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Chasing Pages: A Journey Through the Savannah Book Festival • Lexi Hentschel Pile the authors high at the annual book fest event

My feet slapped the pavement as I hurried my way down the shady Savannah, Georgia, street. The sun was beating down, my forehead gleaming with sweat. I squinted into the distance searching for any indication I was getting closer to the book festival that the little old lady – whom I had met earlier that day – had told me about.

When I came across this kind lady, I noticed that her bright blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Dangling from her walker was a thin canvas tote bag, proudly emblazoned with “The Savannah Book Festival.” She had bought her tote bag from a book festival the year prior and was in the process of scanning her map to figure out how to get to this year’s location. As I offered to assist her with directions, she detailed the glories of the festival, her words a symphony to my senses. I wanted to experience this book festival, as it would be my first one.
        
After receiving the information about the festival, I rushed down the uneven sidewalk, glancing at the directions on my phone to ensure I was on the book trail, nearly tripping over the uneven bricks. The grey hair on the mossy oaks towering above my head was swaying in the light breeze, causing patches of shade to dance around the sidewalk beneath my feet. Eventually, I started to make out the faint outline of a tent and crowds of people in the distance. After a few more minutes of walking (more like skipping) toward the festival, I arrived, finally.

Large white tents occupied the center of a luscious green park where the same swaying oak trees dangled above my head and the breeze wafted lightly through the densely occupied space. Vibrant food trucks boasting delicious dishes and emitting mouth-watering scents formed a circle around the festival. Large crowds of book lovers, looking like the blobs of land dotted around a history teacher’s globe, buzzed throughout.

Bright yellow banners clung to the front of the white tents, advertising “Author Signings” and “Book Sales” in the tents below. The latter I was expecting; you can’t have a book festival without selling books. I mean, that’s the appeal. The book-crazed always long to buy tomes. What I was not expecting, however, was to encounter authors with well-known works, inspiring an out-of-body experience that made me wish to be like them.

As I took in my surroundings, I noticed bibliophiles from all walks of life: elderly with their walkers (the sweet old lady was hanging around the festival, too), ladies meandering with their friends, men being dragged around by their wives, young children running circles around their parents’ legs, and single festival-goers moseying around with their headphones in.

I made my way first over to the tent labeled “Book Sales.” The tent provided a much-needed reprieve from the sweltering heat of the sun, with large fans keeping the air flowing comfortably and the books from wilting in the humidity. In the tent were six tables, each piled high with colorful books. The faint smell of sweat and warm book pages filled the tent.

Making my way slowly around the first table, I found clusters of books from the same author. Three authors occupied a single table. From the comments I read plastered across the book covers, most books were new releases. Many were thrillers, boasting mysterious covers enticing me to enter if I dare. Others were self-help books, promising a more fulfilling life if I deigned to read it. And there were the few stray essayists, trying to tell their stories amongst the noise.

I wondered why certain copies sold out quicker than others and couldn’t help but feel a little cheated that not all books were still available for purchase. Nevertheless, throughout the tent, I moved from table to table, picking up and putting down books like the changing of the guard. There were so many to choose from, and they were so expensive, and I just couldn’t make up my mind.

Eventually, my parents came to retrieve me, so I was forced to decide. I opted for a heavy hardback book about family struggles and identity, and a book of nonfiction pieces from an essayist. Different genres of books than what I usually read, but I guess I was feeling adventurous that day. *These are the titles I bought

Checking out with my new books, I wandered over to the other large yellow sign advertising “Author Signings.” At the tables were eager authors with their trusty pens poised, ready to sign copies upon copies of their books.

I wonder what it’s like to be a person whose autograph is heavily sought? Something as simple as a tag assigned to you at birth – your name – becomes so valuable. I closed my eyes and pictured what it would be like to be “an author.”

In the end, I didn’t get my books signed. The authors at the festival were not familiar to me, so their signature had no meaning. However, that day at the festival I gained something more valuable than any name in cheap Sharpie marker could ever be: books bring me joy. Books are where I’m meant to be, and book people are whom I’m meant to be with. 

© Lexi Hentschel 4.8.25
Lexi is a senior at the College of Charleston pursuing an English degree.

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