There is not much to say. I’ve used nearly all my words on the novel revision I’m working on. This week I’ve holed up at home, gifting myself with an in-house writer’s retreat for one in hopes of finally getting this story sculpted, its rough edges smoothed and all the bubbles worked out so that it won’t explode in the firing.
So, in lieu of words, here is a visual recipe for an at-home writer’s retreat:
FOOD. In an out-of-character moment of foresight, I prepped healthy lunches for the week so I could pretend that I live at a spa and don’t have to be bothered with pesky distractions like feeding myself.WALKS. My writing process is dependent upon them, upon mist over the Alleghenies and rain on wildflowers.COMPANIONS. The kind who don’t talk while I’m trying to write, and are always up for a stroll. Slinkster Cat always goes with us. I suspect he is not actually a cat.NATURE. Lots of nature. Long paths through the spring-green woods.HOPE. These will be wild berries soon.BEAUTY. The perfume of wild roses tangled in barbed wire.POETRY. I’ve been reading lots and lots of Keats. Keats is my writing coach, kicking my tail with stuff like this: “‘Write! thou wilt never have a better day.'” And this: “beauty was awake!/Why were ye not awake?”SILENCE.WONDER. The seventeen-year locusts hatch out at night, a feast for the night-creatures, and in the morning, the path is scattered with glittering wings like the detritus of some fey wedding procession.UNFURLING. So much can blossom in rain and silence.WATER. From the sky. In my teacup. Things bubble up…….TEA. Always tea.
Brenna Layne 