It was utterly thrilling to see so many people there.
Highlights: the gorgeous, self-deprecating and clever Emily Perkins, who has been a personal hero of mine since 1996, when I bought a copy of Not Her Real Name at the University of Otago bookshop when I was in my first year of university, discovering for the first time that studying books can sometimes ruin the pleasure of reading them. I needed something to realign myself back to the true course - of book-love and book-lore, and Perkins' debut collection of short stories, which seemed to talk to me about my life and yet transcended the mundane; well, it wouldn't be too much to say that it saved me.
The dapper, witty and wonderful Jeffrey Eugenides. Uncomparable. I was worried I wouldn't like him, given I love his books so much - to the extent that I considered, momentarily, not going to see him speak. Didn't want to see the feet of clay etc. But after a superb discussion of the future of the novel with Perkins, Eugenides, and Jolisa Gracewood, I was reassured. People, the future of the novel is in good hands.
Jolisa - she chaired that session like a pro, transforming the awkward space of the lower NZI room into a living room, booklined, in which the packed audience were grouped on comfy couches, utterly engaged with a riveting conversation about books, about life.
Rachael King, Paula Morris and Stephanie Johnson were also outstanding - for me, in the middle of attempting to tell a story well about the past, their insights, advice, and humour were invaluable. Rachael invoking her father Michael's wisdom about writing lives was, indeed, like calling up an ancestor; a talisman for the writer.
So much goodness! Now it is time for me to open the file, face the fear of the blank page, and write.