask A Stranger For Assistance. This idea sends shivers of dread down my spine. I know it doesn't make sense, but there you go.

On a related but slightly different topic, it so happens that while I was away, I was reading a book about introverts (drained by spending time with people) and extroverts (energised by spending time with people): Susan Cain's Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Won't Stop Talking. I suspect that most, but not all, authors are introverts. So at the end of a day spent talking about ourselves or giving workshops, chatting to people we don't know well or have only just met, and mingling with festival organisers and sponsors, it's no wonder that we all stagger off the bus and collapse in a catatonic heap, unable to speak or move. It's a lovely experience, but, boy, it is fatiguing.