FESTIVE OCCASION
Steve Braunias advertises his presence at a literary festival.
Reproduced with kind permission of author and Sunday Star Times.

Everybody who is anybody in New Zealand literature will appear at this month’s Auckland Writers and Readers literary festival, apart from Lloyd Jones, Emily Perkins, Chad Taylor, CK Stead, Keri Hulme, Bill Manhire, Owen Marshall, Brian Turner, Glenn Colquhoun, Patricia Grace, Sam Hunt, Charlotte Grimshaw, Kevin Ireland, and Maurice Gee, but everybody else will be there.

It promises to be glamorous, high-minded, inspirational. International guests include JM Coetzee and Anne Enright. Sponsors include Delmaine Fine Foods and Talk of Turkey Carpets. But someone is needed to lower the tone. I am appearing at three separate events.

The invitation from festival organisers is timely. I have a new book to flog. Roosters I Have Known - $30, available in all good bookshops and possibly at the poultry section in supermarkets – contains 26 portraits of eminent New Zealanders, and John Key. The cover is very attractive. The design is elegant and precise. I have no opinion about the actual content and only hope that my appearances at the festival will boost sales above 26 copies.
Even so, I tried to wriggle out of an invite to discuss writing columns. I was extremely resistant and put up one hell of a fight. It’s not my cup of tea, I said. Oh go on, they replied. Alright, I answered.

One event is billed as a threat: An Hour with Steve Braunias. Another is a panel discussion called Books Left on Busses, which refers to the kinds of books you find so embarassingly bad that you deliberately leave it on a bus. The festival programme notes, “Book signing takes place immediately following each event.” I am only slightly concerned that Roosters I Have Known will be left on a bus immediately following the signing.

But it should be fun. I like a literary festival. An attentive and technically adept crowd are expected. From the festival programme’s notes about the venue: “The ASB Theatre has an individual loop system with good coverage for all seats. Patrons can tune to the signal by setting their hearing aids to the T position.”

I have also read the fine print of my contract. A story has been doing the rounds about novelist Ian McEwan, who recently appeared at the International Arts Festival in Wellington; apparently his contract stipulated that he must not drink any alcohol 12 hours before his appearance. Thankfully no such agreement has been drawn up at the Auckland festival. I always need a drink to settle my nerves whenever I take the stage. Preferably on the stage.

The festival runs for four days; there are 62 separate events; diverse and fabulous talents are thick on the ground. Elizabeth Knox will be there - she may be the only New Zealand writer possessed of genius. James McNeish will be there - his non-fiction reads more excitingly than most novels.

Hutt Valley teacher Bernard Beckett will be there – a brilliant young-adult fiction writer, his book Genesis recently sold to a British publisher for 100,000 quid, and will also be translated into Norwegian, Spanish, French, Italian and, thrillingly, Canadian.
Other guests include Roger Hall, Fiona Samuel, Peter Wells, Kate de Goldi, Paula Morris, Stephanie Johnson, Witi Ihimaera and Kapka Kassabova. It promises to be convivial.

There is an amusing mistaken notion that New Zealand writers are forever engaging in feuds. The unsensational fact of the matter is that almost everyone is kind, generous, and supportive. A recent ceremony at Auckland University served as a moving reminder.
Honorary doctorates in literature were presented to Vincent O’Sullivan and Robin Dudding. O’Sullivan was very much alive, cracking jokes and dispensing good grace as he put up with the amazing pomp and ceremony of the presentation – doffed caps, chants in Latin, a windy speech by an orator.

But Dudding had died earlier in the week. He was 72. He was probably the most gifted literary editor in the history of New Zealand letters. In a 1992 interview with Iain Sharp, Bill Manhire said, “I think Robin Dudding is a very important figure in New Zealand writing, and at some stage someone will have to sit down and try to work out just what his presence consists of, apart from the considerable beard.”
He was a lovely man and his contribution to writing in this country is preserved in issues of literary journals Landfall and Islands. As editor, he encouraged and promoted most everybody who is anybody in New Zealand writing. Islands was his great achievement; in 1972, he became its founder and publisher. He coaxed the only autobiographical writing out of Maurice Gee, an entire issue published Ian Wedde’s first novel Dick Seddon’s Great Dive, there were cover designs by Ralph Hotere and Pat Hanley.
It was hard work. It was not what you might call lucrative. In the June 1981 issue, Dudding wrote, “National or multi-national concerns interested in underwriting Islands: please don’t hesitate to contact the editor.” They hesitated. The journal folded. Dudding relaunched it; it folded again, in 1987. It had been a selfless pursuit, kept going by his love of good writing and his stubborn sense of endurance, and crafted with rare intelligence and wit. Manhire: “I think every issue he did had a centre to it. You felt like you were reading a book rather than just a gathering of things.” Every issue was its own festival.