The Fangirl

With literary stars and kimono-shaped culottes

In the first hour of the course I fill seven pages of a Leuchtterm1917 B5 notebook. The woman beside me writes two sentences in a small leather-bound book. During the break I ask if she is based in the city. She says no, she travelled from another city. What type of writing are you working on, I ask. Oh, I’m not a writer, she says, I love Claire’s books.

Ah, a fangirl. When I asked author N, about the merits of taking this course she told me there’d be fangirls, that her own mother and her mother’s friend were kind of fangirls too.

Did I sign up because it’s Claire? Well, yes. But not as a fangirl, not me. I heard Claire say in an interview that she could afford to give up teaching but won’t because she loves it and because she gives good writing advice, and there’s a lot of bad writing advice. Right away I search for Claire Keegan and teaching. And right away I see she will be teaching in my nearest city the very next week. It must be full, surely, so late in the day. But I hear back quickly, there’s a place for me. Send payment and sign the agreement that you won’t record or publish video or audio from the event and you’ll be in.

What do you get with the course, asked a friend. You get the course, I answered. And I like that, respect that. No inclusions or upsell needed. The thing is the thing.

Yet when it comes time to send money, things have a way of getting real. For the same amount I could buy half a sofa or a red-eye return trip to Bali. Will this help me? Or do I simply want to say I was there?

Last year, I went to see Jodi, because it was Jodi Picoult, even though I’d never read any of her books until the week before. For the equivalent of five coffees and a book, I heard the talk, got the photo and a chat with a slice of motivation.

On Valentine’s night I met David, lined up for more than an hour to chat with him, because he’s David Sedaris. On stage he made notes on the works in progress stories he performed. Between forkfuls of his late dinner at the signing table, David looked up at me and asked what’s stopping me? ‘Oh you know, life’ which feels lame when you are in front of a prolific writer who spends their spare time voluntarily picking up litter from roadsides. As I turn to leave, David says, ‘I like your dress.’ I smile. Electric blue with a Versace type of swirl, and complimented by the guy at the jazz concert, the woman at the Graham Norton show, and now David.

Later I wish I’d told David how much I loved his cream kimono-shaped Comme des Garçons culottes.

Before bed, I open the book in which he has inscribed. ‘To Marian. Work harder. David Sedaris.’

By the first lunch break at Claire’s course, I’ve made 16 pages of notes about how fiction works, structure nerd that I am, and meet a woman who is about to retire and says writing might be what she does next.

After the lunch break, Claire says she’ll sign books at the end of the day. But because this is a course and I am not a fangirl, my copies of Claire’s books have been left back in my room.

On the next day I sit next to a man using a tablet to make notes and diagrams and annotate the texts we’ve read. Meanwhile I juggle an iPad, pens, a notebook, books, and photocopies. He asks Claire a thoughtful question. So I ask him what he is writing, expecting him to say he’s writing a novel but for now he writes for his government job.

I think of that sundress I had in a print of Cinque Terre hillside terraces and a cerulean sky, the dress Elizabeth Gilbert told me she loved.

Once, long before Richard Flanagan won Booker Prize, I lined up to have a book signed, or more accurately, to speak with Richard. On stage he’d said journalism is a journey outwards from the heart where you report only what you find whereas a novel is a journey into your own soul, where you seek to discover those things you share with all others. I told Richard I was a journalist grappling to turn my boat around towards fiction. His reply made complete sense but I can only recall his striking blue eyes. As he picked up his pen and bent his head to inscribe the book, I shushed myself, somehow. Then he put his pen down, shut the book and slid it back towards me, those blue eyes looking at me as we thanked one another. Out of sight by a tree grove, I opened the book to the title page where he had written:

For Marian

Wishing you all the best for the journey home

Richard Flanagan

I remember that course years ago with DBC Pierre. For four hours he was a raconteur, minus a whisky tumbler. My friend beside me was appalled, her orderly notetaking unable to contain Dirty But Clean’s orbital tales of self. He landed back on earth with 30 minutes to go with a story arc diagram I would refer to for years. And I remember that night, arriving at a party venue in the same moment as DBC, and him saying ‘shall we’ as he offered me his arm to escort me in to the party. As we approached the resception desk a woman looked up and exclaimed ‘I know who you are’ then bypassed the past Booker Prize winner, and said to me,‘You’re Amy’s mum.’

On the final day of the course I am replete with Claire’s good writing advice yet don’t want it to end. I brought my copies of her books to be signed; small things like these won’t weigh me down. Once signed,they join the books in my library that I will not lend to anyone, ever, the precious collection of an unashamed fangirl.

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