As I’ve shared here many times in the past, I love taking the occasional writing getaway—sometimes by myself, sometimes with friends. Having the time and space, the detachment from work and family and household responsibilities, and a change of scene always works miracles in terms of my productivity.
At least, it always has before.
But this time, well, it didn’t. For the first time ever, I elected to come home early from a writing escape.
And here I am. Writing about it. (Ironic, no? Yes!)
What the hell happened? I’m not 100% sure. Maybe it was only being 40 minutes from home, up in Gloucester. (I adore Gloucester and all of Cape Ann, but…too close?) Perhaps it was the feng shui of the kooky little AirBnB cottage I stayed at…which was adorable and snug and weird in a good way, and yet something about it didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it was the light, or the layout, or the fact that it was very close to the owners’ house? (The owners were awesome). Maybe it was the low ceilings? I know this sounds awfully high-maintenance, but I’m very particular—and fickle—about my physical space when it comes to writing. I get strong, sudden feelings about where I need to be, which can change within hours or minutes.
I NEED TO BE AT A TABLE / DESK.
NO! I NEED TO BE IN A CHAIR WITH MY FEET UP.
I NEED TO WRITE WHILE LOOKING OUT A WINDOW.
DEAR GOD NO, I NEED TO WRITE FACING A WALL.
I CANNOT WRITE BETWEEN 1-3 PM UNLESS IT IS RAINING, HARD.
I NEED TO WRITE WHILE ENCLOSED IN A BURLAP SACK, AT THE EDGE OF A PIN OAK SWAMP, AT DAWN, WHILE A DOG BAYS IN THE DISTANCE AND THE SMELL OF GUNPOWDER LINGERS IN THE AIR. AND THERE’S GOING TO BE THAI FOOD FOR DINNER LATER.
So, could be that.
Or maybe it was the fact that I don’t have one single, big-ass project I’m working on right now. And for the past, oh, I don’t know, 15+ years I’ve always been working on a single big-ass project. I’ve done other smaller pieces along the way, too, obviously—essays and whatnot. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not working on a book in a focused way. I’m flirting with one. But treating it rather badly—stringing it along like a common trollope. Not bringing it flowers or giving my soul to it in the way that one ought.
It could also be the fact that there’s some personal stuff going on that has me feeling sad and stressed and a little bit lost. Maybe I thought I’d be able to retreat from all that for a few days as well, and not feel it so keenly. And that sort of happened. But….well. Not as much as I’d hoped. Funny how that works. Really, what felt far more right was to come home into the arms of my family.
In spite of all this, though, I still managed to take some nice, windblown walks by the sea. (I’m happiest when I’m either by the sea or high up in the mountains. Or in a burlap sack near a pin oak swamp.)
I felt righteous, proletarian disgust for mansions on the ocean that I’d kill to attend a fancy dinner party at.
I saw The Favourite (which was excellent) at a super-cool movie theater in downtown Gloucester where the seating was all couches and armchairs.
I had a lovely cocktail hour conversation with the hosts of the cottage, who were gracious and genuine and damned interesting.
I slept well. I ate dark chocolate with marzipan. I had a good cry.
And I am now very happy to be back home.
So: No regrets, only hopes that my next writing retreat, whenever it is, will be of the deliciously productive and satisfying sort that I love. I’m looking forward to it.
I love this piece along with your photos. I have confidence that your muse will be ignited soon and that you’ll write something extraordinary!
Thank you, Kathy!
Thank you! You may have felt uninspired, but you inspired me to elevate your beautiful picture of freezing salt water to the lofty status as my computer wallpaper. This great honor is — alas — just temporary. Pictures of my family will eventually reclaim that pride of place. In the meantime, please don’t tell them!
Thank you! I’m humbled to have the place of honor, albeit temporary. (And I promise I wont tell!)
Howdy. I’ve reached out to you before, because we were in Quetzaltenango together at one of those Spanish immersion schools in 1996, and you made enough of an impression on me that when I came across something you wrote, I knew you were the same person I had gone on a bus trip with to see a crazy shrine with a mannequin people left cigars and rum for.
And I’m writing now because I feel like I have a story brewing within me, and part of me wants to write it, but the other half says, “You dumb jerk, nobody wants to read your shit. Where do you get off thinking any self respecting publisher would ever even want to look at anything you coughed up onto the screen?”
And so I’m asking, how do you do it? Do you have a part of you within you that tells you that it’s a waste of time, that you’re bound to fail, and that you deserve to fail? If so, how do you fight it?
Part of the problem is the legacy of living most of my life with undiagnosed A.D.D., which led me to fail in many if not most of the things I ever tried my hand at, but another part is a dominant Quaker streak in my family and my blood that tells me that presuming to write something and then even think about getting it published is decidedly arrogant, and most unQuakerly.
If you have the time, and you’re willing, I’d like to talk to you sometime about how you find the guts not just to try to get something published, but to even think that what you write might be worthy of it, because it’s something that’s beyond me.
Come to my cottage in Michigan in the fall if Fernanda and I do our writing retreat again! Also a good place to take photos if you’re not struck by your writing muse.