This little post will be a slight deviation from my usual tone in my posts in that I won't be whingeing very much. Oh, I will probably tuck a little whinge in, but the thing is this: I had a fantastic weekend.
The weekend just past was the Scone Literary Festival, and being just down the road a'piece from what is known as the Horse Capital of Australia, I earned myself a little invitation to sit on a panel. This panel focused on Children and Young Adult. I'm a satirist, but have published a Young Adult novel titled Abernethy. It's about a lonely fourteen-year-old boy who befriends a talking beagle, being the titular character. It was released a few years ago, and something that sticks in my mind from my bookstore appearances is the people who, upon reading the back-cover blurb, would ask, 'Is this a true story?' I would fight back the urge to caustically reply, 'Yes. It's a true story about a talking dog. Now how about you try washing the pesticides off the fruit prior to eating it?' Instead I would be polite and say it was all fiction, and would they like to buy a copy.
I was on the panel with a illustrator, and a very prolific children's book author. Her name's Susanne Gervay. I was actually humbled to be in such illustrious company, and was also a bit worried because I had nothing prepared. I had to scratch out a few notes and even told the audience I was flying by the seat of my pants here. The facilitator was a teacher at a local school, and she stated Abernethy is in their school library, and is frequently borrowed. I was absolutely chuffed. When it was my turn, I was introduced as 'the author with the lovely red hair.' That's very flattering, even though they did forget to say 'talented' in front of the word 'author'! Heh-heh. Nobody raised their hands during question time, and this alarmed me. I said, 'No questions? Well, I've either appalled you all, or answered everything you want to know already!' However, a few audience members came up to me after the session and told me they'd really enjoyed my talk. What is even better, they asked how to purchase a copy of Abernethy. So I advised them, as I am going to advise you now, Reader: it is rather difficult to obtain a paperback copy of the book, but it is available as e-book. Click on this link, read the first chapter, and download: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
I sat in the audience on the sex scene writing session. One of the authors mentioned her teenaged daughter was incredibly embarrassed that mum had set a scene in a combi van, because they drive such a vehicle. During audience question time, I put up my hand and was handed the microphone. I pointed out that you can write a gruesome cannibalistic murder scene, and nobody worries. However, write a sex scene and everybody assumes you're writing about yourself. My advice for this is to point out to the inquisitor/accuser that none of the Beach Boys could surf. (You could also point out to the puerile questioner that even if it is you, so bloody what?)
I couldn't stick around for the session I reeeallllly wanted to see, being a discussion between David Marr, Phillip Adams, and Dr Barry Jones, because I wanted to ensure my kids hadn't killed each other (Mr Bingells had to go away for the weekend). They had not, but I was tempted to kill my youngest upon the discovery he had ridden a scooter into the house and knocked over the glass vase in which I displayed pretty marbles.
But the fun didn't stop there. This was a two-day event, so I travelled to Scone again on Sunday morning, for a talk given by journalist Tracy Spicer. She is a very funny and engaging speaker, and she spoke about the sexism that poisons the industry like a malignant tumour (simile is mine), and the MeToo movement, and sexism in broader society. I got to ask a question, which was did she envisage a time when we might have a prime minister who didn't engage in grotesque buffoonery vis-a-vis his comments about mates who would happily sort out Pamela Anderson (in reference to Pamela's approach to our government regarding Julian Assange). Morrison, if you're reading this, try and think before you tweet. That comment did you no credit, and I was really pissed off on Pamela Anderson's behalf. This is a serious issue, and you post a guffaw-toned tweet alluding to her Bay Watch and Playgirl persona. I didn't sign up to have an infantile, disrespectful jackass for a prime minister. You're running the country, not a bunch of meatheads in a locker room.
But if I have a weekend wherein I get to speak to David Marr, Tracy Spicer, and Dr Barry Jones (I shook his hand, and am now deliberating whether or not to wash my hand again, kind of like when Marcia Brady met Desi Arnaz Jnr), then that's like an early Christmas present for me. Also, it looks like I've got a couple of pending sales, and I also got to have an argument about art with somebody (my point being an artist can paint what he or she damn well chooses; why should a distasteful subject matter be off limits?).
Ciao for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment