Bombarded by information, the old grey matter has gone into melt-down; surely not the desired effect of attending a wonderfully informative and lively conference?! Tempted by a friend's talk of the benefits of attending, I signed up for and attended the Winchester Writing Festival last weekend. It was like Fresher's Week - new environment, know nobody, eager to begin - but with less alcohol and then the first year's lectures in two days; a feast of advice and knowledge.
It's a far cry from sitting at home hunched over a desk, absorbed in the imaginary worlds of characters that floated in through the ether. Days of staring into space, willing words to flow, wondering where and when the next drama might unfold; and then hours of writing furiously and hoping that the thin threads linking my hand to the picture in my brain don't snap before I can get it all down on paper, or, occasionally, on the screen in front of me.
At Winchester, and doubtless other festivals and courses; you're surrounded by others who 'know'. Those who know how challenging, infuriating, saddening, depressing, uplifting, exciting, funny and exhilirating, and, ultimately, exhausting, it can be to try and bring an idea to fruition on the page; an idea that will entice the reader and envelop them in the world you have created.
Artists are rarely asked when they'll exhibit at the Royal Academy, nor musicians when their next concert at the Albert Hall might be booked. Mention you write and, "Why aren't you a)published and b)on the Top 10 list? I'm not sure we do it for the global attention (!), but the challenge and joy of hoping that someone, somewhere, might enjoy the stories we spin, some day.
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