Patricia Harrelson

Last week I spent four days writing in a motel room. The opportunity for deeply focused work is certainly a luxury I can’t afford very often, either in terms of time or money. But I’m committed to finding ways to retreat so that I can write.

A retreat needs to be a minimum of 3 days and preferably a week. My longest retreat was a month, and I’ve also enjoyed 10 day and 2 week long retreats.  Focused writing allows me to delve into the core of my subject matter.

There were times last week when I looked up from the computer screen and did not know where I was. I wrote from 6:30am until 10pm each day, stopping for brief respites called for by my shoulders and bottom. I’d circle the small flower garden at the center of the motel or walk toward the beach in the damp fog with the voices of my characters still conversing in my head. Almost without knowing, I’d turned back toward Room 125, unable to stay away long.

.

I believe a retreat supports my relationship to the writing process. When I was teaching, I talked to my students about 3 stages in the process: creating, composing, and revision.

Creating is the messiest stage. My mind leaps here and there, thinking about my subject while bathing, driving, clearing dishes, and in the fertile place between wakefulness and sleep. I scribble notes and freewrite; I read about the topic and suddenly see relevance everywhere. But the creation remains a jumbled mess.

Composing is the hardest part for me–taking the mess to the page, crafting a shape and making meaning. This is the part of the process that is best served by a retreat.  For me, composing anything worthwhile requires an extended period of time, ideally several days. Usually, I can only muster a stretch of several hours.

Revision is my favorite part. I love playing with the piece that has arrived on the page. Suddenly it is obvious where big changes and additions are needed. Tinkering with the smaller stuff like word choice and detail is pure delight. Revision is something I can do in small snatches of time, a half hour in the morning before work or sitting with a hard copy of the piece in a waiting room or during a boring meeting.

My relationship to the process never wavers. I recognize that I need to retreat to compose, something that is not necessarily easy to accomplish and so always feels like a gift.