Whatever mountain you’re trying to climb

My friend recently went on a writer’s retreat.

It’s held at a gorgeous mountain resort. The daily schedule includes morning dance, supportive writing circles, afternoon yoga, strolls through green nature, three gourmet farm to table meals a day, and evening discussions.

There’s even a crackerjack writing coach on call if you have a question or get stuck.

Did I mention you’re served dessert every day? For lunch and dinner?

I have to say, that is a compelling offer. What’s not to like? No wonder there’s a waiting list a mile long. This writer’s retreat sounds like returning to the womb.

Although I was reading the testimonials from past graduates, something occurred to me.

This kind of retreat coddles writers into thinking creativity requires perfect conditions. But tranquility isn’t always an option. A lot of the work we do happens in the trenches, amid chaos, responsibility and discomfort.

If someone needs one of these weeklong escapes to rediscover their writing self, maybe they don’t have the discipline to be a writer in the first place.

And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t want to take away from what sounds like a profound and productive experience. I have personally gone on writing retreats many times.

When I was in my twenties, I used to escape to the desert for a few days every year to soak up the stillness and crank out a bunch of work. Loved every minute of it.

Except that one time I got lost while hiking, and thought I was going to have to chew off my own finger to survive.

But after a certain number of years of desert retreating, I realized I didn’t need that crutch anymore. Turns out, the indulgence of a catered environment wasn’t going to help me find my voice. Only forging it through daily effort in the real world was.

I needed to become the kind of writer whose skills could thrive without their protected bubble.

Because what happens when the retreat ends? Sure, experiences like these often produce a euphoric half life for a few days, or even a few weeks. Eventually, though, when all the handcrafted prompts, discussion groups and cactus roots are stripped away, it’s just you and the page. Or the canvas. Or the guitar. Or whatever mountain you’re trying to climb.

So if you can only perform your duties in an idyllic setting, you’re not building any muscle. But if you can produce when life is messy, exhausting and inconvenient, that’s the bigger win.