Behind the scenes, on the velvet couches, amid the literary glamour of the Franschhoek Literary Festival Green Room, authors swapped stories, confessed anxieties, discussed murder, romance and surfing, and revealed the wonderfully chaotic human world behind the books.

The Green Room at the Franschhoek Literary Festival has very much a secret society energy. A kind of literary Freemasons vibe. Until, of course, this article blows the whole operation wide open.

It is plush in all the right ways: velvet couches, soft lighting, very good coffee, decadent snacks (I managed four slices of quiche in a single sitting, which feels both excessive and somehow entirely defensible in a literary context), a crackling fireplace and chilled wine permanently on tap. You get the picture.

Then there are the authors: prepping for panels, hiding from panels, lost in conversations, occasionally lost in actual books, but mostly there to vibe. And because everyone is briefly trapped there between sessions, the room becomes its own strange little ecosystem. Writers drift into conversations with each other, moderators and strangers.

You overhear things you desperately wish you could include in print. Philosophical debates over cups of tea. Mild emotional breakdowns near the rosé. Someone discussing murder over mini pastries. Someone else enlightening me on the romantasy genre in which a man with ten arms can apparently use his many hands to stroke... actually, never mind. This is not that kind of article.

I managed to...