Most people who go to literary events judge them by how well the writer performs. Does she say anything new? Does she sound fresh or on autopilot? Does she read with gusto or in a monotone? Does she answer questions openly or act like she has something to hide? Does she make a connection with the audience or is she thinking about dinner? Can you actually hear her?

These are legitimate questions, and the answers depend partly on the writer’s personality and partly on how prepared she is. It’s painful to witness a shy writer thrust into the limelight, but these days it’s hard for writers to refuse to do the publicity expected of them. It does help if they’re prepared, however. It drives me wild when a writer enacts the too-cool-for-school approach of not being prepared, as that might make it look like they actually care. So they flip through their book muttering, “Hmm, should I read this bit or that bit?” Whatever they do read is unedited, unrehearsed and generally impossible to follow. They look like idiots and alienate the audience.

I have to say, such performers are often men. For better or worse, women are trained to care about what others think, and want audiences to have a good experience. So we work at it: we edit what we’re reading so it works out loud, we rehearse it to make it easier to follow. We speak up, and at the Q&A we try to sound spontaneous and pleased to answer, even if we’ve heard the question many times before. We try to give of ourselves. At the signing, we make eye contact.

But that’s a good event for you the reader. What about from my point of view? Funny enough, it’s rarely the event itself that’s the problem. I almost always get energy from an audience and have fun doing it, even if I do end up repeating myself. No, what’s hard are all the logistics surrounding events: the long, lonely train or plane trips to and from the venue; the relentless beige/grey/mushroom colour of most hotel rooms, no matter how expensive; the stale sandwiches wolfed down in a corner; the endless parade of strangers, which is exhausting even when they’re all friendly.

We also don’t like feeling we’re cogs in a machine: reading at a bookstore where as we leave they’re hyper-efficiently replacing our poster with one for the event the next day; leaving our festival reading to walk past the audience already lined up for the next event.

What writers do like are events where we’re looked after, and feel special. Two recent events I did achieved this beautifully. The first was at a festival at Charleston, a house in the English countryside near Brighton where Virginia Woolf’s painter sister Vanessa Bell and her husband and lovers lived in various combinations. The house was decorated by its inhabitants and has a wonderful shabby-chic feel about it. We writers were given a tour of the house, and then lunch and tea in the original kitchen, with delicious food and a wonderful variety of literary folk drifting in and out. We were also given a voucher to spend at the gift shop. I took home a scarf designed by Virginia Woolf’s grand-niece Cressida Bell. Every time I wear that scarf I’ll think fondly of that charmed day.

The second event was at the literary festival at Althorp, the country estate owned by the Spencer family, famous because Princess Diana is buried there. Writers and their partners were invited to stay overnight at the house before doing their event. I had a glorious pink suite with mismatched old furniture and a huge bathtub I could stretch out completely in. We had the run of the house, and I had fun poking around in the huge library and seeing lots of paintings. Earl Spencer hosted a barbeque, and was humble and kind and good company, as well as an excellent chooser of wine. I loved it, as I did Charleston, because both made me feel unique rather than simply another producer of a “product.” I would go back in a flash if either invited me again.