Last summer, over a year into the pandemic, my writing process got stale. I had started the pandemic with a goal: write my memoir. And I did for the first six months. I wrote daily and deliberately. I hired an editor and signed up for writing workshops. Then the holiday gods convinced me to sit on the couch and re-watch every episode of The Great British Baking Show, because surely, someone somewhere people were nice to each other in the world. It took mid February to peel myself from the void of cakes and scones and british accents. And when I returned to my desk, I discovered my muse had transformed into a fickle beast. It crossed its arms and gave me a wicked stare when I set a timer to write for an hour. I wrote, but it wasn’t happy about it. So I signed up for another workshop and my muse threw a tantrum, but it went along with the deadlines, even though I submitted work at the last minute. It was easy to derail my motivation. Emails, grading student essays, Outlander (aka, Timetravel Porn) on Netflix were in control; laundry and meowing cats decided whether or not I put words to paper. I approached my desk each morning desperate to bend my productive brain to my will and each morning my brain barely got what it wanted. 

I needed something and it wasn’t a freaking lockdown for another whole year. I needed out of the house, I decided. I needed a break from my same desk in the same room with the same pictures on the walls. That’s when it hit me: go on a retreat.

Like every writer before me, I’d often fantasized about hiding away in a cabin in the woods like David Thoreau. Especially now over a year into lockdown, the procrastinator in me triggered dreams of escaping into the redwoods. Because, surely there–my procrastinator logic went–in a place where I can’t be interrupted, far from Netflix and needy cats I would truly get my work done. Sitting in a different desk far away from my familiar surroundings, I would have no choice but to write page after page uninterrupted. I mean, if you were snuggled in a blanket with tea or coffee thinking deep thoughts about the birds chirping through cabin windows, your words would flow, right? That’s where ideas write themselves. Right?

So I looked up some writing retreats and residencies online and discovered a whole new world. There are so many different kinds! There’s some that are really just hotels for writers where you pay for space with other writers who do the same. Others require pages of material, cover letters, some asking for CV’s or even letters of recommendation. Some are extended vacations in Italy and France, others in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire or Colorado. Most don’t include airfare or transportation there/from the airport. Some lasted a week. Others a month or more. 

The swath of choices caused me anxiety. How much time would I lose writing and gathering the application materials? All that creative energy I’m supposed to spending on my own book would be diverted and more than likely not be recovered. 

Many of the retreats also required reading and socializing and even helping with cooking a meal or two during the week. That felt so contrary to the point of going somewhere to write undisturbed. Other issues poked holes in my retreat fantasies. I understood the people putting in money to provide the space in the first place would get something out of it: a poetry reading or at least a conversation with the artist. But it still felt odd. I wasn’t interested in socializing. 

Other retreats wanted the author to help cook, which is a fair trade if I was good at adulting (which I’m not) and even remotely skilled at cooking. Unless it’s cinnamon rolls or chocolate cake, you won’t find me chopping and grating cheese without complaining. To make matters worse, I’m a picky eater. What kind of food would be dropped off at my door? There’s a good chance I’d be too far away from a Taco Bell and maybe without access to a freezer and microwave. I don’t eat anything that lives in the ocean. Raised on Denny’s and Hometown Buffet, I have a kid’s palette. 

Arg, food, socializing, spending money, wasting time…so many factors I couldn’t control! 

Then it hit me: what’s stopping me from renting an Airbnb in the middle of nowhere by myself? After the cost of airfare and transportation, I’d come out even or most likely ahead. I could bring my own food and I wouldn’t have to cook at all. I could write what I wanted and not be expected to socialize. So that’s what I decided to do. 

I quickly bookmarked quite a few Airbnb’s that fit my needs: woodsy, no more than a few hours away, microwave and fridge, no shared spaces, inexpensive. When I shared my plan with Kim, she smartly reminded me about air conditioning. It was the middle of summer and in many parts of California, temperatures could get into the hundreds. So I checked all the places I bookmarked and sure enough, most of them did not list air conditioning in the description. I browsed Groupon (have I mentioned I’m cheap?) and considered a classic Bed and Breakfast on the coast, but I knew I’d be drawn to the quaint boutique shops and quirky cafes in town, all strong Renee-magnets which would draw me out of the room and away from my intended purpose: writing. I was leaving home to remove the variables that hindered my process. And so, after a week of searching, I found the perfect place: an Airbnb in Vacaville. 

Vacaville checked all the boxes: air conditioning, desk, even a little deck overlooking the woods. I did a quick virtual tour on google maps and sure enough, there really is nothing to do in Vacaville, just a pit stop town people drive through on the way to Tahoe.

I brought wine and Trader Joe’s frozen dinners and set myself a goal: within the two whole days and three nights I stayed in Vacaville, I would write three chapters. It usually takes me a whole week or more to draft a chapter, then another week to revise. I knew my goal was rather large, but I knew I wasn’t going to revise. I merely had to set pen to paper and write it out. Once I had that, I could go home, type it up, and would have a draft to work with.

I arrived. The place was smaller than it seemed in the pictures, but I knew that would happen. I had to rearrange the furniture since the desk was much too small. I moved the bedside lamp to the desk so I had more light. I sat, opened my laptop, and with nowhere to go, I tried typing. The work came out in spurts. The words weren’t flowing. I had come all this way, metaphorically turning the tap on full blast and words were not pouring out. My fantasy had lied. Annoyed, I poured a glass of wine. Ha! You can’t resist the Cabernet, Brain, thought. Still, drip, drip, drip, word, word, word. Fine, Muse, have it your way. I knew there was one way that always worked when the words wouldn’t come. With no laundry or garden to water and no reason to leave, I picked up my pen and a notebook, poured myself another glass, and free wrote until I drained three quarters of a bottle.

By 9pm I was spent. Memoir is emotionally exhausting. Sometimes I make a discovery and my brain burns out for a week or two trying to process it. I know this is why my brain resists writing many times. I avoid writing about my Dad or Step-Dad or bullying in school because I don’t want to feel crappy. My brain has invested in a schema–a good enough interpretation of traumatic events–to keep me moving through the present with a semblance of mental stability. But, like every other person attempting a memoir, that’s not enough for me. I want to know what happened and why. I want that shit in writing. I want it settled. The final story, signed and dated. Done. Skeletons pulled from the closet and buried. 

I decided I had earned some tv to decompress. Of course, I had access to Netflix and Prime. But what to watch? I heard Admiral Ackbar in the distance: It’s a trap! once I turned on the TV. I decided on LOTR extended edition, what I used to watch to help me fall asleep each night while I was single. It’s calming and familiar and I’ve seen it a bunch of times (I’ve been to two LOTR movie marathons–yes ext. ed.–at the theaters). I’ve seen it so many times, I can turn it on and off, mid scene, much like The British Baking Show. 

For the next couple of days, I maintained this pattern. Physical handwriting, food/LOTR breaks, wine starting in the early evening, then LOTR pulling me out of the traumatic memories into the realm of familiar fantasy. On the last day, I woke up, counted thirty plus handwritten pages, and considered it a success. 

Would I do this again? Yes, but I’d add some things you may find surprising. Because there was no reading or workshop, that left me only freewriting. No polishing. My brain wouldn’t enter the space because it didn’t have to. If I were to do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I’d bring a writing friend or four. I’d ask that we do a reading or workshop a night on whatever we were working on. I need accountability. I know from experience I don’t have the mental fortitude to hold myself accountable. I need outsiders pushing deadlines on me and without some kind of pressure I just won’t push myself into polish mode. So, dare I say it, I would suggest a nightly reading with my writer friends. Just enough accountability to go from freewriting to actual drafting. As for food, I’d suggest vegetarian food or a pre-set menu (we’d have to bring our own food anyway). And if people were bent on cooking, I’d offer to make the dessert. And just to shake things up, I’d suggest a winter retreat. As long as the place had a heater, I’d be happy, especially if it was raining. Oh, lovely, lovely rain