Brisbane Writer’s Festival this week. It was busy, busy, busy. It was awesome. I met loads of people, editors, publishers, writers. Loads of people. Good people, smart people, hungry people and people with issues, beyond problems with their writing by the way.
I heard lots of writers talking, some really good, some not. Heard a few readings and even did one at the Fringe, where, apparently, like willies at a urinal, all the cool young dudes were hanging out.
I also attended a couple of master classes and a mistress class, if you count the hottie diligently trying to teach a difficult group about modes of telling.
Now I could have helped myself. My reading wasn’t about football fiction – it was about two men on a mountain who’ve run out of toilet paper. Other than me raising it, I didn’t hear a person other than myself writing, reading, talking or who even knew anything about football fiction.
In fact when I mentioned that it’s fast becoming a genre in its own right (via this blog obviously) the listener buckled. Not with shock or awe or even pleasant surprise. Laughter. Feckin’ laughter.
I know. Hey I really don’t mind, but seriously talk about having the laces taken out of your boots.
If the reader could regard this blog as an appeal to those among us that think football fiction can be funny but not completely laughable I’d sure appreciate it. Like I said the Fesrtival was awesome - maybe I should do something about the lack of football fiction on the agenda?
And to the laugher at all things football fictive, I think the message is clear.