Am I in danger of becoming addicted to writers' retreats? I've booked another day with the Urban Writers Retreat in August and have agreed to join writing friends at another venue in September. I love retreats. Not only do they prick your own conscience, but they also flag up to the world around you that your writing is important, more important than the hum-drum chores of normal life that can so easily distract you. And, of course, they are a wonderful way of making new friends with people who share your interests.
But today, I have been on my own in an empty house, a sunny garden outside the window, washing on the line and a manuscript to complete. I have arrived at the end. Or, this end. Or, the end of this version. But something has been finished and I firmly believe that first drafts are the hardest part.
Now, I can only hope for encouragement and a reason to continue. Even without those things, I have found the process intriguing. I haven't at all told the story I expected to write. That last line that floated into my head during a run weeks ago? I didn't use it. But one thing has remained constant: the girl who inhabits this story, whose ending poured out unexpectedly and in a surprisingly optimistic way. She lives and breathes and I care for her. The two of us started alone and end this part of the journey alone, at a desk, in silence. It's funny how quiet a story can be. It's the quiet ones you have to watch...
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