That Australians have turned to local libraries in record numbers comes as no surprise. I’ve just returned from a speaking tour of regional and outer suburban libraries which reinforced in me the unquantifiable community value of these institutions.

I’ve rarely felt more connected to readers than during these two weeks. Perhaps this shouldn’t be a surprise given the remarkable bond between libraries and the readers they serve highlighted in the latest Australian public libraries statistical report.

From 2023 to 2024 there were 88m in-person visits (up 10%) to libraries, while people borrowed 119m physical and 55m digital items. Libraries delivered 409,000 programs nationally for more than 7 million participants.

So, take one beige sedan, two ageing blokes (the crime novelist Michael Brissenden and me) each with a new novel, a 3,200km road trip and a vague idea of what we might discuss on any given day – and you have some idea of our library crawl.

An informal routine quickly evolved into gentle, good-humoured needling (“I like the way you two take the piss out of one another in a sort-of kind way,” one man said.) It probably made for greater insight than at events where a stranger might do a solo Q&A interview with us.

Some evenings, 100 or more people came. At morning and lunchtime events perhaps 30 or 40. Many were members of book clubs and writing groups. So many questions were about writing practice.

Do you set a daily word limit? How long to get that first draft? What’s the hardest thing about finishing a manuscript? Do you plot? Do you know what characters will do next?

I’ve rarely been asked such questions at writers’ festivals or bookshop events where questions usually focus on identity and social, psychological and emotional themes. But given the opportunity (“ask us anything”) even readers with no ambition to write were curious in a “how-the-sausage-is-made” way.

Libraries have changed. They are no longer the funereal, silent and earnest places of my childhood, school and university days. In the sleepiest towns I found bustling, architecturally conspicuous, light-filled places eager for conversations about books and writing. Most attenders were proud habitués, deeply thankful for the relationship to literature and books (in all forms) libraries afforded.

These were so clearly vital community hubs, their offerings a strong social glue. It was impossible in some places we stopped not to notice the marginalised people drawn to their free collections, services (free wifi), events and welcoming climate-controlled spaces. The library, this reminded me, doesn’t judge. It is a profound social leveller – the egalitarian micro-community within greater society. Anyone can come, join up, borrow any book, have a cup of tea and eyeball a couple of weary writers bang on about what they might or mightn’t know about writing.

Sitting in the front row one morning was a young man with a tote bag full of books he was borrowing. He had already bought both ours, had half-read one and would be on to the other by evening.

“I have epilepsy so I can’t watch TV – but I love stories,” he explained. “So I just read books all of the time. The library is my absolute lifeline.”

Another young man, a Peter Temple fan, said: “I’ve a story to tell about my mental illness – about how I healed. Can you tell me how to start writing?”

A young woman: “My novel is about a victim of abuse who can’t quite get the knack of mothering. Would anyone ever be interested in that?”

It’s always heartening – and sometimes daunting – to meet readers who have read your work.

“I want to know,” one woman asked about the protagonist in my book, “why you’ve made such a hard time for Ben – he’s such a lovely man and you’ve made things so very tough for him.”

At another event a man wanted to know if Michael was going to reprise Sid Allen, a character from his first and second novels. “I want him in another book, please,” the man said.

We both read from our books. My reading featured Ben arriving in an outback town, The Leap, in a light plane, then wandering outside the aerodrome expecting to see a taxi (there wasn’t one).

A bloke in the front row cocked his head attentively. “I’ve spent a lot of time in outback communities,” he said (I held my breath for the criticism). “So you got that bit right – there’s never a taxi!”

Some days when attendance was relatively small we sold many books. At other events with bigger numbers, far fewer.

We often heard, “I haven’t bought your book – but I’m on the wait-list to borrow it. Then I’ll tell everyone about it.”

Counterintuitively for an author on a publicity tour, this felt more affirming than a sale.

For it went to the heart of a unique place where libraries, books, readers and writers can coalesce.

• Paul Daley is a Guardian Australia columnist