A blur. That’s what the past week has been, days gone past like hours, and like the leaf prints on sidewalks these days, it’s been a beautiful blur. Now that the good people of Victoria are bundled up again—against what we all knew was coming—they’re more comfortable. By all reports, most people here confess that they prefer to be swaddled gently in fleece and wool (but let it be known that I am not most). But oh, how they braved the elements last weekend, for the Victoria Writers Festival! In its reincarnation, it shone brightly, a joyous rebirth to an audience who seemed to be just waiting for its return. And what a festival! Our minds were teased and provoked, our hearts opened up, our hands warmed with so much applause for all the fine and talented writers who graced the stages. There was even a bit of writing going on, too, workshop-style. And comics art, too! And jazz!
I am proud to have been a part of it, as one of the three artistic directors, alongside the tireless Sara Cassidy and eloquent John Gould; from picking pumpkins to brighten the stage, to madly counting tickets, to holding the auditorium doors open for guests to depart, all of it was a labour of love for the written word, and this weekend, Victorians let us know that they share this love. Thank you, one and all, for your support and encouragement.
To hear stories and poems read aloud, to hear ideas bounce between writers, to have new ideas sprout in our heads, this is why we attend festivals, and this is why we brought this festival back. I’m already excited for next year’s bounty.
