On Monday, June 26, I went to my first reading in Shanghai. Australian authors Geraldine Brooks and Melina Marchetta read, spoke, and answered questions at the very swanky Glamour Bar on the Bund. (And when I say swanky, I mean swanky...the view from the terrace is one of the best in Shanghai. It overlooks the Huangpu River and hot damn, what a view!)

Brooks, if you haven’t heard, won the Pulitzer back in April for her newest novel, “March.” And Marchetta is a wildly successful YA author who continues to win prize after prize for her on-the-mark novels for teens. It was a curious pairing; the only thing the writers really shared was the fact that they were both originally from Australia. While both their work is well-crafted and well-recognized, they are so different they don’t really fit in the same room. I suppose in some ways, the writers balanced one another’s energy; in other ways, they knocked about like bowling pins after a strike. Marchetta is lively and vociferous. She leans forward when she talks and tells all kinds of funny details about her process and her teaching and her path. Brooks is more serious. She’s had quite a career, first as a journalist and now as an author. She’s thoughtful and deliberate in her words. I could have listened to her share tales about her creative journey for a good while longer than we were offered. It was too short, but wonderfully nourishing.

The timing for the reading was perfect, too. For the past few weeks, I’ve been obsessing a bit about creative identity. As I work to build a writing community in a country where I’m a minority and don’t speak the language, I sometimes feel like I’ve lost my identity. But if I push through the loneliness that comes from sitting alone with my work, I know that’s not really true...what’s true is that I’m growing a new part of my identity. It’s just not easy or painless. No matter where I’ve lived (D.C., Chicago, NY, the ranch, Newburyport), I’ve always been comfortable in my creative self, both internally and externally. But when I moved to China where I didn’t know a soul, that all changed. Suddenly, I was totally dependent on what was inside of me. I didn’t have writer friends I could call up on a whim, meet for coffee and a quick critique of a story or an essay. I’ve started a new novel and thus far, there’s been no one with whom I can sit and yak about character development or structure. I’ve discovered that’s a really important part of my process. But I’m getting there. The reading, in addition to nourishing my need for gorgeous writing and like minds, led me to a few writers here in Shanghai. My community begins to grow.