In the limelight

Photographers huddle in the rain, in the sun, under brollies and awnings and every single day, every thirty minutes or so, an author creeps from the yurt - often bashfully - to have his or her photo taken. There's a nice little area set up just behind the press pod, a backdrop of carpet held up by what looks like scaffolding poles, expertly put together by our magnificent site team and made to resemble a mini outdoor studio. And it is here those bashful authors pose for the cameras. This isn't the most comfortable moment of their visit of course - writers by nature are quite unlike the luvvies of the show-biz world - courting the limelight and showing-off in front of the cameras isn't really their style. I should add that there are of course some notable exceptions to this but I shan't divulge details... So, it takes a skillful photographer to come up with beautiful and interesting shots of our authors especially as the subject is available for no more than a few minutes before being whisked off to do their event. Murdo MacLeod is one such photographer - have a look at his brilliant photo montage from this year's Book Festival. Make sure you view it with speakers as he's also included a soundtrack of event excerpts to accompany the images: http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/audioslideshow/2009/aug/27/edinburghfestival

Questions and mobiles

Events usually end with a Q & A session: house lights go up, hands fly in the air (or worse, don't) and front of house people sprint about with roving microphones. Audiences have the chance to ask the burning questions they've been chewing on ever since they clapped eyes on an author's work, and sometimes these can be very surprising indeed. 'Would you two care to come for dinner and talk to my grandchildren about history? You'd be very welcome.' and: 'Your shoes are wonderful. I wonder where they're from.'

Other spontaneous material comes from the dreaded sound of a mobile phone going off; despite the chairperson threatening custard pies in the face in the event of such a crime, there's often a gentle bleat to be heard somewhere in a tent, followed by a reddening face and a deft scurry into pockets or handbags. On one occasion, an author responded to those shrill tones with, 'Oh just answer it. I'd love you to tell them you're busy, but I'm not sure how engaged you really are', while a children's author stilled a teenage fan's embarrassment by squealing, 'oh, it's your dad! Let me speak to him! Serve him right for phoning in the middle!' Brings to mind the lovely story about the Queen, doing walkabout and stopping with one lady, whose phone proceeded to go off. 'Answer it', urged the Queen. 'Might be someone important.'

Stookies, spy-pens, and the sound of rejoicing.

Not many people get welcomed into the Book Festival with a round of applause. But then not many people are Helen: unofficial queen of the yurt, she has been sadly out of action, and barely-even-walking wounded, after having been involved in an accident.

But now, stookie proudly on show, she has made a quick-stop visit, to refresh us in our sleepy and every-so-slightly frayed festival state.

Stylish enough to refrain from the usual sharpie marker-ed slogans across her leg, Helen will have a stookie covered in nothing less than MAGIC SPY PEN INK. Yes, that is right, ladies and gentleman, pick up your jaws from the floor. Whatever you could conceive of, the Book Festival will provide.

The pens are easy to operate: a UV light illuminates invisible ink. Promotional material for Michael Buckley's 'Nerds', they are quite simply the most marvellous piece of writing apparatus I have ever encountered.

But back to Helen. Wired up with a site radio, and raring to go, she is surrounded by a packet of Jellybabies who look a bit like courtiers, and swathes of authors and chairpeople whom she barely knows but who have heard all about her. From a distance it looks like some subtley gothic tableau of an unusual family day out.

And that is the best thing about this place. The best thing about a twenty-four-hour-a-day village of last minute requests, even more last minute changes, and frustrating IT, and mud, and endless tea, and food snatched in not-quite-quiet-just-less-frenetic moments, and the thrum and drone of conversation containing words as wonderful to roll on your tongue as pebbles washed by the sea are to roll in your palms.

The family that emerges from the commas in between these things. That is the best thing we have. The 'good-nights' on the radio. The people who pop out to buy lunch and will bring you back a curry. The staff party. The way the staff share their jumpers. The cutting-out or emailing of things we know the other people will like. The letting other people catch a wink of sleep on a sofa, and not waking them up, not even when there is gossip to be shared.

And Helen, even in absentia, is proper, important, wonderful family. And we are very, very glad that she's ok, and rocking her stookie with unflappable glamour.

More 2009 Author Events Online

We've just added another 8 audio events from the Festival for you to download.

New authors featured are Sharon Olds, Jackie Kay, Alasdair Gray, Kate Summerscale, Jacqueline Wilson (listen to the fantastic audience welcome!), Tracy Chevalier, Irvine Welsh (contains strong language) and Narinder Dhami.

Despite all these new authors, web stats say Louise Rennison is the most popular author so far today, although that may be visitors looking for this years event - currently we only have her 2007 event - otherwise Jackie Kay is the most popular so far.

More soon.

Look at our beautiful things.

Do you ever wonder what life would be like if it was entirely composed out of snatches of overheard conversation?

It might be a little like this:

'May I compliment you - you have a wonderful wife.'

'Buttons for eyes, no wonder he can't sleep at night.'

'No, I took the night bus, in order to spy on the owls.'

'It is alright my darling. He died, but he turned into an elf.'

'Inspiration? Inspiration? No, just a cigarette for me.'

'Wonderful audience, wonderful workshop and now...wonderful whiskey for me.'

"'Don't they have a section about true life when its really miserable, like when people put babies in cupboards...'

'And then they turn into wizards?'

'No, not Harry Potter: painful life fiction. No wizards. More crying.'"

"'Do you think the short story is dead?'
'No'
'Really? Why?'
'I write short stories. For a living.'"

'Can you let me know when the participants for the Peter Rabbit event arrive? You'll know them, they're the ones with the ears, the lettuce, and the distinctive spring in their step.'

'Can I just leave this here for a moment? Its only inflatable snakes and catfood.'

'Please don't let anyone open this door. I'm just popping into the luggage shed to put some proper clothes on.'

See? Life is distinctly more fun when experienced in literary soundbites.

Appetite for Writing

I’ve just spent the last couple of days making sure that the Creative Writing Expo went smoothly – a chance for editors, agents and the general public to hear some of the great writing coming out of Scotland. We had a delicious lunch reception to give the writers and publishers time to mingle – thank you Appetite for the spicy prawns and strawberry tarts. All involved seemed to have a good time, and the high quality of the writing got as many compliments as the food.

The event reminded me of my very first Book Festival launch party, five years ago. Itchy Coo were launching their Scots picture book Katie’s Coo (delicious free ice-cream) and had a life-sized cow that moo-ed for the children to play with. ‘Secret service’-style bodyguards swooped in to check out the Party Pavilion before First Minister Jack McConnell arrived to launch the book. The most memorable line from them – “The First Minister will pat the cow; the First Minister will not milk the cow.” Not even the hint of a smile…

Parmesan and poetry

Yesterday, day 11 in Charlotte Square and a list! To the gardens, to the press pod (spotted en route: Russell Brand teetering on cowboy boot heels surrounded by massive entourage; heart-shaped balloon scudding along South Bridge): banana and chocolate chip cupcakes, courtesy of freelance journalist (and domestic goddess?) Senay Boztas. Good start! 6.30pm; sun; then rain, suddenly; vast, snaking queues for Shirley Williams' event, then poet Tim Turnbull, met on the walkway, drinking coffee in preparation for the long drive north and home, having just performed his most unutterably sad sack routine at Utter, had one punter tell him that the sky still in place was reason to be happy, following that. To the Studio Theatre for the 2nd Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition ceremony - and how fab to see poetry competitions given such a platform: 2 runners up - Kiwi Laura Solomon and Edinburgh-based Diana Hendry, 3rd: Sheenagh Pugh; 2nd: Emily Hasler; 1st: Paul Batchelor, for the very lovely 'Comeuppance', a poem about his grandmother's superstitions (there's now more about the winners on the Vital Synz website). Speaking of grandparents, in the middle of the post-event reception, a quick call to my grandfather on his 83rd birthday - he requested a few bars of the Fields of Athenry - I obliged: if you witnessed this, I wasn't being Irish, drunk and maudlin - just singing a birthday present down the phone, as you do. Meanwhile, back at t'party: Valvona and Crolla goodies - we applauded the parmesan on retro sticks and mini pizzas, nice red and fine chat from Emma Turnbull and Nat Edwards, prize-winning poets Paul (and brilliantly be-striped partner Rachael of Inpress Books) and Diana (and partner Hamish Whyte) and Emily Hasler and judge Polly Clark. To the Yurt, to warm our hands by the fireside, to admire David Bishop's shoes and Sam Kelly's dress, to muse upon the question, can writing really be taught? and to congratulate Loïs 'Logocop' Wolffe on the many lovely parties. A phone call: press pod's Claudia: come to Bramble! 'Mint 500'. 'Gin and Jam'. Something with bananas and liquor, all in stemmed china cups. So it was that the night ended as poetical and bananas and lovely as it had begun.