We came from Pennsylvania and as far as Colorado and Texas, too. North Carolina, Connecticut, and New York City (and State). We flew and we drove and we carpooled to the foothills of the Pocono Mountains so we could gather.
We let someone else do the cooking so that we could devote our waking hours to the work. We walked in the woods when we needed a break and checked for ticks when we got back. And we did our best to scare off a ghost that was amused by our sage-burning efforts.
We borrowed time from the outside world so that we could quiet our insides. Meditation, sure. Witchery, definitely. But above all, in the service of our art. Our words. Our stories.
This was no beginner’s group. Every single one of us, pregnant, with a book in utero; some of us closer to full term than others.
This writer came more for clarity of character arc than for new pages. I had to go deep. So deep that may be why I spent a few hours vomiting Friday night. By Saturday, with my trusted Blackwing pencils, I got to mapping both the story and character arcs. Sunday morning, the big ‘why’ of this book, now in its second-ish iteration, was in my belly. I could head home and move forward, she says, more confidently than when she arrived.
Retreating has been a thread of my writing life for the past fifteen years. But it’s those retreats when I’m in the company of other writers that real magic unfolds. Last week, with our big book bellies, we were midwives, too. We held the space and we were the space. Breaking down walls, eliminating ceilings. Just big wide open sky.
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