Every August for the last 10 years – except during covid – there would be three days in my diary highlighted in fluorescent pen – the annual Byron Writers Festival. In the lead-up I’d rummage through the hardcopy guide marking off sessions to attend. I’d also leave room for the sessions I’d meander into just as an author was reading an extract that called to me; I discovered some of my favourite writers in the mystery of the latter.
The festival had a personal angle for me too. It was my debut public event after five years in near-hibernation during a spell with chronic fatigue syndrome. I can still sense the buzz of excitement and the tears that fell into my smile as I walked towards the large white tents that warm August day in 2014.
I was part of the big wide world again. One day, I promised, it would be me with my book on the stage. As I skipped over puddles of dirty water leaving the 2024 event I felt none of that.
It was as if my dreams had sunk into the mud beneath my feet. While that first festival marked the time between illness and wellness, this festival marked the time between my before-life and my after-life. Initially I thought it was October 7 that did it for me, but that was only the entree.
The main course came within the same large white tents where I had hoped to belong, actually, where I thought I already belonged. It started with the program. This year instead of marking must-go-to sessions, I marked the most potentially antisemitic; the ones .