Writers festivals and talking animals.

The Bendigo Writers Festival is slowly approaching, and I'm reminded of the first time I ever attended a festival focused on authors instead of bands, and on literary theory instead of guitar-strumming musicians. I was 16, and I was head-over-heels for Isobelle Carmody. When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with Carmody's Obernewtyn Chronicles. Those books had it all; adventure, a star-crossed romance, and people who could talk to animals.

Yes - I still have this, all these many years later!

I'd never been to a writers festival before, but that year, when I was 16, it was announced that Isobelle Carmody would be one of the guests at the Melbourne Writers Festival. My memory is dim now, but what I remember is an overwhelming amount of people. I remember being surprised not only by the number of attendees, but also by the variety of people I saw. There were kids in giant school groups, teenagers, and adults, all of them filing into the different venues. I knew people read, but I didn't realise just how many people were passionate about reading. It was a bit of a wake up call for me, to realise that I wasn't alone in my love of literature, ridiculous as that sounds now. I sat through the panels and sessions and finally ran into Isobelle Carmody outside, where she was signing autographs. I remember this part vividly; how strangely shy I was as she took my copy of The Keeping Place and asked for my name. I remember her saying she had a sister named Samantha, and then she was gone. I think it was the first time I'd ever met someone I truly idolised. Carmody was always an inspiration to me. She wrote Obernewtyn when she was 18, and during my own teenage years, whenever I felt young and uninspired I remembered that fact. 

 

A writers festival wasn't just a gathering of authors and people, but also a gathering of ideas, of and of shared understanding. For me, it was an opportunity to realise that I wasn't alone in feeling passionate about what I loved.

Competing against myself.

The end of the year usually brings a round-up of the old and a desire to start everything anew. That same feeling must be what pushes everyone into making New Year resolutions. I've never been one for resolutions – they always seem too idealistic and unrealistic. At the start of the year I decided to do something just as stupid; commit myself to a Goodreads book challenge. At the time, it didn't seem all that crazy. I'd done it the previous year and had been happy with the results. I set the number at 55 – and the goal seemed simple. Read 55 books in a year, complete the challenge, go home happy. Most of us read often enough, but by setting a goal it feels like running a race or completing a marathon – with much less physical exertion involved.

This year I went a little crazy and set my challenge at 365 books. It's been a little stressful. I mustn't have been thinking straight when I made it, because reading a book a day is insane, even for an enthusiastic reader. I'm a really fast reader and have been that way forever. I guess it's a bit of a skill, but it's also frustrating when I'm reading a great book and am dying to stretch it out and enjoy it forever. A book a day isn't impossible, but it's pretty intimidating. Reading has always been an escape for me, but now it's a bit of an obligation. I'm probably making this all sound a lot more dramatic than it really is. Sure, it's a little stressful, always thinking that I'm 1 or 4 or even 7 books behind schedule, but it's also fun because I am extremely competitive (even in this competition against... myself). 

I've read a lot of books this year, and, I have to be honest, not all of them have been quality literature. Sure, I read books that have been recommended to me, and every so often something great comes up, but for the most part I tend to read a lot of really average literature. I'm drawn towards a lot of young adult fiction, dystopian and post-apocalyptic stuff in particular, but the things I read tend to come in genre-specific waves. I love a good, depressing memoir about childhood. Something that really makes me cry. Anything where the narrator rises victorious at the end. I've been reading a lot of books about shipwrecks and life rafts. At one point I was really into Stockholm Syndrome, and read a lot of books in a vain attempt to find something decent. Warning: everything labeled Stockholm Syndrome is really about BDSM and horrible, abusive characters. Don't make the same mistake I did. There's been a lot of rubbish, but there have also been a lot of diamonds in the rough, and those books make it all worthwhile.

A love letter to literature.

Blogging used to come easily to me. When I was a teenager, I'd sit down at my computer (family computer, dial-up internet) and write almost a post a day. Now I look back on those posts with the same horror everyone does when they see remnants of their former selves. Those posts are awful, but they're also great because they are totally unhampered by my own self-consciousness or hesitance. These days it's difficult to write a sentence without stopping, pausing, changing a word, or starting again altogether. I think that kind of honesty comes partly from anonymity, but also from having something to say. This is my first post here, and it's a love letter to books. I've loved books since I was a kid; ever since I can remember. Memories of books are linked to memories of my life, with phases and ages tied to the literature I devoured. Reading shapes you. It changes who you are inside, helps you to grow, to travel, and to dream. It gives you the chance to be something more.