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Writing Retreat

11 Nov
Hopper

Hopper

It’s hard to believe it,  but after a decade and more of anticipation for the FU Fifties, it’s now less than a month away before they’re MINE. (Ready or not.)

I began this 49th year with a week by the sea to begin writing. The book which was “supposed” to be published by 50. A watershed piece born from that time: The END of Everything, and the remainder of the winter spent sobbing through the excavation of that heartbreak.

When finished, I realized that I didn’t have the memoir I wanted. There was a tender story of loss, but there was something else waiting in the wings, and I gave myself spring to discover it.

At 49 and a half, just before summer broke onto the scene, I took a long weekend at a writing retreat in  Vermont and began writing again. It was there that I conceived of my story in three parts, including a strand that is still (and may always be) revealing itself.

An excerpt from my time away reveals my nature–full of doubt, vision, questioning, distraction and clarity. I share it now as a testimony to my process, “the” process of creating something new.

Rochester, Vermont
June 6, 2013
Soon to Rain

I have no faith in my story. In myself. Why am I here?

This is a familiar feeling so I stay with it. I find it in my stomach. Doubt. Fear. Not good enough. I decide to write my way into it to see what comes.

“Let things come,” was once my mantra for an entire year. I found it on a tea bag.

I feel sick with fear that I have nothing to write. That this work will amount to nothing. At first I wrote “my work” but I’ve been trying to enlarge the context of perception–replacing “my” with “the.”  I wonder if I might drop every “my” from my vocabulary.

What if that was my mantra.

The mantra.

I think it’s mildewy here. I thought it was the bathroom, but I still smell it now from the bed, and the sliding door to the tiny bathroom is closed.

It could be laundry detergent, specifically softener, which tends to bother my sense of smell and my eyes.

I breathe into that too.

I’m hungry. Dinner is not for another….

I’m not sure how long away dinner is because I’ve been writing in topless mode; that is, no desktop. Except for the photo of Kaoru’s sky. The one she took in the salt flats of Belize. The silhouettes of her friends are on my page. The page itself is surrounded by clouds. Earth & sky indistinguishable except for the people who must be walking on solid ground. (Mucking it is more like it)

I used one “my” in that paragraph.

Diana, of guest services, is in the kitchen, cooking our dinner, while listening to jazz. “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”

Something might be crawling up my leg. I hope it’s not bed bugs.

I might take a nap.

The china here is Lila’s. The kitchen ware, Mom’s. Meissen & Pfaltzgraf. That pretty much sums up the two women in my dad’s life.

I feel a bit better after writing some. My eyes itch. My room is on the road which is disconcerting for a rural dweller like me. Of course, it’s a dirt road, and the inn is more rurally situated then my own 8 acres, but I’m not accustomed to cars driving by my bed.

Each time the heater or the water heater fires up, I think it’s thunder.

I was upgraded to this roadside room, and at first, I thought, I’ll take the lesser room to be more private. The lesser rooms are at the back of the house, next to the offices, with a shared bath. Awkward.

The “other” upstairs has rooms too. They also share a bath. Mine is the only one with its own bath besides the one in the back of the house on the ground floor which is a suite. It has a deck, and a larger bathroom, and a bigger bed, and a lot of space with a nice desk.  Neither of us was offered that room. Katherine or Catherine was given an upstairs room. She and I will be served a 4 course dinner tonight after appetizers and cocktails (the latter we have to buy.) We’ll be joined by Steve and John. Steve is the owner, while John is the writing coach, I think. Robin, another writer, arrives the day after that. (Robin is my sister’s name.)

I hope we don’t have to make small talk about writing and books.

I’m beginning to wheeze from the fabric softener.

The official chef isn’t here until tomorrow morning which is why Diana is preparing tonight’s meal.

This writing retreat isn’t going too well so far…

Paper Moon is playing now. It’s only a paper moon. This writing is only paper, and virtual paper at that.

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One response to “Writing Retreat

  1. judisalasin

    November 11, 2013 at 5:36 pm

    GOD, I love how you can express feelings. Why did I not know this in my youth. Why did I let your father influence me, when all the time, I knew how desperately he loved you. You are your mother and right now my sweetheart, you are procrastinating. You have it in your gut. Throw it up. I love you and especially who you are!

    Judi

    >

     

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