Tea in the Library (10 page)

The next year, I went along to the annual ABA conference in a Queensland resort. Tea In The Library had progressed a long way down the planning path, but I did not yet have a premises and there was a lot more to be done before it existed — temporally, anyway. In addition to the topical and technical seminars, which again absorbed me, this conference gave me a great chance to get to know the independent booksellers. Trust me — they are a fun group! The publishing people who brave this conference were also fun and interesting.

This conference was a watershed for me in one way, because it was where I had to front people in the book industry, and tell them I was about to open a bookshop. I was nervous about this at first, but was made to feel at ease surprisingly soon. I recall a discussion about the proposed name of my shop, with the owner of the engagingly-named shop in Brisbane, The Avid Reader, and a publisher from Penguin Books. We were sitting squashed in a little carriage of a motorized train, which the whole group had boarded for transport out to the resort's beach restaurant. The balmy Queensland night was closing in as we trundled through the rainforest, hanging on as the train negotiated the sandy track. The bookseller rather liked “Tea In The Library”. The publisher said he found “The Avid Reader” to be “a little breathless”, and my proposed name “twee”. He said that if he ever opened a bookshop, it would be called something manly and simple, like “Peter's Bookshop”. Since he has attended several booksellers' conferences, and seen the industry from the publishers' side, I don't suppose that “Peter's Bookshop” will ever open.

The following year, joy of joys, Tea In The Library had opened, and I could attend the annual ABA conference as a legitimate bookshop owner. The conference was held again in Queensland, at a resort hotel, and this time I took along Louise, my fledgling shop manager. Again I found the conference stimulating and useful, and also great fun. A feature every year was a “great debate” at the closing dinner, with a topical if inane question about the industry debated humorously by two teams of three booksellers, publishers & visiting authors. This has always been a lot of fun, and it is good to know that  these people could give up their day jobs if necessary, and make a living as comedians!

The final conference I attended (before the demise of Tea in The Library disqualified me) was the year it went to Canberra. I took along Emma this year — she was now managing the bookshop. The dinner at Old parliament House, with Don Watson giving the dinner address, and the subsequent adjournment to the Members' Bar, were memorable highlights.

There were many marvelous characters among the booksellers I met through the ABA. They were always so willing to help me with advice and practical solutions — I was humbled and amazed. Over a Chinese dinner after the NSW Chapter's monthly meetings, they were all happy to talk about the details of running their businesses. Sometimes the responses could be a little disconcerting. One vener-able — and successful — seller of children's books left me speechless when she told me confidentially, over the Mongolian lamb, that it was wonderful running a shop, because “there was always cash in the till when you needed it.”

Once, at dinner, I asked my neighbours at the table how long they thought it should take before a new shop broke even. The chap from Abbeys thought carefully and advised that it could take two to three years. A bookseller who, with his lively wife, ran two Angus & Robertson franchises on the Central Coast, was appalled. “But you must make a profit from day one! Otherwise, how can you survive?” Take your pick.

One terrific supporter of Tea In The Library from the booksellers' fraternity was Derek, the owner of Better Read Than Dead in Newtown. He was — probably still is — a tireless worker for the ABA, and much in demand as the MC at the conference functions, where his humour guaranteed a lively evening. At the ABA conferences, and through the publishers' reps, booksellers are often given uncorrected proofs, or prepublication copies of up-coming releases. The idea is that the front-line sellers will have read the book in advance and will therefore be in a good position to spruik it to their customers. At one conference, we were given copies of a new Dan Brown novel which was about to be released —
The Da Vinci Code.

“Have you read this yet?” asked Derek.

“No, not yet. What's it like?”

“Not bad. It should do OK.”

Early one damp May morning I sat, cappuccino in hand, at a table in the café at The Sydney Dance Company's rehearsal rooms, which occupy an old reclaimed wharf in the eastern precinct of Sydney Harbour. I had a newspaper insert in my hand, a schedule of the day's events, and I pored over it with anticipation and interest. The Dance Company lives in the lower level of the wharf, and the upper levels house the Sydney Theatre Company, two small theatres, and a restaurant. This particular wharf is one of several in a row, one now converted to luxurious apartments, another offices. They sit practically under the tall grey span of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, surrounded by water, with small craft tied up at the adjoining marina and huge vessels steaming close by as they negotiate the channels of the working harbour. I love this precinct
—
now with the new Sydney Theatre in a re-designed old warehouse across the road, plus the Philharmonic Choir's rehearsal rooms, and all kinds of “artsy” businesses and chic eateries springing up. The long, long wharves themselves, with their echoing walkways of old timbers, evoke a feeling of solidity and nostalgia. Kind of funky, too. An ideal venue for the Sydney Writers' Festival.

The SWF has boomed in popularity in recent years, and it is now hard to get into the “big name” events without buying a ticket in advance. But a few years ago, when I first started attending, part of the thrill was the adventure of just turning up, seeing what was happening, and joining in, wandering in and out of sessions, chatting with other aficionados, and spending the day at the wharf with like-minded souls and plenty of erudite and interesting speakers. You can still try this at the SWF, but expect forty thousand other people there too.

On this particular morning, I was circling in the schedule which authors I wanted to hear. I wandered in to a panel of Australian novelists, including Louis Nowra talking about his book set in the immigrant communities of Melbourne. I listened to a university professor argue cogently for his vision of an Australian republic seamlessly reconciled with its indigenous people. I heard with fascination a panel of overseas novelists tell us exactly what techniques they used to create tension in the writing of their thrillers
—
secrets from the experts! I was disappointed that Margaret Whitlam was unable to attend and talk about her latest book, but these things happen, and the Writers' Festival schedule can get a little fluid. In fact, as I was starting on my second cappuccino of the day, there was a surprise addition to the program
—
a book launch by then-aspiring politician, Mark Latham. And
—
wow!
—
it was to be launched by the Great Man himself, Margaret's husband Gough Whitlam. So I swiveled around in my seat and joined the crowd. Mark told an anecdote about the time when Gough was the local member in the electorate where Mark went to high school. In this capacity, he came along to make a speech at the end-of-year prize giving function, as local members are wont to do. It happened that Gough was Prime Minister at the time, and Mark was about eleven years old. The high school was an agricultural school, with many boarder students from the country. Their farmer parents were present at the prize-giving, and were not happy with a particular policy that Gough's government had recently implemented, so they booed and heckled him.

Mark said he thought at the time that it was amazing that people were allowed to boo and heckle the Prime Minister
—
“and now it's my job description!” Well, Mark Latham has since left politics with plenty of boos and heckles himself, but he is still writing books. They're selling quite well, too.

Each May I make sure I set aside several days to go along to the Writers' Festival. There is a buzzing atmosphere and just about everyone seems to love the stimulation of hearing interesting speakers on a huge range of topics, and the chance to ask questions, raise issues and make their own comments. I hadn't been long at my first festival before I thought “Our demographic!” All around me were people who would
love
Tea In The Library. I hatched plans to advertise in the festival program, and talked about the shop to everyone I met. If only we could funnel these people down to the shop, we'd have hit the mother lode of customers.

The festival organizers strike a deal with a particular bookshop to run the Festival temporary bookshop, sited down at the wharf 
—
and in the foyers of many other venues, as festival events are held around town. Dymocks, a large well-established chain, was the festival bookseller for many years, although the role has now been taken over by Gleebooks. I watched in fascination how this was managed 
—
what a virtuoso logistical exercise! The bookseller has to source all the books of all the writers at the festival (and there are several hundred). These are piled in high stacks in the temporary premises. Temporary phone lines and point-of-sale computers are set up on wobbly tables, extra staff are hired, and then the hoards of customers descend
—
usually all at once on the hour or half-hour as sessions come out. The authors are set up at tables to sign copies of their books, so everyone rushes out, forms a scrum to buy the book, and then queues to get it signed. As I surreptitiously watched just how the booksellers were doing, I saw many an anguished moment
—
fran-tic calls to book suppliers asking if they had just one spare carton of a particularly popular title that had sold out; the lines for credit facilities failing (“what's cash?” one queuing customer quipped). I must say I was in awe. I would go up and ask the young booksellers how things were going, when they were quiet and could chat, and received a few insights into just what a mammoth task it all was.

For the blithe attendee, the festival was stimulating fun! One morning at about 11.30am I decided to start with a white wine. “It's not too early, do you think?” I remarked to the server. “Oh no!” he responded. “We've sold a half a dozen bottles of wine already today, and Bob Ellis hasn't even arrived yet!” In addition to the celebrity authors, minor and major, who give the talks, the audience at the Writers' Festival is also often sprinkled with local personalities. Bob Ellis is an author himself, and a common attendee at the Festival, adding a pithy comment when the spirit moves him. (Bob is also a founding member of the Festival Board and a great supporter of it in many ways).

Over recent years, the readers attending on the writers have been privileged to hear from some impressive people. The winners of the Booker prize for the last few years have all been to Sydney to talk to us
—
DBC Pierre (
Vernon God Little
), Alan Hollingsworth (
The
Line Of Beauty
), and John Banville (
The Sea
). We've heard from half a dozen staff writers and editors of “The New Yorker” magazine; from fiery activists like Naomi Wolfe, David Suzuki and Tariq Ali; from great writers like Edmund White and Amy Tan; from poets and novelists from remote and exotic corners of the world, and many many local writers. We have heard our then State Premier, Bob Carr, a self-confessed history tragic, interview writers of history: “So why do you think Caesar
did
cross the Rubicon?” I was not alone in crying and laughing and crying alternately when Dr Maya Angelou joined us by satellite on a big screen from New York (being too elderly to travel), and was interviewed by our favourite interviewer-of-authors, Ramona Kaval. We have had literary lunches and afternoon teas with writers reading to us; live broadcasts from the festival café; book launches and prize-givings; and we filled the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall to listen for two hours to Alain de Botton, a writer of popular philosophy, of all things. He talked about architecture.