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about~ My first assignment for Professional and Creative Communication this year at uni was to do a participant-observation piece about Writers' Week, which was on two weeks ago. Basically, a short creative writing piece giving the atmosphere of the event, so that's what this is. story~ Dark green leaves shimmer silver in the warm afternoon sunlight, casting welcome shade on the gathering under the trees’ hushing canopies, a veritable oasis beside the desert of the parade grounds. Plastic chairs are arranged in rows on the lawn; any under the direct gaze of the sun burn bright white against the lush green of the grass, and any that benefit from the shade of the trees are occupied by an absorbed listener. Flower gardens spread out all around me. Behind, the gently bobbing heads of delicate roses. In front, flowers of every variety, displayed proudly on a number of straw hats, and interspersed with heads of cotton wool. It’s a proudly South Australian event. Four varieties of Coopers ale are sold at the beverages tent, and a choice of wines from the Yalumba Estate. Few people actually partake in any of the local liquor, despite the rather warm day, but what surprises me most is that neither are they complaining about the exorbitant prices of the local produce. We haven’t come for the alcohol, rather the wonderful array of authors who have come to converse with us about their books, their writing, their lives. At the front of the tent this hour, James Bradbury paints a picture in stark contrast to the warm, early autumn day in the northern Adelaide parklands. As far as we’re concerned, we are in a cold, stark room of a morgue in nineteenth century London, watching as the doctor removes the brain from a recently deceased corpse. The garden of flowers on straw hats sits enthralled, heads cocked to one side as though to listen better. I had expected to glance around and see looks of disgust, maybe slight discomfort at the very least, but there is none of this. They are as captivated by the words as they would be sitting by the fire with the book in their hands. This straw hat garden clearly knows what it is here to listen to. The clear and carefully enunciated reading drifts off, and the garden has to wait for a moment to draw themselves back to the north parklands before they applaud, nodding and murmuring to each other in approval. Mum leans over to me and mentions she might have to buy this book. I can’t help but grin at this. That’s Mothers’ Day easily sorted for the year. Post a comment in response: |
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