My Writing Retreat: Tuesday's Reflection

I was in a writing slump. 

Winter had been productive for me. I had revised several chapters in my memoir and assumed that trend would continue as the snow melted. That was the plan anyway, but, instead, I found all sorts of reasons to stay away from my desk or to do other tasks at my desk. 

When I shared my doubts with my writing group about continuing this project, they expressed hopes I wouldn't do that, but also listened to the ambivalence I was feeling. 

In the past when I have hit a writing bump, usually because my calendar is too full, I am eager to regain focus and return to a writing routine, but, much to my surprise, that was not the case this time. I was enjoying an easier schedule and lighter days. I even wondered what it would be like to consider myself retired and have more open days. 

At the same time I wondered if this slump was an indication that I needed to schedule more writing time, to be more intentional and disciplined about time for writing the memoir. I was aware that revising the next chapters required stretches, rather than snatches, of time. 

I decided to schedule a solo writing retreat.

My goal for this retreat was to discern if I should recommit to writing my spiritual memoir or if I should let it go. If I decided to  
re-engage with this project, my goal was to dive into the next chapter. I brought with me all the writing materials I thought I would need to dig into that chapter, but I also brought a small stack of books to read, in case I dumped the memoir. 

I checked into a quiet cabin right on the shore of one of Minnesota's largest lakes, Gull Lake, mid-afternoon. Bruce and I had stayed at that resort, Grand View, in the past, and I knew I would be comfortable there. I quickly unpacked, set up my laptop and printer and spread my books and other materials on the large coffee table. Much to my surprise, I started working right away, re-reading an earlier draft of the current chapter and making some notes for changes. I had a pleasant evening becoming re-acquainted with myself as a writer. 

The next morning sealed the deal. 

During the night I heard what sounded like sleet pinging on the windows. When I got up to see what was going on, I couldn't see anything. The windows remained dry, and I didn't see any white stuff coming down in the dark. 

The next morning when I opened the blinds on the large picture window facing the lake, I was surprised to see large piles of ice mounded on the shore line, masses of chunky ice crystals. The lake itself looked much the same as the day before --still ice-covered for the most part, but with patches of open water. What had happened? 

At breakfast my waitress told me this phenomenon is called "the push." The wind, which had increased during the night, had pushed the melting ice toward the shore. The ice crunching sounded like a collapsing tinker toy creation or one of those chandeliers made of crystal-like capris shells disturbed by a light breeze. Almost a wooden sound.  

And "the push" continued all day. 

And so did I. I pushed myself through the slump, the blocks, the doubts. I viewed the surface of the chapter with new insights and perspectives. I rearranged the structure, knowing this would not be the final version, but was a necessary step to take me from one season to another. By the time I packed up to return home two days later I had completed the chapter and prepared to work on the next one. 

Sometimes a push is necessary to crack the status quo. 

An Invitation
Are you in need of a "push"? Or can you recall a time in your life when you were pushed and that made all the difference? I would love to know.