Text: Author Sessions by Matthew Condon - read the blog here

MEETING THE LOCAL WRITERS:

Townsville.

On the first evening of our odyssey we were graciously invited to speak with members of WITS, or Writers in Townsville Society, an august group with an almost quarter-century history (as opposed to the brash newcomers, WOTS, or Writers of Townsville Society). The WITS at least sounded like they could be humorous and droll. The WOTS, we presumed, were a little more esoteric and perhaps a bunch of talented nihilists (WOT? WOT?). But apparently there's little friction between the WITS and the WOTS.

We ambled a short distance from our hotel to the Townsville Motor and Yacht Club, attractively signposted by a small fishing vessel balanced precariously on a tall pole, and stepped into the city's vibrant writing community. We mingled in the formal meeting room, a short distance from the bar, where local sea dogs drank beer and stared through wide windows at dozens of moored craft. Perhaps they were writers too, writers of the sea, of salt and brine, and needed not the rigid tableaux of tables and microphones, but preferred to compose alone, looking into the frothy wake of an ale.

After ordering dinner (as a perenial measure of semi-rural hospitality, all meals seemed far too big for the plate – Belinda had to send her rack of lamb back to the kitchen, where someone found a chainsaw to parcel it into more mouth-friendly portions) local writer Kerry's book was launched by the local councillor and former local cop, and we each read from our work and discussed the craft. All were attentive. The questions were far-reaching and complex. WITS vice-president and prodigy Narkesh explained his intricate survival system – how to write and financially remain bouyant; a problem familiar to all writers on earth. He had worked out a fantastically creative way to study, the lecture and tutor, to work at the Telstra complaints call centre and to write his fiction while remaining sane. We wondered if his talents extended to a little freelance accounting, and would have hired him on the spot.

It was a brilliant and witty evening. The last we saw of Narkesh, he was wing-dinging into the Townsville night on his little scooter, tooting his horn as he went, puttering into a new system, devising a new angle, changing gears on a short story in his head.

Greg continued to pine for a dry martini. There were no martinis to be had on this night.

Charters Towers.

Who ever called this town Charlie's Trousers?

After a raucous welcome at the train station, we quickly stashed our bags at the Enterprise Hotel across the road and were whisked off to the local library for another session. When we arrived there was a small but not insubstantial queue waiting outside the beautifully restored building. The town, funnily, had a bookish feel to it. A place where recording events, life, anecdotes had always been important. It seemed to have a swagger about it, Charlie's Trousers, a healthy confidence. You'd have to be confident to call your local theatre The World. A town with a theatre called The World just might have a martini in it.

Greg decided we should begin the session with a Q&A segment, and take it from there. It was a master stroke. The first question – when do you reach a point when you can call yourself 'a writer' – took over half an hour to discuss and ultimately answer. The rest of the session grew organically, and interestingly, from there. The session covered an enormous amount of territory, from publication through to the complex art of 'recognising' ideas suitable for utilising in fiction. The session crowd was diverse in experience and age. There were writers at various stages in their careers. We'd gone for more than two hours before we knew it.

It was a remarkable session for a variety of reasons. The writers felt there was a genuine dialogue with the local writers. It was theoretical and practical in equal measure. Everyone went away inspired.

Greg was still unable to make contact with a dry martini.

Cloncurry.

We'd received an advance whisper that the crowd at the literary event in Cloncurry, Clonkers or 'the Curry', might not be significant. Can you blame them? There was a bareknuckle boxing match happening over at the train station, so who'd want to talk about books on this clear, cool Thursday night?

In the library we met our audience. A handful of young schoolchildren eager to learn about writing, to be writers, to have a career as a writer. There was Sam and Lachlan Irvine, a brotherly writing team, and Hannah-May Bradley, who'd just completed another short story to her satisfaction. (She'd submitted it for a prize at the local show.)

It was not what we expected, the crowd, but as it transpired it was probably the most inspiring and touching session of the week. Here were seriously talented young girls and boys who had a genuine passion for writing. Their work was phenomenal. Their ideas fresh and alive.

Belinda ultimately posted some examples of their work, with some audio, for the Q150 website, in essence, publishing these young writers for the first time on the world wide web.

The following morning, as we were boarding the train for Mount Isa, we received a hand-written thank you letter from young Hannah. She said the session had inspired her to become a better writer.

Holding that note, it made you understand instantly why we'd come out west in the first place.