I’m back from another writing retreat in Canmore, alone in a lovely condo, a wonderful treat courtesy of in-laws.
I’ve been malingering over a cold-ish thing for a while, and not writing much. I’d been getting writing related work done, but the writing itself? That immersion in a story? Not so much.
I worried that would continue in Canmore, but my first afternoon I settled in to work, and felt excited by my stories for the first time in weeks. There’s this thing that happens to writers, in the middle of a project, or when sick, and definitely when both converge, when the work all seems terrible. That’s a good time to walk away, and do something else for a while.
That’s all I’ve been seeing for a while, so it was a thrill to – well, to be thrilled again. To feel that tingling up my back, as I read a section of story that works, that does what I want it to do – and leaves me wanting to move forward, to find out what happens next. Because that’s the joy in a story, in reading it and in writing it. And without that, there’s simply no point in bothering.
I’m back in Calgary again, organizing myself for a week of hard work. As I do, I will lift my teacup and salute the mountains, and thank them (and my wonderfully supportive family) for a return to writing joy.
Maureen
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