Melbourne Writer's Festival: Future of the Book

Today we are most honoured to be joined by Hackpacker, who sends us this missive fresh from the Melbourne Book Festival, as part of our duelling blogs series. Thursday the MWF got all digital. There were sessions dedicated to marketing in the info age and showing off the latest e-readers. I got along to three sessions but the whole day proved too much of a test of stamina and battery life. The opening was called the State of Digital Publishing. Victoria Nash and Elizabeth Weiss grappled with the huge subject from the publisher point of view. They were concerned about the rise of the $9.99 e-book and how it had pushed them into what Elizabeth refererred to as "Get all out books out there and have them competing" mentality. Victoria mentioned piracy and how they saw it as "protecting our authors' copyright and obviously our revenues". It all looked very industry-focussed and I felt like the author was out of the picture. Thirty minutes in Bob Stein got a word in about the future. He pointed out that more than a million books are available on public domain and that the book industry was facing the same challenges that video and music had online. He characterised it as seeing the book as something unique that allowed it "a free pass - I actually think it's going to be worse". It wasn't all grim as cloud computing would change the way we read and Bob pointed to newer shorter forms of writing that would thrive in this environment. Get your flash fiction ready now. The marketing session was interesting - apparently it's all about community and SEO. But no-one really had a good way to monetise community. Lonely Planet pointed to blogsherpa (sharing traffic with bloggers rather than pays them) and their new groups. While Brett Osmond pointed to sucesses they'd had like a Where the Wild Things Are Facebook page which offered fans (more than 40,000 of them last look) of the book new content. I couldn't help but thinking that a major movie might have pushed up the fan numbers a tad. The AirBourne project Random House conducted looked amazing with 28 chapters contributed by users and the whole manuscript bookended by thriller writer James Patterson. But again it was called "a marketing exercise" rather than a big moneyspinner. Thank god for Liner Notes' Thriller edition which ended the day on a high. Nick Earls mashed up Beat It with Masterchef while managing to sidestep Weird Al Yankovic's Eat It. But Melbourne's own shone out with Emily Zoey Baker doing a Jeff Goldblum impersonation, Sean M Whelan working his poetic alchemy on "Ma ma se mama sa ma ma coo sa" until the phrase had a new meaning and Ben Pobje told us how long lost twins getting it on was all part of Human Nature. A fitting tribute to the King of Pop that brought tears to the eye.

Books and Brits

My first Edinburgh Book Festival gig (the first I was let into anyway) was to see Ian Jack, who was impressively articulate and perceptive, as well as pleasingly rumpled, as a journalist shoud be. I could have happily listened to him chat with the venerable Ruth Wishart for some time, as I think could have the rest of the audience. Alas, it was not to be.The audience was completely white, mostly middle-aged, and entered with a kind of furrow-browed earnestness that said 'I'm not here to enjoy myself, my national identity is at stake.' It was wall-to-wall tweed and natural fibres. Until, that is, the speakers arrived. Enter stage left a very slim woman with perfect make-up, a blonde bob with edges as sharp as a knife, a short, red, body-hugging dress, heels and a broad patent leather belt. She had to be American.

She writes for the New York Times, apparently, but I have never read her. For a start,I don't read columnists in newspapers. If you want to witter on about nothing start a blog, I say. I did. I see no place for it in a publication whose function purports to be news. At least that's what I think until someone offers me a column, at which point I will be wholly and enthusiatically in favour.

Judging ONLY from the appearance at the Festival, one would conclude that her column consists of amusing little observations about those whacky English with their sexual hang-ups and refusal to use the word 'toilet' in polite company(really?). The overall impression was that she probably came from a part of New York that was solely inhabited by well-educated white people, and upon marrying an Englishman, now lives in an area of London solely inhabited by public-school educated white folk. Apparently, they love their dogs but have trouble expressing their emotions to humans. Well blow me down with a fucking feather.

Well, good luck to her, if she can manage to get a gig at Edinburgh festival to promote her collection of columns, she is clearly destined for great things. I am not sure that being part of a session billed as being a discussion of Britishness was the right place for her, though. In fact, having only glimpsed America through the prism of Vegas and Arizona (see above mentioned blog), I am not sure she was even going to be much use in a discussion of American identity. She claimed, among other things, that Americans - unlike the British - become Americans when they arrive on those shores, whereas the British are always looking back to their origins and staying exactly who they were in the first place (those naughty fundamentalist Pakistanis were cited as evidence).

The tweedy audience, feeling increasing hurrumphy, kept her on her toes. They have been quite feisty this year. One pointed out that both on the stage seemed to be speaking solely about some white, Christain, tea-and-biscuits version of Britain that no longer existed, if it ever had. Another pointed out that in her 15 years of living in America the people she met were constantly referring to themselves as 'Irish' or 'Italian', when in fact that had not been the case for four generations.'Well,' our American friend replied.'People got very interested in their heritage after Roots was on television.'

Please.

One small editorial note on the program. It described her take on the English as 'waspish' when they clearly meant to say 'W.A.S.Pish'. Regardless, the most eloquent statement of national identity remained the appearance of the red dress and the shiny shiny black belt.

Held Breath

Hackpacker just sent me a copy of the fiction issue of the (Australian) Big Issue where he takes his rightful place amongst the short fictionistas with his story Held Breath.

I thought I was going to miss it, not being there to collect my issue and all, so I am eternally grateful. Its fantastic to see this fabulous story in print, all taut and neat and beautifully written. And it made me cry. Again. I mean this in a good way. As The Troggs would say, Hackpacker, I think you move me.

And how good is it that the Big Issue did a short fiction edition? Well done!

P.S. Hackpacker also sent me a guide to finding all the Deuchars I want in Edinburgh. Beer and excellent short fiction. Can you conceive of a better package?

Thanks!

Homecoming Queen

It's the Year of Homecoming here in Scotland. Three hundred events are scheduled between Burns Day on the 25 January through to November. Pageantry, pipers and tartan abound.

The official line is that the Homecoming Year will recognise and celebrate a unique cultural heritage and welcome "home" the estimated 100 million people in the world with a 'blood link' to Scotland.

It has also been pointed out that it is a good way for Alex Salmond, Scotland's First Minister, to incite a little nationalist fervour and further cement the Scottish National Party as the natural government of choice. Besides, finding another reason to fleece the tourists by offloading shitloads of tartan, whisky and Loch Ness monster hats never goes astray, especially when there is a recession lurking in the wings.

It has not gone unnoticed that many of these ancient traditions are in fact a Victorian invention, conjured up by Sir Walter Scott. Ever on the lookout for a good promotional opportunity, when the George IV came north for a "King's Jaunt" in 1822 Scott went out of his way to ensure that there was never a dull moment. As Stuart Kelly points out in his article (well worth a read), the grand tradition of fleecing tourists for over-priced tartan was born: the King paid the modern equivalent of £1,123,750 for his.

One of the biggest Homecoming events was the Clan Gathering (25-26 July). Hordes of visitors from New Zealand, USA, Australia, Germany, Canada (among others) wearing little laminated access passes flooded into to Holyrood Park. Despite the fact that J had spent the morning grumbling to his barber about the whole thing being a 'pile of pants' I made him trek into the Old Town to watch the parade at the end. A parade's a parade, after all. Besides, what better way to start to get my head around all this clan business?

Each clan carried a sign, like at the Olympics, and the names were announced by loudspeaker. The leaders were usually all tartaned up, but various codes of dress applied thereafter. Americans sported bum-bags, shades and tartan bandanas. A Maori sported a full set of facial tattoos and traditional ceremonial cloak. Everyone was waving, a few were staggering, some of the old folk looked like it may well be one parade too many.

Many 'homecomers' from the diaspora had brought their own ornate banners to declare their allegiance. In general, the non-Scots were looking either baffled or delighted to the point of tears. One large American man marched up the middle of the street waving to the crowd and, with his hand on his heart, kept announcing "I've come home! I've come home!" John Michie of Taggart fame was spotted in the front line of one group, and the crowd greeting him with an spontaneous chorus of "There's been a murrrrrderrrrrr!" It was a warm and warm and sunny evening, pipe bands were playing Scotland the Brave ad infinitum and people were waving and giving a a little cheer when their own clan passed by.

Suddenly the laughing was replaced by a loud, resounding and quite sustained booing. The Campbells had arrived.

Its a long and complicated story (see a short account courtesty of the BBC. Wikipedia has a longer one), but basically Campbell soldiers were being housed and fed under the laws of highland hospitality by a bunch of McDonalds who had failed, despite attempts, to declare allegiance to the King William of Orange by the specified deadline. The Campbell lads had been sharing the houses of the McDonalds for 12 days when they received the order to kill. On the night of February 13, thirty-eight McDonalds were slaughtered in their beds, with many others perishing when they fled into the blizzard outside.

The Massacre of Glen Coe, as it is now known, occured in 1692, but apparently there is at least one pub in the are that display a notice that they accept 'No Hawkers or Campbells'.

The booing was reasonably good natured, but it was there. It was the booing, as much as the pipe bands, that made you believe that Scottish history is alive and well.

A Novice’s Guide to Edinburgh in August

1. It will rain

Persistently. In 2008, it rained every day, for the whole month. As a newcomer, I found this a little excessive. ‘Of course it’s raining,’ said my companion, ’It’s August. It always rains in August’. So why do the good burgers of Edinburgh invite the world to visit in the rainiest month possible? Well, it’s good weather for indoor pursuits. My own theory is that the arrival of legions of professional entertainers is planned specifically to stop the sun-deprived, vitamin-D deficient locals from throwing themselves in a lemming-esque unison from The Crags in damp despair. Bring an umbrella.

2. "I'm sorry, that was the July price"

According to Edinburgh’s Evening News, a record number of residents are putting their homes up for rental during the Festival. Rents are about two-and-a-half times the normal rate during Festival season. Those creatures you see in the alleyways are not zombie’s, but sleep deprived young locals with kinks in their necks from sleeping on their parent’s couch while they make the equivalent of four months’ wages renting out their inner-city flats to tourists.

3. There’s a little problem with transport.

Edinburgh is building a little tram line. Though modest by comparison to the networks of Lisbon or Melbourne, it is causing chaos of truly gargantuan proportions, including very many large holes in the ground and closure of the main thoroughfare of Princes Street. In the city centre, there are streets completely blocked to cars, buses temporarily diverted to alternative routes, and things suddenly going one-way that never have before. Temporary barriers and fencing feature heavily. It’s not all bad news, though. Getting around on foot is fine, and most Festival venues are within walking distance of each other. It is hilly here, though, so allow an extra ten minutes for resting half way up the hills if your gym membership has lapsed. If you get bored, you can play a quick game of ‘where’s my bus stop today’ to fill in the time.

4. You’re not the only person that thought this was a good idea.

During the Festival, the population of the city swells like a boil to twice its usual size. For those who live here and are accustomed to getting from A to B at their own pace with very little difficulty, Festival time can be a teensy bit trying. The pedestrian traffic jam that occurs all year around the statue of Greyfriars’ Bobby spreads like a tumour through the Old Town, until every tiny precipitous Close is bulging with bum-bags and Gortex. You may only see one t-shirt that says ‘Get out of my way: I live here,’ but you will see a few faces wearing the same message (including mine, I must admit). If they look like they actually have a normal job and are trying to get to work on time, it’s polite to oblige.

5. You will miss stuff you really want to see

Unless of course, you can swing some weird science and do some cloning or something. This is the key festival go-ers dilemma. With the Fringe, Book, International, Art Festival, Mela and the Comedy Festivals, and probably a few others I have forgotten, all going on in August, even the most anal planners among you will have timetabling clashes. It’s that good. Just remember that for every acclaimed genius, there are probably about three undiscovered ones at bargain basement prices testing their wings in some small venue around the corner, waiting just for you.

6. You will see stuff you really want to miss

I am thinking here chiefly of hen’s parties, bucks parties, and divorce parties. These tend to congregate around the Cowgate area. If you see a large fibreglass cow’s arse sticking out of a high wall, you are in the zone. The hen’s parties tend to feature stretch limos, little headdresses of sparkly stars wobbling on springs, feather boas, and a lot of hot pink and bling. The current fashion for buck’s nights seems to be dressing up in plastic superhero costumes. Both often involve specially printed commemorative t-shirts, and so much alcohol that any attempt in conversation from those outside the circle is doomed to fail.

7. There will be singing.

People do it quite a lot, here, particularly blokes after a few pints, and not necessarily because they are good at it. Football season starts half way though August so there’s months worth of pent up football songs waiting for lusty release. Bear this and the festival-time extended licences in mind if you are an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type are deciding between a room next to a pub and a room next to a haberdashers. (Tip: If you want to join in, make sure have the right song for the right pub. Many are shared territory, but singing Hibs songs in a Hearts pub is foolish. A Celtic song in a Rangers pub is downright suicidal. )

8. You will have a great time.

Chances are that everyone you meet will be having one too. Everyone is getting festive (festering?), and it’s infectious. Every theatre, church hall, school annex, nook and cranny hides a performance, some bizarre, some mystifying, but many truly remarkable.

9. There is respite.

If the unbridled hilarity all gets too much, you won’t have to go too far for respite. Take a walk up to Calton Hill or, if you are fitter and more ambitious, up to Arthur’s Seat and check out the 360 degree views. Chill out in The Meadows, or play a spot of golf at Bruntsfield Links. For a bit of quiet art, take a walk along the Water of Lieth and Visit Dean’s Gallery and the Gallery of Modern Art, or just slip into the National Galleries on The Mound, right in the heart of town. All are free.

Before you leave, pick a vantage point, like George IV Bridge, and take a moment to look at the city. It is handsome, grandiose, and ornate. With the medieval labyrinths of the Old Town and the clean Georgian lines of the New, plenty of fiddly Victoriana thrown in, and all perched on a dramatic steepled landscape, there’s plenty to look at.

10. Yes, they do wear kilts.

For those of you unfamiliar with the British Isles, this is not just something Prince Charles does when he’s trying to get down with the Provinces, but a standard form of formal dress. If you see a chap in the pub wearing a kilt, chances are he is on his way to a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) formal dinner, wedding, or a funeral. Or he might just be on his way to a rugby International. Unless he is one of the pipers busking outside St Giles Cathedral or the station, he is not doing it for entertainment. And no, he probably doesn’t want his picture taken.

http://www.edinburghfestivals.co.uk

WWW.EIF.CO.UK

http://www.edfringe.com

WWW.EDBOOKFEST.CO.UK

WWW.EDINBURGH-MELA.CO.UK

WWW.EDINBURGHARTFESTIVAL.ORG