Retreating.

I shall attempt to distract myself from certain disastrous political events of late by recounting something positive: the wonderful, relaxing and productive week I recently spent writing my novel in a cottage in Yorkshire.

For a long time I’ve wanted to do a writing retreat. Although I love adventurous holidays in far-flung locations, the busier my life gets the more I’ve been dreaming about a holiday where I do absolutely nothing but write; where I have not just the time but also the mental space to devote to my novel. There are lots of excellent-sounding writing retreats available which offer tuition, structured writing times and sometimes even meals in a beautiful location, but if you can’t afford those, you can also do it yourself. All you need is a cottage and some pretty scenery – oh, and lots of self-discipline.

I hereby introduce my trusty writing sidekick, henceforth referred to as the Ruffian. The Ruffian is writing a novel which is even better and more important than mine if you can believe it (he’ll tell me off for saying that), and also doesn’t have as much time as he’d like to write it, and so off we went together to the Yorkshire Dales. A four-and-a-half hour drive to a cottage in the middle of a field, with no Wifi and nobody but the sheep to hear us scream… It was wonderful, and nobody was murdered by the end of the five days.

Going somewhere isolated is important, as you don’t want to be surrounded by too many distractions. We had the option of going for walks – which we needed to clear our heads, get some vitamin D and also some perspective – and there were pubs to drown our sorrows in over the inadequacy of what we’d written at the end of the day, but apart from that, few distractions and a lot of peace and quiet (bleating excepted). The pouring rain forced us stay glued to our laptops. The lack of Wifi was disconcerting at first – how could I do extremely important Google ‘research’ on space disasters, which is totally relevant to my novel, OK? – but quickly became liberating. When we got to the pub, the first thing we did was ask for the Wifi password and then sit frantically checking emails and social media. Typical millennials…

My overly ambitious plan was to write 15,000 words: 5 chapters, 3,000 words each. You’ve got to go into these things with optimism. It’s intimidating to sit down in front of a blank document with nothing ahead of you but hours of writing: trudging through the icy tundra of that white page with no shelter in sight. You think you’ve forgotten not only how to tell a good story, but also the basics of the English language. But you put one foot in front of the other, one word after another, and before you know it you’ve got 1,500. The retreat showed me that my idea of my ‘muse’ is largely a myth; writing is about sheer discipline. If you force yourself to sit down and write, even if you don’t feel like it, the ideas will start to flow. Because they have to, unless you want to sit staring at a wall for four hours instead. By the end of it, I’d written about 5-6,000 extra words, which it would have taken me weeks to do normally, cramming in a few hundred words here and there between work, the gym, my choir and church and friends and life admin.

Most importantly, I tackled the doubts I had about my novel head-on, thought through its problems and tried to fill its plot holes. The Ruffian is a thoughtful chap who loves playing devil’s advocate. During our long walks I would explain my plot to him, and he would say things like, ‘But isn’t that inconsistent with X?’ or ‘Does that create enough narrative tension?’ or ‘Do you think readers will find that ending satisfying enough?’ until I wanted to push him into the nearest creek and feed his remains to the sheep (again, going to be told off). But I was grateful for it, really – it’s better for him to pick those holes in my book now than the reviewers later (if I’m lucky enough to get published). I was told on my writing course that you’ve got to shake your novel until it doesn’t rattle anymore; I did a lot of shaking in Yorkshire, and I’m not sure I could have done that alongside the franticness of my London life. 

I also gained a new appreciation for the British countryside. Admittedly, I was slipping into the generation Y mindset that it’s not a ‘real’ holiday unless it involves a long-haul flight and a backpack the size of your own body, so this was a great reminder that my own country has so many beautiful and varied landscapes, and they’re no less of an experience than Thailand or South America. I’d like to be inspired by more of them, and write in more of them.

Retreats are fantastic. Despite all the hard work, I haven’t felt that relaxed in a long time (after a week of reality, I already feel frazzled!). I hope this post might be relevant to more people than just my writing friends. Whatever the hobby you don’t have time for is, whether it’s yoga or cooking or art or music, everyone would benefit from taking some time out to nourish their talent – as nauseatingly sunshine and rainbows as that sounds. If only I could have another month out, I could get my novel done… but hey, real life calls.