Fiction more wondrous than truth for disillusioned literary groupies

WHEN the organisers contacted me and asked if I’d be interested in doing workshops at this year’s Listowel Writers’ Week, I thought about telling them I would consider it, but I was afraid they’d go off me and get someone else, so I said yes with such speed, it came close to tearing their arm off at the shoulder for the chance.

It was like being assumed into heaven. I’ve spent half my life hoping to be on their programme.

I’m a literary groupie. Always have been. Literary groupies dream of travelling business class on planes, not for the luxury or the chance of sitting beside Russell Crowe, but for the possibility of finding themselves close to an important writer. They just want to share the same air as writers they worship, to meet and touch and maybe even question one of the most important people in the world.