A daydreaming and fretting retreat

Morning darklings,

My retreat was lovely but disappointing, healthy and bad for me, scary and restful. Also, I cut it a little short. It’s been a while since I’ve experienced so much duality in a span of a few days. To say this was unexpected is an understatement. After years of retreats, thanks to a generous person who inspired me in many ways, I guess I thought I just needed the time and space to create. I needed to be away.

Turns out I need a lot more than that. I suspect we all do, which I suppose makes sense. But this was such a good deal that I couldn’t help but say yes.

The saga of Before I Even Arrived:

a friend and I rented this place / she canceled and has since ghosted me (reason: unknown) / I invited two other friends to visit me on different days so I wouldn’t be alone / also, I like them a lot, and they are in the middle of projects.

At the Rice Place:

While my friends were here, there were good conversations, laughter, chatting about process, writing, art, reading. We created together, listened to music, watched a movie. Two amazing women, two very different experiences, both wonderful. They came on separate days.

I found myself wanting to work on visual things and daydream a lot. The woods, it turns out, doesn’t spark my creativity in the way the beach does. Instead, it encourages my brain to wander. Or maybe that’s just where I’m at right now, and this would have happened anywhere. Either way, I just felt scattered:

—Is the story I’m working on good?

—Am I bored? Or is it boring?

—Is this because I’ve thought about it too long?

—Is pain coloring my view of typing right now?

—Maybe I should just work on my website.

—It’s misty outside, but I guess I could go for a walk.

—I want to cut my hair.

—I have to pee, but the bathroom here is cold and freaks me out a little.

—Do I know my character like I thought?

—If I worked on something else, would I still feel this way?

—Is. It. The. Chair?

—It’s cold. No, I’m just hungry.

—Why am I second guessing everything?

While my friends weren’t here, I sang loudly and dissociated without worrying about anyone else’s feelings or time. I danced when I had the energy and forgot to eat or drink for longer than is healthy. I noticed loss showing up—some of it related to friends who I miss, some related to lost ones (loved ones) I’ll never be fully okay without, and some of it was not mine.

Though I could do nothing but sit with the discomfort of my personal loss, I was able to let go of the pain I had been given by others (not what I hold for people I care about—that doesn’t sit the same). Since I can remember, I have needed a day a month or so to cry off and on. It’s like I’m releasing the pressure that was put on by acquaintances, strangers, people I thought were friends but came into my life to take. Those people weigh on me over time. So in a creaky house, alone, I cried a lot.

I also felt isolated, realized how small I was, realized I no longer fear the dark so much as who could be lurking in it. I hadn’t realized until my first friend went home at 3pm that since the hubs and I moved in together, I haven’t spent but a handful of nights alone in my entire life. I’ve had family, friends, exes, or the love of my life. The few nights I was alone, I was in a comfortable space that I decorated, sleeping in my bed, using my bathroom, grabbing food from my own refrigerator. What a luxury, what a privilege, what a necessity.

During the entire trip, I putzed on creativity. I made collages, periodicals (so much to share about that soon), and book club guides for a few of my books (more on that later too). I took photos of interesting things, wrote a little, and found my dream keyboard to help with my hand pain (it’s $400, not including the trackpad, which is wild).

My goals: make 5 periodicals, 5 collages, and finish the first draft of my main WIP (which needs about 20k words). Ambitious, yes. But I did the math, I noted the time. It was 1000% doable.

The outcome: 6 digital periodicals, 249 words on the first draft, 4 analog collages, and more ideas/starts to things than I knew what to do with.

That is… significantly different.

Given what I’ve done during a three-day retreat before, a longer one retreat yielding so little says a lot. Clearly, though, I also learned a great deal about my work and where I am—my WIP isn’t where I thought it was, my hand pain is more worrisome than I thought, grief is clingier than I knew.

This last year has been a lot of starts and stops, a lot of trying new things and exhaustion.

I am on the edge of burn out.

I’ve convinced myself I need to be productive, I need to sit down and write all the time or I’ll forget how or I’ll disappoint people or I’ll lose my momentum. And what if it’s not dark or realistic? What if I publish two or three or four things in a row that are magical realism or emotionally fraught or sweet? What happens then? Anything?

This lil retreat didn’t yield a lot in terms of words, but it was still a healthy output week. More importantly, it called my attention to the fact that I need a break from the normal.

In the spring, I need another one of these. At the beach. With a charged laptop and a refreshed mind. I’ll go at it then. If I can afford it. Maybe it’ll be something fucked up I work on, maybe it’ll be a rom-com; I’m allowing that to be open.

Two anthologies and my own novella, plus this exciting periodical and a new website incoming is more than some people manage in 5 years. I’m Disabled and doing it in a year, because this is how I keep my mind sharp, don’t wither, stay creative. To a point. I’m still allowed to breathe. I know everyone tells me that all the time, but then they ask, “what are you working on?”

Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready for my answer to be: “whatever I’m feeling at the moment.”

Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.