Writing Retreat

Going on a writing retreat was my retirement gift to myself, in addition to a charm bracelet. I had looked at a few options, but I chose this one because of the time of year and the location. I thought a weekend in a cozy house during a snowy weekend would be just the right atmosphere to lock in to some writing.

The retreat location is beautiful It’s like very near what I imagine my dream house to be. It’s spacious enough for a pool table and it has two fireplaces and a hot tub. The views are aspens and pine trees and it’s quiet and clean with tasteful, comfy furniture.

I started out organizing all my writing. I have been writing on three different computers and my phone. I have bits and pieces of writing all over the place. I wanted to consolidate everything and get it all in one place. I have a lot of writing, but so much of it is sad. I have writing about cancer, schizophrenia, school, death, loss and grief. I thought I wanted to write a memoir about my journey with my son’s mental illness,but as I started piecing my ideas together, I realized that I’m not sure I want to do that anymore. I am kinda bored with my trauma. Maybe it’s time for something new.

Maybe a love story. Or maybe a comedy. Fiction is appealing to me right now. I mean, reality is overrated. I had given my self a goal to get something finished this weekend. My memoir. Or a screenplay. Something. Anything. Finished. I guess I still have time left, but I feel so stuck right now.

I took a break and played a game of pool with myself. A couple of people are sending me updates of the Bronco game and I am fighting sleep at the moment. I brought my knitting and it’s sitting on the hearth. I’m resisting picking it up until I reach a place where I can feel that I have accomplished something.

Not long ago I had this dream where I was working for the newspaper as a writer. I was taken to an office that was in someone’s home and everyone was just kind of hanging about the room. Then the men started doing their impressions of bears and the women critiqued their poses. One of men did a great impression of a sea lion. And then there was a contest at the end where someone told a mystery and he ended up crashed against a wall. Then there was a contest. Everyone had to answer the question–was the narrator dead? I wrote–No. There is no death, only new existences. I think I won the contest, but I woke up before I was sure.

I thought about that dream for days. I think it is about being a writer and how there is no real form or rules, structure is soft and self-governed. I guess I thought it would be easier to sit down and knock out a story, but when is anything easy??????

I guess if I want to be a writer, I just need to keep writing!