The Pleasant Torture Of Writer's Festivals

A few days ago I attended the 3rd Sutherland Shire Writers Festival at Gymea. The event promised a good line up of esteemed writers and illustrator's, most of them for children and teens. Bring on the fun!
The day did not pan out as I imagined however. After two excellent presentations by writers Oliver Phommavanh and Melina Marchetta, I had taken down some juicy notes and my head was brimming with ideas and writing wisdom.
No sooner had that finished than I had a manuscript consultation with author Sue Whiting of Walker Books.
No matter how lovely Sue is and that I have now met her half a dozen times, I still got so nervous touting my literary wares that my knees became caffeinated crabs under the desk and I had to speak through a nervously clenched jaw.If Sue felt any alarm or pity towards me, she thoughtfully hid it.
The advice I got was excellent. Amazing how you can read your piece 17 times and never notice obvious flaws until you sit in front of an editor- and they haven't even spoken yet!(It's like getting dressed in a posh frock, doing your hair and make-up and after some self-admiration in the mirror, you head out into the sun only to notice the big juice stain down your dress!)
Sue was encouraging and the appraisal was well worth the cost, but after I got out of there, I couldn't possibly face a workshop or more talks. If I can compare the moment (forgive my addiction to analogies) to being fed delicious hor d'ourves and they're bloody wonderful and you're scoffing them down, but they just keep coming and no matter how good, you just can't keep going.
Instead I walked outside into the heat and climbed up on a little wall like a jigging child. I thawed out from the air-con and flicked through my notes. I couldn't ignore the fact I was simply busting to write. There was nothing for it but to leave.
When my husband came home at lunchtime, he found me, with surprise on the computer.
HUSBAND-Oh you're home! Err...was the festival okay?
ME- Yeah, it was great! That's why I'm home and writing.
HUSBAND-Uh, okay.
And I'm afraid this is pretty much what happens to me every time at Festivals, but usually I stick it out, feeling nothing short of lobotomised at the end.
It would be just great at these shindigs if there were two hours of talks and then two hours of scribbling. Fill the jug, empty the jug.

Perhaps my jug is just too small!