For as far back as I can remember, going on a writing retreat has held a certain allure. Blame it on my third-grade teacher, who encouraged me to enter a writing contest through the school. When my story advanced to state, I got the exciting news: I was invited to spend an entire Saturday at Illinois State University with other elementary school-aged writers. That day, I met my first real author, as I clutched a hardcover book that she signed on the inside cover with large loopy letters. I was star-struck. I was hooked.
I wrote my little heart out in high school, and went on to study writing and literature in college. I was confident that, someday, I could gain the identity of a writer who would be destined for writing retreats across the globe.
The retreats I created in my imagination were, if not feasible, absolutely fabulous. Most of my imaginary retreats had me tiptoeing through old Victorian mansions, candlelight sconces lining the creaky hallways. My room in a turret on the third floor would be bathed in moonlight as I wrote at a mahogany desk, most likely with a quill and parchment.
Elizabeth Berg, a writer I admire, once offered the chance for a cooking and writing retreat with her in Positano, Italy. I wanted it so badly I could taste it: the view of the Amalfi coast from my balcony; my entire wardrobe consisting of fine linen pants and white silk blouses. My kindred writing sisters and I would trade funny stories about our literary agents. There would be fresh pastries each morning before we’d retire to our rooms to write all afternoon. As the sun turned golden on the sand, we would reconvene to a table adorned with garden flowers. We’d delicately twirl pasta onto our forks and clink our champagne flutes, toasting all our book deals.
For as clear as it was in my mind, nothing like that ever materialized in real life. I was a stay-at-home mom with an expired passport and a meager savings account.
Waiting became tiresome, so last month I announced to my family that I was scheduling my own writing retreat. I marked it in big red letters on our calendar and cleared my schedule. When the time came, we pulled our little travel trailer across the Illinois border into the lush, hilly Driftless Area of Wisconsin. I brought all my best pens and some crisp notebooks. For an entire Saturday and half of a Sunday, I wrote beneath a sprawling oak tree. A babbling stream whispered bubbly words of encouragement from beyond the tall grass. I wrote in the sun until it became too warm, then I pulled the picnic table beneath the old oak and kept writing until my hand cramped up. Later, I nibbled on some fancy crackers and cheese. The kind of crackers and cheese they serve in Italy, probably.
My DIY writing retreat didn’t require the linen pants or the fresh flowers or the salty spray from the Mediterranean Sea like I supposed. All these years of hoping and dreaming, and all it took was setting a date with myself. Someone should’ve told that starry-eyed little third grader clutching her autographed book that being a writer wasn’t a moniker achieved only by ‘other’ people. Putting thoughts on paper can happen in any quiet place, and words on parchment aren’t necessarily more important than words scratched onto a napkin; no mahogany desks or Victorian mansions required. That inner child only needed to clear her schedule and grab some pens. Muster some courage and open a notebook to a beautiful, terrifyingly empty page…and begin.
