I'll Show Up

 

Terry here with our question of the week: Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined. 

My perfect writing retreat has to be imagined because it doesn’t exist. Or rather, maybe it exists for some male writers, but very few women writers. 

First of all, the ideal retreat is one that I don’t have to do anything to make happen. I just show up with my computer and a bag packed with essential clothing and toiletries. It can be the mountains or the seashore. An island. A cabin in the woods. The important thing is that I didn’t have to arrange it. I just show up. 

Next, food appears at intervals. The kind of food I like. I don’t have to plan the menu. I don’t have to shop. I don’t have to cook. The food just shows up. And there’s wine. Good wine. 

I have the cabin (or room in a big house) to myself. It has a private bath with a bathtub. It has a desk with a comfortable chair. The bed is comfortable. And my cat Max is there. He has a bed where he can curl up on my desk. I want a view. Woods. Or water (lake or seashore). Or mountains. And birds. Some squirrels. I can even have a bear, as long as it stays outside. I can go for walks and at night I can see the stars. 

 If I feel like listening to music, it’s right there, easily available. And I don’t have to listen to anyone else’s music. 

I have my computer, but I’m unable to get any news of the outside world. Period. The computer is strictly for writing. I don’t get emails or news reports. I have a phone, but it’s strictly for emergencies. No one calls me to ask if I want to buy 1,000 pens or contribute to a worthy cause. I don’t want to know who died—or who didn’t die. I don’t want to know what fresh hell has been perpetuated. 

The writers at the retreat (a handful at most) gather in the evening to talk about what we’ve written—or haven’t written. To talk about our challenges, our successes. We talk about writing. Period. Okay, we can talk about our families and pets—but it’s kept to a minimum. We don’t talk about our health. There are no complaints about the retreat because everything is perfect. The plumbing works. The electricity works. The heating and cooling are perfect. 

But most important, the words come. I write, and write, and write. Uninterrupted. Nobody wants anything from me. Nobody asks me where something is when it’s right in front of them. Nobody demands that I stop what I’m doing to listen to a complaint. 

I once read a lofty, male writer describe his writing day. He got up early and went to his office, a cabin in the woods behind his house. He wrote for several hours there and then he went back and had lunch and went for a walk. And then he returned to his office for a couple more hours. Then went back to the house for dinner, sometimes with friends. A lovely life. And I thought, “Right, and who exactly makes that happen? Who is behind the scenes making sure that the kids are fed and dressed and taken to school? Who shops for groceries and cooks the food? Who makes you a sandwich when you want your lunch? Who invites your friends for a lovely dinner party? Who makes sure you are undisturbed by such mundane problems as whether the disposal doesn’t work, or the kids have a doctor’s appointment, or the school wants something. Who keeps it all running seamlessly while you tap out your words? Who listens when the words aren’t going well?” 

All I want is one idyllic week. And I want the words to spring onto the page. 

Oddly enough, I had one such writers retreat many years ago. It was all arranged. All I had to do was pay for it. Except for the fact that my cat wasn’t there, and we never saw a bear, I’ve pretty much described the way it was.
I don’t know how the writer who arranged it managed to find such a perfect spot with a wonderful blend of writers, and a chef who made beautiful meals. But she did. I made long-term friends there, and have fond memories of the retreat. I'd like to do it again. 

Someone make it happen, please.