Welcome to Magic & Ink, a newsletter about magic, fantasy writing and the creative life. Before I dive into reflections on my recent writing retreat, a few quick updates:
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I.
Saturday, March 30, Big Sur, California
My knees are broken — not really broken, but they don’t work like they used to. They cant carry me easily up stairs or down hills like they used to, without thinking, without having to pause, to plan, find an alternative route.
My lungs are definitely broken. One look at me, as I creep my way uphill, stopping to gasp, my face red, my brow damp with exertion, with the shame of not being able-bodied.
My heart is broken. When did that happen? I feel like it’s happened a hundred times — a lost love, a lost job, a lost vision — but the heart keeps beating, anyway. It can carry its hurts without breaking.
Maybe my heart can teach my lungs something.
My eyes are broken, my vision dimmer than it was, less clear, less precise, less trustworthy. It’s not just what I see outward, but inward that seems out of focus, except for stunning moments of clarity, like a rainbow arcing over the sea on a spring morning.
Broken parts seem to define my physical self, setting up limitations that become excuses. I could let them stop me — let myself slide into disrepair and disuse.
But I keep climbing hills.
I keep climbing stairs.
I keep looking for rainbows.
And the ache from trying is an ache that can heal deeper things that are broken.
Broken memories.
Broken feelings.
Broken relationships — that relationship between me and myself. There’s a bridge there that has been broken, that needs to be rebuilt before I can cross it. And when I get to the other side — well, I have to get there to find out. But I image there are more broken things to find.
That’s OK. Broken things are still good, still useful, still beautiful.
Just look at my heart.
II.
I want to tell you about the writing retreat I attended in Big Sur a week ago, but I still don’t know where to start. The above piece, written during a Saturday afternoon session in response to the prompt, “What’s broken is…” does encapsulate my experience, a little at least, touching on the joys, the challenges and what I was hoping to accomplish.
It’s pretty raw and unpolished, but I think that’s the point of an experience like this, right? To write the things that are true without worrying whether every word is perfect. I know I can trust you with this outpouring from my heart, mawkish as it is, because of that honesty.
The weekend was hard. Harder than I expected, physically. First the rain, coming down hard as I navigated a road that is nail-biting enough in good weather. Just kidding — there was no nail biting. My hands were locked as firmly to the steering wheel as my eyes were locked to the center line of the highway. Forty miles doesn’t seem very long until you’re diving on a narrow road over the tumultuous ocean with your windshield wipers set to high.
Then there were the hills. The retreat center hugs a cliff over the Pacific Ocean, which means there’s very little in the way of flat ground. Just getting to my room was a sharp climb up uneven asphalt and then two flights of stairs, which I had to stagger up (my feeble knees) while managing umbrella, backpack and duffle bag. (Note to self: bring the stupid roller bag next time!) The dining hall and our meeting room were on opposite sides of the property — up and down and up again, both ways, twice each day. I had to plan carefully, start off early so that by the time the next session started I had recovered my breath and my composure.
And of course the bed was too soft, which is a whole different kind of agony for someone with achy joints and a tendency to toss and turn all night.
But there was so much beauty too: rain and rainbows go together, after all, and we had two rainbows Saturday morning, brilliant in the sky over the churning ocean. When the sky cleared, stars wheeled overhead as I looked through the skylight over my too-soft bed. And on Sunday morning, the fragrance of the flowers in the blooming garden was as sweet as if spring had just been invented.
And of course there were the hot spring-fed baths — watching the sun set over the ocean as I soaked — and the most perfect, cleansing massage you can imagine.
III.
I had several goals when I signed up for the retreat, the main one was just, literally, to retreat from the world for a few days. On the edge of the world, between mountain and sky, with no cell service and very limited wi-fi, the trip did exactly what I needed in that regard. The physical challenges (my guardians of the gate, if you will) only increased the effectiveness of the separation, because they required me to surrender to the circumstances, and to mindfully embrace the awareness of actually existing in my body, something that is easy to ignore when you sit in front of a screen all day, a constant stream of distractions only a few taps away. I don’t think I have ever been so present as I was during those few days of retreat, and it’s something I’m trying to hold on to even now, more than a week later.
The other goal was, of course, to learn something about writing. One of the things I struggle with the most in my fiction writing is emotionality, showing what characters feel as the story goes on. I know what they’re feeling, of course, but showing it trips me up — just like I know what I’m feeling myself most of the time, but expressing it isn’t always easy.
The workshop I attended (Stories That Make Us Whole: The Power of Writing in Sacred Community) was about that second part. I know that if I can’t write about my own inner story, how can I write about my characters in a way that feels authentic? This workshop was a chance for me to dip my toes into the waters I have avoided for far too long.
I can’t say that I came away with any great revelations or having mastered any skills — it was only two days, after all! — but what I did gain was the foundation for a practice that will help me to continue to grow, both personally and as a writer.
All in all, it was an entirely different experience from the desert retreat I took last June, where I sat alone for five days and speedwrote through the end of the zero draft of my novel. But they both proved to me the importance of sometimes separating from from everyday life for the sake of your art. I know I will continue to look for more opportunities to take a break from the daily distractions so that I can focus on my writing, even if it’s just for a day.
I’m curious to know about your experiences on retreat — have you ever had the chance to go somewhere just to focus on your craft? What did you learn? What might you do differently? Please share your highlights (and lowlights!) in the comments.
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The writing about the broken parts felt raw and very good.
I haven’t gone on a writing retreat yet. I am still getting used to taking my writing seriously. But I imagine a separation from routine is like emptying so that you can be filled with fresh, new words.