A selection of sights: MWF Week 1

Why I don’t high-five

The abrupt tremor of the bed springs roused me into consciousness, but it was the duvet flopping onto my face that broke the surface of my sleep. Through the blur of my eyelashes I saw my girlfriend pull herself out of bed to begin her morning ritual of assessing her bottom in the mirror. She smoothed her pants over her cheeks, gave a brief head tilt and left the room. Her speed indicated a good mood. On other mornings she would shift from the over shoulder rump appraisal to a both hands on hips pout. If her mood were especially dour she would state that she was fat, which was less of a statement and more of a trap for me to wander in to.

There is no chance of oversleeping in our house. One of the windows directly faces the bed and once the sun reaches nine o’clock your dreams take on the luminous red hue of a closed lid. I was still able to recall my dream and when I stood up the evidence jutted out ridiculously from inside my cotton pyjama pants. Penises are only erotic in the context of actual sex, at any other time they are ugly and comical, like Winston Churchill in a skivvy. My dream had been arousing and unsettling. In it I had sex with my girlfriend, no fantasy woman or unattainable celebrity, just my girlfriend. It wasn’t even good sex. It was fairly awkward and it was on our own bed. My mind had conjured up a situation that could have been real if I had rolled five centimetres to my left. I took this as a sign that I needed to inject some excitement into my life.

I put the kettle on and sat on the couch to check my emails. I ignored the usual replies of people insisting they would soon pay me for some articles and opened the one from Steve Grimwade. Steve was the director of the Melbourne Writers Festival. I had met him the year before and watched a warm and friendly guy dissolve into a panic shaped blur that ran around the festival yelling into a walkie-talkie. Steve asked if I could come in to their new offices to chat about this year’s festival and meet with himself and Stephanie. I agreed to meet in the afternoon and started laying out the tools needed to groom my tragic hipster moustache.

I arrived at the address Steve had given me and rang the doorbell. A thin girl with the well-honed smile of a publicist greeted me. She motioned for me to be quiet and pointed around at the vast columns of books precariously stacked against the walls, explaining that they couldn’t afford to hire a new receptionist after the last avalanche buried her. The door slammed behind me and the girl’s face turned a colour called ‘hint of panic’. She covered her head with her arms and remained perfectly still. A faint papery rumble emanated from the walls and a loud crashing sound could be heard in an adjacent room. The girl exhaled in relief, commenting that it sounded like the young fiction pile and that we could still make it to Steve’s office, but it might take a little longer.

As we quietly walked through the office she introduced herself as Juliette, the new marketing manager for the festival. We engaged in small talk and I explained that I was looking forward to meeting Steve and Stephanie. She coughed nervously and changed topic, asking me where I bought my moustache. I was about to explain that I had grown it myself when she got on to her hands and knees and climbed through a small hole in a stack of non-fiction paperbacks. I crouched down and followed her through the tunnel.

After about ten minutes I came out of the bookish hole into a clearing. I stood up and wiped the dust from the shins of my trousers. Juliette pointed to a wooden door. Then she kissed me on the cheek before wiping away the beginnings of a tear. She dived back into the hole and I stood there looking at the door. I knocked and a small voice from inside invited me in. I walked inside to find a surprisingly neat office. Steve was sitting behind a large wooden desk. He smiled warmly at me. I walked over to shake his hand and when he stood up I noticed his shirt was pulled up to his nipples. Protruding from the side of his abdomen was a bulbous fleshy growth about the size of a Samoan bouncer’s head. Someone had scribbled big red lips and some eyes on the bloated bubble of skin that was sticking out of Steve’s torso.

Steve shook my hand and then gestured to the growth and told me that this was Stephanie, his stomach ulcer. They met at last year’s festival. Stephanie was helping with the preparations for this year, but purely in a consultary capacity. His eyes indicated that I should say hello to her. I offered my hand. Steve shook his head and made a kissing motion with his lips. I slowly bent across the desk and tried to commit as little of my lip to Stephanie’s cheek as possible. Steve seemed pleased, explaining that Stephanie had really grown into the role in her time there.

Steve looked at Stephanie and asked her whether they should tell me the news. I think she must have said yes, because he explained that they were keen to get me to come back again this year and be an official blogger for the festival. I thought back to the less than erotic dream I had earlier and decided that the Melbourne Writers Festival could be just the thing to give my life some much needed excitement. I told them I would be delighted to be a part of the team once more. Steve smiled brightly and Stephanie gave a wobble of approval. He raised his hand and eagerly high-fived me, welcoming me back to the team. I smiled at Stephanie and slapped her loudly in the best approximation of a high-five I could give her. Steve recoiled, screaming in horror. He asked why I hit Stephanie in the face and whether I thought it was OK to hit a woman. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Steve told me I had better go.

I got up and walked to the door, looking behind me to see Steve holding some tissues up to Stephanie’s face and gently patting her. I wanted to apologise, but I wasn’t quite sure how to address a stomach ulcer. I shut the door behind me and I could hear him consoling Stephanie from within. I haven’t heard from Steve yet, so I’m not sure if I still have the job or not, but I keep getting these late night calls. I don’t hear a voice on the other line, just the faintest wobbling sound.

Writer/illustrator/person-in-residence?

Reif Larsen and Steve Grimwade

Reif Larsen is one of MWF’s daily writers-in-residence appearing at the Federation Square Atrium. He spent the early part of this afternoon luring innocent members of the public into the surrealist game of Exquisite Corpse, in which players write or draw something as a prompt for the next player. Even Steve Grimwade, the second-busiest person on site, joined in momentarily. Reif is the author/illustrator hybrid of The Selected Works of TS Spivet, a beautiful illustrated novel that tells the story of a 12-year-old mapmaker. Reif will also appear in Debut with Style tomorrow at 1pm and in conversation on Saturday at 10 am. He is very sweet and may ask you to draw a picture for him.

Estelle Tang, 3000 BOOKS
Festival Blogger

Too much to think?

Ever wondered to yourself “What on Earth were they thinking?”
If so, you now have the chance to speculate on the ruminations of the awfully large brains that make the MWF so utterly wonderful. During the course of this busy week, you will see a large fluffy cloud of pure thought floating from person to person. The challenge I issue forth to you good reader, is to submit what you think the person in the photograph is thinking. The most amusing entry will get their musings placed smack dab in middle of a thought bubble. Sweet deal.

Basically give us your thoughts on what their thoughts are. Happy thinking.

Steve Grimwade: Associate Director of the MWF and dapper fellow

Monday thoughts

Melbourne in autumn makes my heart sing. I come to work past the Domain, the War Memorial barely visible through the mist and the trees in full autumnal glory. Then I get to my office which is much less romantic. Boxes of books & manuscripts make it look like we are packed up ready to go somewhere. No such luck.

Fabulous news yesterday about Christos Tsiolkas winning the Commonwealth Writers Prize 2009 for The Slap. Normally author photos are reserved, reflective and passive so I loved the photo of Christos in The Age – he was full of life, action and joy. It was a pleasure just to look at him enjoying his win. The Slap is a disturbing book in that it lays open all our prejudices and conditioning. Set in contemporary Melbourne it is a ‘must read’.  I gobbled it up over one weekend and I can highly recommend it for bookclubs – you’ll never stop arguing once you read The Slap. We are thrilled that Christos is coming to the festival after too long an absence.

Steve Grimwade and I decided that we should get new PR photos this year (mine was 6 years old) and we ended up looking like good cop/bad cop. Steve’s photos are all austere and severe whilst mine are, unsurprisingly, blowsy.  Always optimistic I’m sure that my photos are going to make me look gorgeous, 25 and model-slim. Oddly enough they don’t. Given the poor material she had to work with (and I’m talking about myself here, not Steve) Ponch Hawkes has done wonders.

Rosemary
Festival Director