The house twinkles in the dark. The heat rushes to meet you as you open the front door. It’s warm, cosy rooms relax and inspire and the fresh air on the beach clears the head.
It’s my first writing retreat. I’ve always been terrified of them. Afraid I would get there and my creativity would dry up. Afraid I’d feel imtimidated by the output levels of those around me or I’d be overwhelmed by the amount of work I wanted to get done. On and on they go, these excuses, these demons that haunt and taunt me. I tried not to think about it too much. I packed a lot of books in case I didn’t want to write.
But I did write.
There is something about being removed from daily routine, about the space and fresh air, about pushing away the clutter that lends itself to productivity.
I worked for a period of time and then went for a walk or made tea. I made a list before I left of what I wanted to get done and I started with the small stuff and began ticking it off.
I leave today with two books read, a critique finished, a 3,000 word piece edited and submitted and a new 2,000 word piece written. Not bad for three days.