This week’s question asks us to describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined.
Last night I dreamt I went to Wandsworth again.
Wandsworth House is a writers retreat. Never mind that I’ve never been on a writers retreat or to any place called Wandsworth, I just wanted to use that great opening line, which I came up with all by myself. Really!
In my dream, the retreat was to be a creative weekend spent in drafty old mansion on a desolate island off the Cornwall Coast. The house was accessible only via a diesel-belching launch piloted by a crusty old sea dog who squinted into the setting sun as if trying to remember where he’d left his hornpipe. There were nine other passengers on the boat—fellow writers, and, therefore, I hated them at first sight because, contrary to what writers say in public, writing IS indeed a zero-sum game and one scribbler’s smallest success is another one’s death. I knew them all by name and reputation, even if we hadn’t been introduced and nobody said anything to anyone else for the entirety of the crossing. The mood was tense, fraught with seething resentment and ill-concealed jealousy. Charon’s skiff transported a merrier lot than ours. But the prickly silence didn’t stop us from giving each other the stink eye. Nor did it prevent us (well, me) from silently impugning the literary talents of the assembled, as well as the morals and pulchritude of their mothers.
We got our first look at Wandsworth as Popeye the Sailor—I think that was his name—moored the boat at the quay on the island. The house was perched high on a hill, like a weathered bit of driftwood, yearning to return to the sea. Or maybe it just looked like it was falling apart. Kind of hard to tell from a distance.
Three of the passengers—ghost writers, so I never got their names—decided they didn’t like the looks of the place and said they’d changed their minds and wanted to go back to the mainland with Popeye. But the old sailor cackled and told them his orders “was” to drop us off and leave us there till Monday when he’d return to collect us if we “was” still alive. (He mumbled that last bit under his breath, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.)
So, with no other choice, we disembarked, climbed the mossy stone stairs of the quay to the shore where an estate car awaited. Not waiting for us, as things turned out. The car was just sitting there with four flat tires and a sheep dog sleeping in the back.
We trudged up the hill, each writer carrying a suitcase and a laptop, except for one hipster who actually had brought a portable typewriter. An old typewriter, too. Manual. Not even an IBM Selectric. What a poseur. And we found out later that he forgot to bring any paper along, so the weekend turned out to be a total bust for him.
When we finally reached Wandsworth House, we were greeted by a thin, gray butler who claimed he’d never met the master of the house, our host, Mr. Wandsworth. Not to fear, however, since the master of the house had left a 78-rpm record with detailed information about the weekend retreat. Alas, there was no gramophone in the house, so we had no idea of what we were supposed to do. The swag bag was a disappointment, too, with only one tube of generic exfoliating cream, a can of Mountain Dew, and a small bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. No cocaine at all!
Oh, well. The host never showed. But the butler’s wife cooked us some great meals, no one got murdered, and I stole three great ideas from other writers at the retreat.
The end
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