Years ago, I was asked by a good friend (not a writer or artist)
if I had a writing retreat I go to in order to, what else, write.
I laughed because this was not in the budget and in no way
part of my lifestyle. I was a mother of young children who were never in
daycare or even had a babysitter. There was no place for sequestering on a retreat,
period.
There still isn’t. I write where I live. I write from my
real life. My creative life is part of my daily life. The very notion of
retreats is to separate from one’s life/work/dear ones, and to dis-connect.
Un-connect. It’s about disrupting connectivity.
I don’t get it, and likely never will.
I chuck it to romantic notions emanating from another age.
Today, these so-called retreats are commercial enterprises and, frankly, an
abuse of true creative reality. There’s a whole industry of these retreats and
it’s booming.
If you want to take a break from the hustle-bustle, by all
means do. Call it a vacation. Call it a break. Let’s not
wrap breaking from real life a “creative retreat.”
I’d love a nice vacation. If I go, I will not be writing but
reclining and sipping a delicious beverage with my feet up.
Writing is real work.
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