I’ve not said it, but I’ve thought it more than a few times recently. I have no time to write.
You know, I’ve been busy. I sold my house, packed up my belongings, moved.
And I’ve taken on some new responsibilities. I’ve started doing a few new things that I’ve always wanted to try. And I’ve not stopped doing the other things I was able to do before I had freed myself of my mortgage.
And now, I catch myself thinking that I’m too busy to write.
But that’s not true
Well, it’s not true that I’m too busy to write, but it’s certainly true that I am busy. And when it comes to writing fiction, I seem to always have an excuse.
I have a small advantage when it comes to finding time for other writing, it’s my profession. I write ten columns a week. The writer’s muscle memory remains and continues to be trained.
So I do write?
Yes, yes I do. But it isn’t getting my novel moved forward, I must admit.
Work keeps me in practice, it’s like my religion. I remain faithful, I tithe daily to the collection of content out there on the World Wide Web, I add one more voice to the choir of information on the information superhighway.
But that’s not novel enough!
Ha. good one. Nope, it does nothing to further the tale I’m trying to place between the covers of a paperback.
And it seems that lately, the only time I move that story forward is when there is a writers’ retreat I can attend.
I’ve mentioned this …
I’ve spoken before here about the magic of a retreat, as have others.
There is a liberation that comes with being placed in a location where you are not responsible for the laundry, where the dishes are expected to pile up, where you are not judging yourself for not getting everything around you fixed up, cleaned up, put away.
But when is the next retreat?
Yeah, I’m not sure. I think there’s one in the works, but I have no idea when it’s supposed to happen. Someone will tell me, I’m sure.
But I’ve got something better. Next weekend, I’m booked into a hotel in a distant city where I’m expected to do next to nothing for two or three days.
And I’ve decided …
I’ve decided that this will be a hastily planned one man writing retreat. I’m not sure it will work, but I’m sure I intend to give it a try.
And if it doesn’t work, I can’t really punish it or myself. I can’t fault myself for trying, and there’s no sense in trying to beat a hasty retreat. Am I right?