It's a wrap!

I intended to attend far more panels on the last day of the National Young Writers Festival, but in the end, all that I managed to get to was the final reading: Bullshit Stories. Between farewelling other writers, getting the lowdown on the acid party which I had managed to miss the night before and trying to find the Japanese Digital Art Exhibition venue I got to the Festival HQ at around 3 pm.

Don't get me wrong, I woke up bright and early, fully intending to go to So You Think You Can Pitch workshop and pitch presentations. Missed them too.

However, the final event of the NYWF was amazing. Hosted by Liam Pieper, the reading opened with the witty merger of Bejamin Guerney's chronicle of his day, peppered with Groucho Marx quotes. Geoff Lemon told three stories one of which was bullshit and all of which were riproaring hilarious. I'm still not sure about the whole Bill Clinton footing the taxi for three Melbourne uni students high as kites, but who am I to quibble about these things. I wasn't there after all...

Simon McInerney had written a beautiful short story about a fat young man who saves a fitter one from death by car engine fumes, only to swap attitudes to health with him. It had elements of magical realism, spades of self-reflection and a sweetness that is rare these days. The self-effacing Irishman had written the story over the course of the festival, in between bouts of drinking and carousing.

Somehow or other, I ended up reading from my Morning Pages, a story about my childhood and the claims of my family that it's all bullshit. The Morning Pages are a habit I have adopted from an article on creative expression. You're supposed to start writing them as soon as you wake up, keeping a notebook by the bed just for this purpose. You have to limit yourself to half an hour or once you've begun you may never put the pen down. It's not meant to be coherent. In fact, sometimes all that happens is that I write a list of all the things I have to do that day, rather than anything interesting to another reader.

This time however, I had produced a little nugget I was quite pleased with and decided it could see the light of day. It was never meant to see the light of day, much in the same way that stillborn babies might be kept in a jar somewhere in the back of a cupboard for sentimental reasons. Never shown to anyone. A dark secret that is only revealed when someone asks to see them.

It was well received. I was quite proud of this unedited, naked child of mine.

Zora Sanders told tales of good Samaritans, Rhys Rogers read a letter from a bullshit artist to the studio where he works.

Once everyone had revealed their babies to a cooing audience, we all decamped to the Festival Club, where we proceeded to finish off the remaining tins of alcopop and bottles of diet beer left in the bar. We partook curry enroute from this amazing place whose name as per usual starts with Taj on Darby Street.

At the end of the night, the coordinators of the festival sang Auld Lang Syne and hustled us all out the door, with the promise of another house party to attend. Mindful of a very busy Tuesday to come, I went back to the hostel with a visual artist who had come to TINA just as an audience member. Bless.

Upon waking this morning I felt a sense of loss. No more TINA. No more Young Writers Festival. No more young writers to debate points of style, disagree on ethics with and dig into their dark pasts. It was to the grind for all of us.

And that folks, is a wrap. Stay tuned for the follow ups on the bookmarks I promised emerging writers.