I like to share about my writing retreats on here (hopefully to inspire others!), and I just discovered my notes on our August retreat buried in the Notes app. Oops! In the spirit of better late than never, I’ll share a bit about the retreat itself in a separate post, and reflections on what writing retreats are actually for right here.
Back when I started doing these retreats several years ago, I put pressure on myself to achieve something with them. To return home with a prize, like the dog with the pheasant in its mouth. Usually I measured this “something” in word count. Those early retreats felt like more of a trade-off, a negotiation of household duties. My husband worked long hours while I served as the default parent. In return, he’d take a few days off work here and there to let me skip town and catch up on my writing.
I finished two book manuscripts this way. I also supported my extended family at a time when they appreciated my ability to check on the beach house once a month. My trips felt productive, both for family and creativity.
The tone has changed over the years, along with our individual situations and the world at large. I don’t feel needed at the beach house in the same way I did before. Folks have retired, obligations have shifted, and it’s occupied a lot more of the time now. I published the book I spent all those monthly visits drafting and editing. My husband changed jobs. Our kid got older. Our collective needs and responsibilities look a lot different than they did five years ago.
Restoration as much as productivity.
It took me a while to adjust to these changes’ effect on my writing retreats. I first noticed it during a different sort of retreat, back in September 2019. My best friend Oli and I met for our usual Monday-Thursday surfing and writing retreat.
However, this time he had more than writing on his mind. He was getting married that Sunday. Per Jewish tradition, he and his now-wife didn’t see each other for the week preceding the wedding. Some kerfuffle over the catering required him to make several attempts to contact the food vendor and nail down final details. He needed me for moral support and to help pass the time more than anything.
We had a truly beautiful week. The weather hit that mid-September sweet spot at the Jersey Shore, with abundant sun, aggressively pleasant temperatures, and at least one day of nice waves. Because my best friend was getting married, I set aside strict writing goals and made the week more about him and our friendship.
Our next retreat came in July 2020, when the whole world had changed. We still wrote together, at opposite ends of the table in the blue dining room. We let the surf remove the weight of the world from our shoulders for a few hours. We split our traditional two-foot-long veggie hoagie from Aversa’s. Despite some anxiety and extra effort in the prep and execution of this trip to ensure everyone felt safe covid-wise, our four days together were a balm for the soul.
But we didn’t write feverishly. In addition to getting our writing out every day, we also held each other accountable for a certain level of rest, friendship connection, and outside-world disconnection. Because it was July 2020 and we needed it.
Mental health is creative health.
Yes, needed. As I made a few more sojourns to the beach in the depths of the pre-vaccine pandemic, I found myself unable to write there like I used to. My brain was sending me a strong message that said, “let go. Disconnect. Commune with the ocean. Breathe the salt air.”
My first stints writing by the ocean had been a welcome respite from the noise and responsibilities of my everyday life. Now I needed a different kind of respite. I needed to remove all the weight. That included word count goals.
And that was okay. My husband now worked from home. He didn’t have to take off from work when I was out of town. He also saw the extent of my unpaid labor to get our child through virtual school and our household through a global disaster. When I got away for a break, I was entitled to use it however I wanted.
This meant I didn’t write as many new words as I wanted to in 2020. I doubt any writer with kids at home did. But I kept the coals warm, and that’s all I could’ve asked for given the circumstances.
We can’t run on an empty tank. I needed those restorative breaks not just to keep caring for my family, but to keep writing even a little bit. And I needed to keep writing, even if only a little bit, to keep myself sane.
It all worked out. I’m headed off for another retreat (alone this time) a week from now and already have lots of momentum to write. All in due time. Failing to finish a book last year will not tank my career. We’re getting back on track and that’s what matters.
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