The Writers' Issue & Bears Again

Close-up critter encounters, but first, inspiration for a writing retreat

Photo by Unsplash…but this bear looked a lot like the one in my neighborhood this week!

I absolutely longed for a writing retreat.

Have you ever had a creative project you’ve noodled around with forever, but never started in earnest? And all you needed was a chunk of time and mental space to put some real energy into it?

This past year, writing fiction had turned into my bugaboo. Since finishing my seventh novel two years ago, I’d published another Little Farm memoir, produced many blog posts, and created this monthly newsletter.

But when it came to writing made-up stuff, I was more than a little bogged down.

Now, pretty much all of us have commitments that take precedence over creative endeavors. Work/jobs, family life, and household and community responsibilities, all consuming a big chunk of your mental bandwidth.

And if you’re like me, you have a food garden that demands your physical energy too.

But despite all this other life stuff, I had a story I’d been thinking about for years—a story that demanded to be written.

I had oodles of material: scribbled plot bits on paper, drawn a mind map, typed up a few scene fragments, and journaled about my characters by hand and on my laptop…

You can call it “pre-writing” material, but it started feeling like a bunch of rubbish

…Not realizing how many years I’d been noodling with this story until I discovered a journal entry about it from 2018!

A side note: Stephen King’s new story collection includes a story he said he started writing 45 years ago—and finally finished it this year! Now, I am in no way comparing myself to Mr. King, but it does go to show how long an unfinished story can linger in a writer’s head.

I, however, was completely unwilling to carry this story around with me for the next four-plus decades!)

Anyway. I would review my notes and mind map and manuscript pages over and over…but when it came to fingers on keyboard, joyfully unspooling my story, I had nothin’.

One complicating element of this particular story was that it involved characters I’d written about in four of my published novels and a short story. I couldn’t just create as the spirit moved; it was necessary for the events and plot and timeline for this story to mesh with those previous works.

I was hardly going to go back to those novels and retrofit numerous events to make everything line up. I wasn’t giving up on the story; still, I was well and truly stuck.

Around the New Year, my imagination took flight with a completely different story. Set in the Foothills, this story made me really gung-ho about “making stuff up” again. The characters and events were all there, the end clearly in my mind.

I even wrote several complete scenes, maybe 3000 words, and thought, okay, this is my way in! This story will get me writing fiction again!

But…

I soon realized this Foothills story was just a procrastination device—my way of putting off the story I dreamed of writing but simply couldn’t start.

Normally I’d be reluctant to admit that although I’d written and published many novels, I couldn’t get a handle on this one…

But I identify with the many novelists who’ve said that with each and every book, they find themselves starting at square one. Because they wonder how they ever wrote their novel, and in their heart-of-hearts, have no clue how they’ll do it again!

So back I went to the bits and bobs, notes and fragments of this long-unwritten piece. Still, my writer brain just couldn’t get the story down in my head, where it truly needed to be for me to start.

What I really needed was a getaway…a place where I’d have a chunk of free time, a way to clear my head to make room for my story…

A writing retreat.

I was no stranger to writing retreats—I had led many one-day retreats as a writing instructor at our local community college, and at writer’s conferences. But I had never actually attended a multi-day retreat.

Over the years, I’d come across really dreamy-sounding retreats online, held at posh hotels, or quiet, cozy retreat centers—even writing retreats on a tropical cruise.

All of them would be led by wise and well-published author-mentors, where you could write to your heart's content, share your work, and hobnob with other like-minded scribblers.

My writer’s soul was like, If Only! If only I had the time, money, and the desire to travel!

(Also, as an intensely introverted person, if only I wanted to spend that much time around other people!)

Closer to home—only 100 miles away!—I discovered a week-long women’s writing retreat, where each attendee had her own little cabin in the woods, and where your meals, created from the on-site organic garden, would be delivered to your door.

Wow, did the sound of this retreat ring my chimes!

There was one sticky point. The organizers were focused on creators producing highly literary projects with feminist and social justice themes. Myself, I just wanted to write my Irish novels of love and family.

In his book The Moveable Feast, Earnest Hemingway says that for fiction writers, you should hold off writing your novel until you can’t help doing it, until you have no choice. “Let the pressure build.”

Well, the pressure I was feeling had built past the boiling point—in fact, my kettle was at risk of burning out!

Then a few weeks back, the perfect solution came to me. I would take myself on a self-directed retreat.

I had a secluded spot in the woods—my own home. I had a window of time without any outside commitments. This same window was right before spring gardening kicked into high gear.

And this window also coincided with my husband John’s out-of-town visit to see his daughter and her family.

I even had the handout from my previous writing retreat workshops.

An easy way to take a self-directed writing retreat!

I didn’t need to review the handout; I’d taught this material, plus looked at it so many times, dreaming of the opportunity to follow it, the steps were burned in my memory.

I was all in.

I followed my own handout’s advice to lay in some groceries ahead of time, precook some meals, and so I wouldn’t be distracted by home to-dos, make sure the house reasonably clean and tidy before I began.

I assembled all the materials I’d created over the years: writing articles, notes and manuscript pages, mind-maps, plotting diagrams, and timelines. I also had a few select articles with some new-to-me advice for starting a writing project.

My first day alone, I fearlessly dove right in.

All my notes and mind-maps no longer felt like rubbish, but like treasured source material.

My goal was not to start producing pages on the computer, to be typing away, “joyfully unspooling” the story, as I said before. Any pages would simply be a bonus.

All I really wanted from this retreat, all my writerly soul needed was, as some writers call it, “focused daydreaming.” To transform my bits and bobs of the story into part of my consciousness. And even my subconscious.

In a practical sense, my goal was that going forward, in-between family and household responsibilities, publishing tasks and garden chores, and everything else, I would finally be able to jump in and out of the story, work on it as I was able.

Well, Dear Reader, I made my retreat happen!

For six consecutive days, I spent several hours each day with my story, expanded scenes, created new timelines, and dreamed up new story possibilities.

And with each hour, the story and the characters became more real. 

In fact, I could hear the characters talking in my head—and if you ask any fiction writer, hearing your characters speaking to each other is a sign you’re really on your way!

The weather even cooperated. It was mostly chilly and showery, and while I got in my usual daily walk or bike ride, I wasn’t tempted to do much more than dabble in the garden.

And in those few days I dedicated to daydreaming and brainstorming, the frustration I’d been feeling for so long about the story finally dissipated. All through my retreat, I hadn’t felt like I was working on my book, I was playing with it.

What I accomplished during my 6 days

Pure joy.

I’d gone from how in the world will I ever write this book? to OMG, I love this story!

At the end of six days, just as I’d had my fill of solitude, I was totally ready to take a break from the story and let everything just sink in.

And shortly after my retreat came an unexpected writerly “gift.”

But first, a quick flashback…

Advice for Writers

I’ve been writing fiction most of my adult life.

Practically since the moment I began typing away at my clunky Apple IIGS keyboard, I’ve tried to learn everything I could about the process—seeking writerly advice, suggestions, tips and techniques that will enhance my writing craft and publishing.

That’s not all—I’ve also continually sought that “magic writing pill” that would make the entire process easier.

In the first phase of my writing life, as I juggled writing with marriage, motherhood, jobs and house, I kept to a pretty consistent writing schedule, five to six days each week.

But the second phase, since the day my husband and I decided to leave the city, move out to the Foothills and start our little homestead, my writing schedule sort of vanished.

Out here, I’ve always gotten far more writing done during the winter months. Still, my writing time has become more of a catch-as-catch-can sort of affair, always dependent on the weather, and garden and homesteady chores.

In fact, sometimes, for weeks at a time, my “writing schedule” has been completely theoretical. (Last August’s six solid weeks of insane blueberry harvesting comes to mind.)

But just a few days ago, I came across the gift of some truly stellar advice. If life doesn’t quite permit you to have a writing schedule, you can reframe how you view your writing time:

From your schedule to your writing practice.

Well, this bit of wisdom improved my discouragement about my limited writing time by about 500%!

When you have a writing practice, the pressure is off. Some days you might have time write; other days you might doodle around with your writing project. Sometimes, you’ll simply think about it…

Yet at the same time, you’ll likely have the confidence that you’ll get back to it.

What I realized was that I’ve had a writing practice all along.

In any event, I love our life here too much, to begrudge all the things that keep me from having a super regular schedule!

If you love to write “made-up stuff,” I hope you’re currently “playing” with a story or novel or comic, whatever floats your boat. Or creating what Hemingway did with The Moveable Feast: a blend of memoir and fiction.

Whatever it is, keep in mind that your idea, your creation means something.

As C.S. Lewis said, “Sometimes fairy stories may say best what needs to be said.”

And if you’re dreaming of a retreat of your own, I hope my handout gives you a few ideas. If you’d like a printable PDF, just let me know by replying to this email!

I’m interested in any creative projects you’re working on—I hope you’ll share!

Mice Strike Again

Here in the Foothills, we can have very chilly springs—so we depend on a few nursery starts for selected warm weather crops.

With great anticipation, John and I bought 4 sweet little organic cucumber starts to supplement our direct sowing (when the weather warms up). And what felt like a big risk, we purchased a small jalapeño pepper plant.

At the time, late May, we were still getting temperatures in the 30s. So we stowed our delicate little plants in the shop.

Presumably, they’d be safe as well as warm.

But we had not considered our resident shop mice population. Who know how to stay so far out of sight you don’t think they’re in there.

Mice who also seem to have developed quite a varied palate.

Overnight, they ate about 1/2 of the pepper’s foliage… (see right)

Now you see a healthy little cuke...now you don't!

…and chomped one cuke start, including the stems, down to the soil!

We had to bring our starts into the house…which is too warm for proper hardening-off. But when it comes to crafty critters like mice, you don’t have much choice!

Bears in the Foothills Department

This month, I had not one, but two bear sightings up close!

We had a longtime neighbor who walked her dog on our wooded lane, armed with two big canisters of bear spray. One canister on each hip, she looked a bit like an old-time gunslinger with two mini-bazookas.

To me, carrying all that gear is pretty cumbersome for cycling. But sometimes I wonder…

Like lately. One Saturday a couple of weeks ago, I was cycling on the main road, nearing the lake three miles from our place. In my peripheral vision I saw a round black shape…

And out of the brush ambled a young black bear.

He was just across the road from me.

The bear saw me, but didn’t pay any attention to me, just sort of trotting along on the road shoulder about the same speed I was, maybe eight miles an hour.

I really didn’t want to pace along with a bear, so I said in a sort of conversational way, “Go away.”

He just ignored me.

So I said a little more forcefully, “C’mon! Go on!”

The bear paused—and it seemed to me, that if he was a human, he would have shrugged as if to say, might as well—and headed back into the woods.

Now, if you’ve been reading Little Farm Writer for a while, you know I’ve seen a lot of bears in the last year. I wasn’t scared of this bear—with lots of vehicles going to and from the lake, the road was well traveled.

Plus I didn’t think the bear was small enough to have a protective mama around. Although I was mildly surprised about the bear’s savoir-faire about being so close to a human!

I saw my second bear just this week.

I was cycling home on the lane we share with six households, when I saw a black shape just a couple of feet from the road.

In a second, I saw it was a bear—and stopped immediately.

This time, I was alone. And felt a little anxious. I wasn’t cycling the well-traveled main road; I was 1/2 mile from our house.

And coincidentally, at the spot on the road the furthest away from any neighbor. Far enough away that if I called for help, no one would hear me.

So staying very still, I watched him carefully.

Facing me, he was another young bear—about the size of the one that invaded our garden last summer.

Busily snarfing down what looked like grass and the tender tops of small native shrubs, the bear saw me, but simply kept on eating.

And he seemed so at ease with me close by, that my guess is, it was the same bear.

I didn’t try to scold him, or scare him away, like the bear on the main road. Just watched and waited.

It felt like a long time (thought it was probably a half a minute), but finally, he stopped eating, turned and melted into the brush.

I waited a bit longer, until I could no longer hear brush rustling, then made my way home.

I suppose there really is something to exposure therapy—before last May’s bear encounter (i.e., the first of many), I would have been terrified to see one so close. But I apparently have gotten sort of accustomed to running into the local bears.

Despite the increasing frequency of my bear sightings, I really can’t see myself using bear (pepper) spray.

Especially since my husband, a former police officer, told me that deploying pepper spray carries a risk: you have the very strong likelihood of getting the pepper in your own eyes!

So…unarmed, I’ll carry on: cycling, walking, and working in the woods.

We’ll see how it goes—with more and more timber tracts clearcut in our immediate area, more wildlife habitat leveled—I imagine I’ll continue to see more bears venture out of the deep woodlands.

---

I’m grateful to you for being here—and I would love to hear about your writing projects, wildlife encounters, and what’s going on in your garden!

Warmly,

~Susan, from the Foothills