As I’ve mentioned recently, I attended a writer’s retreat two weekends ago hosted by my local RWA chapter.  This is my first year with the chapter and my first retreat with them, my first writer’s retreat ever, in fact.  So I didn’t know what to expect.

What I got was a little piece of heaven on earth:  three almost uninterrupted days of non-stop writing. 

 I was skeptical at first that ten or so women could simply sit and write without stopping to chat or read bits aloud or otherwise procrastinate about their writing.  Wrong.  We stopped every once in a while, if someone had a problem or needed advice.  We stopped when there were workshops scheduled, but you didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to.  (I passed on the one titled “When the Words Won’t Come” because mine were flowing like the River Jordan at that point.)  In fact, at least one workwhop was cancelled because no one wanted to stop writing and attend it.

We stopped for meals, albeit grudgingly, even though the food was gourmet and absolutely delicious.  But meals served also as a time to “come up for air,”  as a point for everyone to touch base, talk about how we were doing, talk shop, talk about plans to attend the national RWA convention at the end of the month. 

Then right back to writing!  It was, hands down, the best writing experience of my life.  Because I had nothing to do but write.  I accomplished more from Thursday evening through Sunday morning than I have done in two weeks of writing haphazardly at home, constantly interrupted by family, pets, telephone and other assorted drama. 

During the weekend, I wrote an article and posted to my blog (despite a capricious internet), completed a detailed outline for a Regency novel titled The Widow’s Club, completed two and a half chapters of my Victorian romance novel As Long As You’re Mine (which I finished this past weekend), and completed an 18 page short story, Speed Date.  All told I was just shy of 50 pages in three days of writing.  One writer wrote 100 pages and finished a novel (but I don’t think she slept at all!).  Several other writers finished the novels they had been working on as well and our collective total output was over 1000 pages.

My advice to all of you, therefore, is this:  if a writer’s retreat comes your way, beg, borrow or steal the money to attend.  Unless you have the luxury of unlimited, uninterrupted time dedicated solely to writing, it is worth every penny spent for the time to write and the encouragement of your fellow writers gained through the experience.

Those of you who follow Six Sentence Sunday have already read six sentences from my new short story Speed Date.  It’s currently my new fave WIP and I’m really loathe to let the characters go after just 18 pages.  I know their story is not finished, so I believe I am going to continue it into either novella or novel length.  But I thought I would give you another, larger taste of it–an excerpt from the beginning of the story, before Roberta meets Gabriel. (For that snippet please see my previous post and keep in mind, this is only a first draft, lightly polished.)  Hope you enjoy this little Speed Date.

Excerpt from Speed Date:

What the hell am I doing here?

I looked around the large, crowded room and my grip on the Gucci shoulder bag slipped.  Sweat was probably not good for the leather.

This was what you got for drinking too much.  I had to have been drunk—three sheets to the wind drunk—to have taken this dare.  That’s what I had been.  Two margaritas more than I should have at Rachel’s last Saturday night.  Just enough to take the damned dare when Sydney made it.

I glanced around the room again, clutching the Gucci like a shield.

 I am so swearing off alcohol.

The official, a balding little man with clipboard in hand, motioned me to a nearby table.  I sat, pried the bag off my shoulder and leaned it against my leg for moral support.

Oh, God, I am so not ready for this.

Bong!

The sound of the gong deafened me as a pleasant-faced young man sat down in front of me.

“Hi.  My name is George.”

“Hi.  I’m Roberta.”

I was speed dating.

George, a sandy blonde with greenish eyes, kept clicking a ballpoint pen as he spoke.  “So, have you done this before?”

“Never.”  I tried to smile as if that didn’t make me sound like I was finally desperate enough to try anything.  “Are you from the area?”

“No, I transferred six months ago from Ft.Belvoir.  But I’m originally from Oklahoma.  You?”

“Yep.  Born and raised in Tidewater.  I live on theEastern Shore.”  I was supposed to tell these men the truth, right?  Concern flared.  What if he was a serial killer?  At least he didn’t know where on theEastern Shore.

“What’s your MOS?”  I saw a flicker of surprise?  respect? appear in his eyes.  I knew his jargon.  I might actually be salvageable.

“Counter-terrorism.”  Oh, Jesus.  TMD—Total Military Drama.  “What do you do?”

“I’m manager for an apartment complex.”  I’m as boring as they come.  Please go away.

“Do you like to party?  Know all the great hot spots around here?”

Translation:  do you know where the party is or are you a total nerd?

“I’ve heard Contraband is the bomb inNorfolk.” Crap!  Bomb is not the word you want to use with someone in CT.  But he didn’t go into ninja mode, so I ventured a question.  “What type of music do you like?  Something like fusion jazz?” 

Bong!

I made my face slacken a trifle.  “Aww.  Five minutes goes by too fast, doesn’t it?

He stood.  “Yes, well, um…nice to meet you…uh…Roberta.”

At least he did remember it.  Finally.  “You too, George.”

As he moved on to his next table, I made a sharp flick though the number one on what I termed my dance card.  One down, nineteen to go.  Twenty dates in two hours.

Considering my current track record was three dates in two years—dates, mind you, not relationships—I was in for an extraordinarily long dry spell starting tomorrow.  Cramming twenty dates into one evening was just tempting Fate to decree no more until mid-June 2028.  At least that meant I could get a date for my 50^th birthday party.  Yippee!

Meanwhile, date number two sat down in front of me.  Tall, thin, curly dark hair, prominent Adam’s apple.

“Hi, my name is Stephen.”

“Hi, I’m Roberta.”

I will never drink again, so help me God.

What has been your experience with writer’s retreats?  Have you ever just staged your own and refused to open your door?  How do you cope with creating a worry-free space in which to write?  Love to hear from you!

And don’t forget my June releases, Heart of Deception and Hog Wild are availble now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.  Or click on the covers to go the the publishers’ websites for purchase.