I’m having one of those days…we all have them and today it’s my turn. It’s not so much as what is happening to me, as how I am interpreting it and therefore dealing with it. In short I’m not really dealing with it. I’m snarling and growling and slamming the phone down on people [daughter], getting wound up about things that don’t concern me and generally being a pain in the arse! I bet you wish you were here don’t you?
Anyway, that’s enough moaning. I did enough of that last night, on my post about the Scottish referendum. Was I miserable, or what? I haven’t given up on Scotland and I hope they don’t give up on us.
I’ve been reading about writer’s retreats. What a fabulous idea, to be able to take yourself off to a beautiful, quiet spot, or an energetic city to lose yourself in your writing. I should imagine that there’s quite a few people who would quite happily have me dispatched somewhere else today. Anywhere – so long as it’s a million miles away from them.
Well, they’re out of luck because I’m not going anywhere. But if I could, would I and where would I head off to? The idea of a quiet spot, such as the log cabin we stayed in last week is, in theory a fabulous idea. But, I did find at the end of the week, the lack of an internet connection [the WiFi was down…story of my life] and no mobile signals had resulted in me almost feeling like I had lost a limb. I was with family and there was no time to get bored with a two-year old entertaining us all, but had I have been by myself, it might have been a problem.
I guess, to a certain extent I rely on my surroundings for stimulation. I seem to work better when I’m surrounded by noise, which is just as well as I’m listening to the sound of mid morning traffic make its way along the road outside our cottage, as I type this. That’s not to say that I can’t enjoy peace and quiet. I love to listen to just birds and a gentle breeze, but too much quiet unsettles me sometimes. Something, at a very deep level within me finds the lack of noise disconcerting. But, and now I’ll contradict myself, when I paint I like to sit at the table, or my easel as peacefully as possible. Then I will find a quieter spot, towards the back of the house and away from the road. For my writing I need ideas, for my painting I need to rid myself of thoughts and distractions and just make a mess on the canvas.
Going back to the idea of a writer’s retreat I wonder whether I would be so enthralled by the very idea of going away to specifically write, that I wouldn’t actually write much? I might just pat my dictionary occasionally and generally mess about. But, there would be less housework to keep up to. Even less if I retreated to a hotel. But then I would have to plan my day around the housekeepers coming in to service the room and the meal times. That in itself could be intrusive and stressful. I could take my meals in my room and refuse to have my room serviced, so as not to interrupt the flowing words that would no doubt be forthcoming. But, I would miss my nearest and dearest, and my dog. I’d probably spend all of my time trying to ring them, email them [hubby, not the dog] and generally missing them.
So, I’m hatching a plan. Next year hubby, pooch and I may well go off on a writer’s retreat. Hubby can potter about and do his thing, whilst I pretend to be a writer.[Sadly, the days are gone of hiking up the mountains and through the forests.] When we need to escape we’ll go out for some fresh air and inspiration. I’m thinking we’ll stay at somewhere like Grasmere in the Lake District. If it was good enough for William Wordsworth it’s good enough for me.
Hang on a minute, that’s sounds very much like the holidays that we enjoy. Oh well, maybe I already go on writer’s retreats.
How about you? Do you fancy a writer’s retreat, or have you already been on one? Perhaps you’d like to share your experiences with us.[I do eventually get around to replying to your comments.]
Incidentally, talking of William Wordsworth, his wife Mary Hutchinson came from a village just along the road from me…Brompton and they were married at Brompton church. This pretty little village is awash with daffodils, in the spring. Did the daffodils in Brompton also play a part in inspiring Wordsworth, as well as the more famous ones in Grasmere? I certainly like to think so.I can imagine him wandering about the village and thinking up his poems as he walked.
I’m off to snarl and growl at someone else. Today may be an excellent day to contact BT about their wonderful Broadband Infinity service…that keeps going offline! I’m sure they’d be absolutely delighted to hear from me.
Enjoy your day and thanks for stopping by.
Until the next grumpy time.