I've never been to a writers festival before in my life, so I'm rather unsure what to expect. What surprises me is the implied intimacy, the exclusive smallness of the event. A handful of writers giving intimate lectures in something of a 'retreat', far from the city? Sounds cosier than what I would have expected. I can't picture it without picturing everyone cradling a glass of mulled wine.
My preparation for this upcoming week has consisted mainly of reading through novel after novel, more often than not while sitting in bed. Which is my favourite kind of homework. Those that have stuck most stubbornly in my mind are Alexis Wright's The Swan Book, which was vivid and confronting, and Peter Goldsworthy's Wish, which was beautiful in an extremely confusing way that made me uncomfortable by design. I am still finishing Tracy Farr's The Life and Loves of Lena Gaunt, but it also has invaded my daily thoughts and has somewhat of a floating, bobbing quality to the writing which deeply relaxes me.
For the past few days I've been obsessing over the eight hour journey from Melbourne to Mildura, and the prospect of leaving familiar friends behind for an empty hotel room. But I can think of something that will make both problems disappear - more books.
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