So...Communism?

After a weekend writing retreat, I'm always left feeling the effects for several days afterwards.

Not from the drinking (though yes, also from the drinking--writers love to party, okay?)--from the "living the dream" aspect of it all, a feeling that's in stark contrast to ordinary-life-upon-return.

So...why can't we live that dream all the time?

You know the one, where we all buy a massive house together somewhere stunningly remote, and live in a community of writers, and work and talk craft and get inspired all day, and unwind with loads of cocktails every night.

The view from last weekend's cabin. Picture: Julie Kingsley

Probably someone would need to learn how to chop wood, too. And someone else would want to know a few things about pickling and canning. Just to complete the whole ethos.


I'm aware that part of the reason these things are so rejuvenating and inspiring is that they're NOT day-to-day life...but I don't think that's all of it. I think being surrounded by other people as in love with writing as you are--and as constantly, brutally destroyed by it as you are--is independently amazing. And I think it's near-impossible to maintain that level of excitement, and the positive effect it has on your work, when the real world is swirling all around you.

Just the view from the regular morning hike... Photo: Kim Savage

Am I the only one who secretly nurtures the dream of moving to an island for writers? (It wouldn't have to be a lakeside cabin, after all, though I gravitate towards those settings; a friend in college and I were strongly considering anywhere-on-Mallorca back in the day.)

Slash who's ready to go in on a cabin in the woods with me? And visit it just about every weekend?