The Lasting Value of a Writing Retreat
How one week away kept on giving
On the day I impulsively signed up for a writing retreat, I second guessed myself for three hours straight. I was late making dinner and late walking the dog. I was a practical person and needed to justify the time and expense.
I spotted the advertisement, by one of my favorite authors, at a vulnerable time. The book I’d been writing was at a standstill and I couldn’t figure out the problem. My writing had started to feel unwieldy; I was losing my way. I craved encouragement, someone to reassure me I wasn’t wasting my time. I was sure my situation was predisposing me to an early midlife crisis; I’d planned on writing being the cornerstone of my new identity but now harbored doubts.
I ultimately signed up because I had this idea that the teacher would reveal something about her particular secrets of writing. Maybe she’d even offer me feedback, I reasoned, maybe she’d cheer me on.
Once I arrived at the workshop, three months later, my hopefulness screeched to a halt. By the second day, I realized the teacher gave no feedback at all. She said Zen inspired things like there is no good, no bad. I did not turn out to be an exception which was disappointing. She made clear that the reason we were there was to practice writing which alarmed me. I hadn’t gone to practice. She…
