This past weekend extremely generous friends hosted our playwright's group at their house on Cape Cod for a mini-writer's retreat. This is the third year they've had us out to their comfortable home that overlooks a vast salt marsh. Their hospitality is such a gift--we each receive quiet time and space in which to write. In past years, I've chosen to go out on the deck to write, but this time I just holed up in my room with my notes and laptop and worked away at revising more chapters (while listening to the birds and sighing of the wind in the pines and marsh grass).
Just when we'd need a break, they'd cook gourmet meals for us, along with some fine wine and lively conversation. Then they wouldn't even let us do the dishes.
A little more than 24 hours of pampering and writing go a long way to restoring my creative energy. Sometimes I think about those well-known writer's retreats, where you have to go for a month. I'm sure they're fantastic, but they never seem practical--how do people fit them into their lives, especially if they have kids or a job? For me, this past weekend was the perfect gift.