Today my blog reader included an article about artists' retreats. I've been wanting to take one of those. I drool over the pages of stories and ads about or from Caldera, Soapstone, Hypatia, and more. I dream of being given the gift of time - just a week, I think; no, a month, I whine - and a clean calm place to stay and food delivered and no alarms, no appointments, no place I have to go. And preferably near the ocean/in the mountains/on a lake/ with a view. And a place to walk. Nature.Then I think about the money. Always the money. Why? Because being self-employed makes it expensive to take time off work. And the part-time job I have, I might be able to do somewhere else, at another office, but then I'd be working. Not retreating.
Hey, some of the retreats have stipends: writers in residence; some do.
But would my credentials qualify me? Depends, I know. Some yes; some no. If there were a stipend, maybe I could make the finances work. Or take on some extra work as I can and save it up and then. Maybe.
Or.
Or maybe I can make my own retreat. Find someone with a cottage or cabin to loan me or rent cheaply. (I know one place that is sometimes available; and a friend who has a friend who....) I'll have to do the cooking myself and that's okay. Preferable, actually; cheaper. Healthier. Unscheduled. Exactly what I want and when I wanted it.
And I could make it a writing group retreat if I wanted; for the entire time or part of it. A time and place dedicated to writing and soaking in the nothing mandatory and lounging and letting thoughts percolate. Just like the coffee in the kitchen. Or the wine aging on the shelf. Good things come from time.
Like the final revisions on my 2008 NaNoWriMo novel.
Yes.
A retreat for and by me.
.
Photograph from HomeLife
