I once remarked to my publisher that the Green Room at Hay, with its eclectic mix of writers from all around the publishing world, must be a vision of author heaven. ‘Or depending who’s there,’ he grinned, ‘a vision of author hell…’
But for me, the Hay Festival has always been Elysian. Apart from the time my 3-year-old daughter trod on Jung Chang’s foot in the Ladies’ loo. When I imagined meeting my literary idol, an incontinent toddler didn’t feature in that publishing paradise.
I first came three years ago, clutching a box of self-published books that had only just arrived in time for me to launch them at Hay. It was my first festival performance and my first attempt at selling my book and I didn’t know whether anyone would have the remotest interest in either. Fortunately, they did and I was invited back in 2015. By this time, Who Let the Gods Out had sold 2,500 copies and it was during this Hay that my soon-to- be-publishers Chicken House contacted me to say they’d like a chat…
This year, three years to the day since my first appearance, I was back for the schools’ programme. The glorious weather might have rendered my performance a Bikram Yoga class, but it was joyful to be part of it. To hear 500 schoolchildren screaming as if Harry Styles appeared on stage with a kitten was just invigorating. To see them rush to the bookshop and queue for an hour or two to meet we sweaty authors was a privilege. To witness thousands of children finding a sunny spot to rejoice in their new book was blissful.
And if that isn’t heaven, I don’t need another. I’ll just watch my step in the Ladies.