Stories, like people, need a place to gather, to grow. Without supportive conversation and critical discourse, our stories are simply reflections of a stagnant time, and we as writers, are at a loss. So where do we bring our stories? Where can we trudge them out like willful children in their best dress shoes and too-short-in-the-sleeves jackets to interact and build the ties that will allow them the kind of growth that benefits us all? We bring them to festivals.
At minimum, festivals are a way for us to meet our readers, to collect new readers, and to entertain readers. At best, festivals are the places where we have our rough edges smoothed by the flow of global story and our creative souls fulfilled. When a literary festival triumphs, it is a place where both happens at the same time, and you are too enamored and too engaged to even notice the hours it takes for this happen. This then is my Hay Festival experience.
I left the Queretaro with that unique feeling that my words were heard and new ones were coming. That feeling collects the spaces of your spine and makes you sit straighter. It itches the bottoms of your feet and makes you travel lighter. And now I am in Arequipa with these bright and brilliant points of literary light, ready for more genius, praying for more stories.