Now booking our Haven Writing Retreats Montana 2016 calendar!
February 24-28 (full with wait list)
That I can go for hours and not speak and don’t miss it at all (and that comes from someone who makes a living speaking).
That when I’m this tuned in to my characters, they start talking to me in my dreams.
That when I’m this tuned in to my characters, they start telling the story, even when I don’t want them to take the direction they want to go. Best to trust them.
That taking a walk on a personal writing retreat, with nothing else on your mind (family, kids, friends, career, bills, taxes) means that you are writing as you wander. And when you get back to your book, you have much to transcribe.
Same with eating.
Same with bathing.
That I can write in a noisy café, even though I live in the silence of Montana. There are no distractions when you are deeply into your material. Even when they’re renovating a Victorian across the alley.
That even if you have support for your writing from your loved ones and colleagues…no one is going to do this for you. No one is going to give you this time, pay for it, kick you out the door. And if you actually have someone like that in your life, it’s still you and your book wherever you go. You have choices in that space. Make good ones. (Ie: stay away from buttons unless they are on your computer, in your book document)
That the voice in my head which helps me make those choices is kind. When I’m at home, that voice is not necessarily kind. It’s usually frustrated and short on temper and so it often sounds more like a football coach. In this solitary, suspended, writing space…she is loving and gentle. She says things like, “You can do this. Good for you. Open your heart. Tune into your intuition. You know where this book needs to go.” I’m going to bring her home with me.
That I get a lot of exercise and eat really great food when I’m in this space. At home I often don’t get any exercise at all, besides chopping vegetables, stirring, sweeping, making bag lunches, doing dishes, and folding laundry. And I often forget to eat. I’m going to bring this regime back home too.
That lollygagging in bookstores looking at coffee table books on artists, and going to art house indie matinees are things that I’ve stopped doing and they feed me profoundly. They are not just folly. And what’s wrong with a little folly anyway? Especially folly that feeds your muse. TV does not feed my muse. Reading the newspaper does not feed my muse. Watching Maggie Smith in “The Lady in the Van” does.
That this isn’t scary at all, this being alone with my muse and my book and its characters and plot. That I know exactly how to do this. That I’m not lonely in the least. That I honor and love my writing practice and it honors and loves me. That my creative well is deep and the water is life-sustaining. That tea is a gentle friend for this sort of experience. And the Bach Cello Suites. And Krishna Das. And Gregorian Chant. Same with Frankincense essential oil. And baths with lavender. And a small notebook and good ink pen that you leave by your bed, and keep in your purse.
That it’s okay to be in a major urban wonderland, and not see sites, friends, go to the newest trendy restaurant, the best show or exhibit, or to frankly leave the three blocks where you are staying. That all you need for this specific purpose, is faith. It’s not really about the writing, is it. If I said it’s about channeling the Divine, would that be too lofty? So what. It is. And sometimes we have to leave home to do just that. I’d like to bring that home with me too. We’ll see…