What do You Love this Much?

I’m writing this post from a cabin in the clouds.

This is the spot I chose for a week-long solitary writing retreat.

I have done nothing but write, eat and read whenever my brain needs a break from writing.

There is no Wi-Fi and temperamental cell service, so despite the fact that I would enthusiastically embrace a distraction as if it were my long-lost twin, there seem to be no good ways to avoid doing work.

I think I have become a “real” writer.

This, after 20 years of writing professionally—which, despite all evidence to the contrary, did not, in fact, make me a real writer. I also spent three months in my 30s telling everyone I was a writer, to which they all responded – without exception – “Oh, what have you written that I would know?”

No. The latter experience made me “not an author.” And the former made me a copywriter. A perfectly competent (fine 🙄: talented) doer of what everyone needs done. And an exceptional avoider of doing what I need done.

Until now.

And yet, despite Herculean effort, I am not going to finish my novel.

That was my goal when I set out to do this retreat. I knew it was ambitious, audacious even, but I thought Parkinson’s Law would work in my favor. You know, the law that says a task will expand to fill the time allotted? It’s supposed to work in reverse, too. Got five days to finish a book? No problemo!

Crock o’ garbage, that law.

But even though I’m not going to finish, I’m learning a ton about myself and my writing process. These discoveries feel like such a gift—like armor that I can carry with me back into the world of deadlines, expectations and bad, but oh-so-bingeable TV—that I feel compelled to share them with you.

If you aspire to write a book, maybe these discoveries will be a good yardstick by which to measure your own devotion.

If you don’t, maybe they’ll help you zero in on the thing that would inspire such extreme sports-style dedication.

Observation #1: You’ve got to feed the machine.

The muse is a hungry mistress. Given that I only hang out with her for 30 minutes once or twice a week, I had no idea.

It seems weird to be totally sedentary for eight hours a day and still willingly consume double my normal quantity of food. But client work doesn’t compare to the mental calisthenics you need to drop into a scene with characters you’ve only just met and painstakingly walk yourself through each action, reaction, line of *believable* dialogue, and description that creates realism without putting the reader to sleep. You’ll feel like you did after high school swim practice; that is to say, capable of demolishing not one, but TWO Cuca’s green burritos.

I’m a pro at ignoring hunger pangs in my normal life in favor of “getting more done.” Now that I am a “real” writer, however, this behavior will no longer be tolerated. I am eating for two from here on out, myself and my proverbial book baby.

Observation #2: Time will fly, and it will destroy your sense of everything.

After a short break for coffee and crispy feta-fried egg tacos, I sit down again to write—blink—and it is 2 pm. This sensation repeats itself after lunch, and suddenly, the sun is going down and I am, again, ravenous. I feel vaguely suspicious, as if the sensations of hunger and sleepiness I’m feeling can’t be trusted.

I’ve lost time before—a handful of times a year if I’m lucky. In fact, I’m obsessed with that enchanting and elusive feeling we call “flow,” but seem committed to remaining too busy to have time for it.

Here, I’ve lost time every day. Back-to-back stretches of creative euphoria that make my soul say: This. This is what you are on earth to devote yourself to. It’s like a drug—I want this to be my reality, while at the same time, I realize it’s not remotely practical to live off-grid for the entire stretch of time required to write a novel.

A conundrum, indeed.

Observation #3: My greatest fear is having all the time in the world to write, but not having the follow-through.

I planned for this retreat to include daily tarot pulls, meditation, yoga and hiking. Plus, an evening beauty routine I promised to start on my 40th birthday, but have never done to completion even once. However, since this was a 2,000-mile commute, I made myself write first every day, instead of indulging in my plethora of routines. That’s how I came to realize there was no time for the other stuff.

In normal life, doing the “other stuff” means there’s never enough time, so the follow-through never gets tested. The “other stuff” is a safety net. By occupying my time with “other stuff,” I can throw up my hands and exclaim, “Life happened!” whenever anyone asks me if I’ve finished my novel.

But, thanks to this experience of abandoning the “other stuff” in the name of science, I now know I have the follow-through.

I just need the right conditions to access it.

Extreme conditions. Cave in the Himalayas-type conditions.

So . . . not to be dramatic or anything, but I will now be taking monthly staycations wherein I unplug the internet for five full days and refuse to text you back. Many burritos will be harmed in the process.

I can think of no better #lifegoal.

Your Turn

Drop a comment below and tell me what you’re working on that makes your brain ravenous and puts you in a flow state.

Will you go to any lengths to create the conditions to nurture that passion?