At the Hermitage, Bowen Island – Writing Retreat

May 5^th – 7^th, 2017

Urg. Another blog post in which a writer writes about their frustrations with writing practice.

Yes indeed.

I’ve organized my files and folders, naming the files after topics I hope to write on or have written already. I’ve organized them into appropriately named folders. I’ve put folders in my folders. I’ve charged my laptop and my phone, although even now my laptop is once again at 53% and the impending death of the battery makes me want to get up and go to the main house again.

But I won’t.

I’m trying to write.

I’ve gone for a walk. I’ve taken pictures of fungi. I’ve taken pictures of my boots in the sun. I’ve researched the correct names of certain plants and snakes (I think I almost stepped on a Northwestern Garter!). I’ve considered doing some linocut carving, which isn’t a bad idea. Except that sometimes when doing the things I need and listening to my body so that I can tap into my creative voice, things like taking a nap or going for a walk, or working on linocut, I think I am just plain, straight-up resisting the inevitable: at some point I just have to start writing.

It’s uncomfortable. It makes me squirm. Yet it’s the very thing my heart needs.

Why do we resist the thing that fills us?

Anne Lamont in “Bird by Bird” wrote that there’s lots of time to get inspired and dream, but there’s always that, “…one fly in the ointment: that at some point we had to actually sit down and write.”

I’ve always resisted anything that tries to nail me down to one spot: deadlines, buying a sofa, marriage. And while I tend to be just a little bit proud of this tendency of mine, I also know that this proclivity can very much limit my opportunities and growth. It’s straight up self-sabotage.

While meandering along the forest path this morning, a path soaked in green shadow and spring warmth, my mind drifted to those dear children of mine and the question of writing. I have left them behind after all, back in the big city of glass and cement with their father, so I could come out here to this island and…organize all my files…I mean…ahem…write.

I’ve often struggled with the question of why I write. Why I pursue writing. And then I wonder, what should I do with it all? Am I just pandering to my ego? Seeking attention? I know my reasons are much deeper than these tempting little quips, but still, the imposter syndrome REAL.

I mean really, what I’m doing here is important. If I pile up all the writing I’ve done over all the years, it’s actually a large part of my life’s work. I have to believe it matters. It adds up to a lot of minutes and hours. It’s obviously in my bones.

So, for today I think, if not for anyone else, I’m going to let my kids be my motivation.

Now, let me be clear. I write to figure things out, mainly, so of course I write for myself and I share it as a way of engaging with my community. There are lots of reasons why one writes, and for today, even if only for today, I’ll let my kids be that motivation. It’s a fair enough place to start.

So, I’ve organized and walked and chatted with the beautiful women at this retreat with me, and now I’m finally getting down to writing, by writing about writing.

It’s something.

I’m considering going to the main house again. But I won’t.