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In the first in a two-part series, The Edge of the Forest correspondent Kim Winters shares excerpts from the pages of her
personal journal, allowing us an inside look at the angst, musings, rants, and raves of one writer on retreat.
The event in question: SCBWI-Illinois' Write Place Retreat Weekend held April 27-29 at the Cenacle Retreat Center in
Chicago, Illinois.
Wednesday, April 25, T-minus three days and counting
I'm making piles. It's only Wednesday, but if I wait until Friday morning to pack like I normally do, it'll be too late.
So, I'm making piles of what I might need for the weekend...piles of books, edits for re-visioning of my
fantasy-novel-in-progress, anything I think I might need to reference while on retreat this weekend.
Practically speaking, all I really need is my laptop, notebook, purple pen, good walking shoes, clean underwear, a couple
changes of clothes, and one good book to read. Unfortunately, my muse is less than cooperative at helping me create order
from the chaos.
I leave the piles on the bed, send a silent plea to my muse to make some decisions while I'm wearing my mom hat, and begin
my day.
Welcome to the life of a writer mom. Not only am I a full-time writer, I'm a full time mom of three active girls, two with
special needs. To say that our family is busy would be an understatement.
Today, instead of sitting butt in chair for the hard work of re-visioning, I'm donning my mom hat for a meeting with the
middle school team in order to draft educational goals for our 5th grader for next year.
The meeting finally ends at noon. One major item off my to-do list. Another big one remains before I can truly enjoy the
weekend: Career Day at the middle school on Friday. This is why I need to finish the majority of my packing by the end of
the night Thursday. I'm a featured speaker at the school Friday morning, and I still haven't finalized what I want to say.
No problem. It's only noon on Wednesday.
Never mind the fact that e-mail's piling up. And let's not forget my work-in-progress.
No wonder I'm crabby. The craziness of the week is translating into less butt-in-chair time with my characters.
I really need this retreat.
Key Items I need to Cross off my To-do List Before I Can Truly Retreat:
1. Packing (which can't be done until I finish laundering the essentials...underwear,
socks, capris [after I find them], etc.).
2. Bills (they're late, which means I can't afford to put them off another day).
3. Planning and assembly of the items needed for my portable office (a backpack on
wheels). This is a must because not only do I need my laptop and charger for the
weekend, I need ready accessibility to my notes, drafts, etc., anything my muse
might require.
4. My muse still insists on taking more reading material than I need. Into my pack
goes: Gail Carson Levine's Writing Magic, Bonnie Friedman's Writing
Past Dark, Prom Nights From Hell: Paranormal Prom Stories by Meg
Cabot, Kim Harrison, Michelle Jaffe, Stephenie Meyer, and Lauren Myracle, and
Noah Lukeman's The Plot Thickens.
5. The list gets longer by the minute, and to be honest, I doubt I'll need 80
percent of what I pack. But here's the thing: when it comes to leaving my
regular work space for an extended period of time, my muse is fickle. For
reasons beyond my understanding, she insists on taking along what feels like
half my office. I'm reminded of packing an umbrella on a clear summer's day,
and since the MAIN purpose of the weekend is to write, I resolve to indulge
my muse's need to overpack.
6. Schedule for my hubby so he knows who needs to go where and when. This
schedule is something I started back when I was pursuing my MFA in Writing for
Children from Vermont College. Back then I was required to leave home once a
semester for 11 days at a time. Somehow prepping for this weekend feels harder.
I guess I'm out of practice.
7. Gas for the car, because knowing my daughter, the tank's on empty, and, Lord
knows I don't want to run out in the middle of downtown Chicago.
8. Cash, because I'm down to my last dollar and a quarter in my wallet, and Murphy's
Law states that if I don't bring some along, I'll end up needing it.
9. Reconsider if all this prep is really worth the effort.
Thursday, T-minus two days until the retreat, and counting:
After doing an archeological dig in the basement, I finally located the summer clothes, and my capris (the bins
they were in had been moved during our last home improvement project). I put a dent in the laundry. I gathered most
everything my muse required in order to write away from home. I finished reading and analyzing the required reading for
our discussion on character: the Newberry winner, The Higher Power of Lucky. I even managed to write a solid
first draft of my career day talk and finalize it, before picking up the girls from school.
The main message I hope to impress upon budding young writers in the audience:
You don't need to wait until you win the "World Series of Writing" before you declare yourself a writer. The moment
you put pen to paper and share your work with someone, YOU ARE A WRITER.
The evening rushes by, a whirlwind of homework, showers, and a chapter from The Silver Crown by Robert O'Brien.
I dig through my office looking for books and visual aids to help liven up my presentation. I fall asleep tweaking my
career day script.
Friday, April 27th, Departure Day
I wake up early to finish packing. Don't quite finish it all, but should have enough time to do so after Career Day is
over. My goal: to leave by 4:00 at the latest so I have time to check in, unpack and make the 7 p.m. welcome session.
To be done after Career Day:
1. load the cooler (with Diet Coke and other necessities)
2. load the car.
3. check my must-do-before-I-go list to be sure I'm not forgetting anything
important...like my laptop or cell phone charger.
4. gas up the car and get cash from the store.
5. a little voice niggles at me, suggesting that I've forgotten something.
6. I do my best to ignore it, figuring the voice isn't my muse, it's my inner
critic making a blatant attempt to undermine my part in Career Day.
8:33 a.m. —We arrive at school a few minutes late after a rocky start getting the girls and my gear out the
door in time. After dropping off the girls at their respective doors, I find a parking spot and lug my supplies (easel,
easel pad, books, purple pen, and my laptop) to the library where I learn what classroom I can set up in. Before long, the
first class files in, and away I go.
Right off, I can tell the readers and writers, and the ones who'd rather be somewhere else. The readers and writers lean
forward in their chairs, nod at the questions, ask follow ups or make comments. Some even frown when it's time to move
onto the next session. They keep me going, urge me on, come up afterward to talk favorite authors and books. Three sessions
later, the morning's over.
10:45 a.m. —I'm jazzed, pumped, thrilled to have connected with so many young writers, I'm back in the school
library talking with the other speakers about how their morning went when I'm given the option of returning after lunch.
I haven't yet had a chance to speak with my 5th grader's class. I have to say yes.
I'm offered a free lunch if I stay. Instead, I race home to finish up my packing, run by the store for gas and cash, and
load the car so I can head out as soon as I get the girls situated after school.
2:15 p.m. — The 5th graders walk in. My daughter is beaming. Puts the hassles and hard work of being a
writer mom into perspective.
Friday, 4:35 p.m., On the Road At Last
I'm a half hour past the time I'd hoped to be on the road, but bless the Powers That Be, traffic is decent. Looking good
to make it downtown in time to unpack and attend the 7 p.m. welcome session...until I hit Midway Airport.
Expecting stop and go traffic the rest of the way in, I exit near the airport, take a pit stop, grab a Subway sandwich,
and stow it in my cooler in case I arrive too late for dinner. Fifteen minutes later, I'm on the road again.
The city skyline appears in the distance. At first all I recognize is the Sears Tower. But as the miles click on by, other
buildings rise up. The Prudential Building. The Hancock building. Another and another. Finally, I merge onto Lake Shore
Drive.
The city rises on my left. Lake Michigan glistens on my right. It fills the entire eastern horizon. It's glorious,
deep blue and aqua. It ripples in the sunlight, a jeweled blanket. The frenetic pace of the morning, and all the prep it
took to get here begins to slip away.
I cruise by McCormick Place, Soldier Field (home of da Bears), the Field Museum, the Shedd Aquarium, the Planetarium,
Grant Park, Buckingham Fountain (not yet plashing), Millenium Park and the Bean (otherwise known as "Cloud Gate" by
British artist Anish Kapoor), and the giant ferris wheel at Navy Pier.
Cars fly by, weaving from one lane to the next. I choose the lane nearest the lake, and people-watch the cyclists and
joggers and in-line skaters. I ooh and aaah the architecture along the waterfront, marvel even more at the landlords who've
refused to build higher in order to preserve such gorgeous buildings.
Stopped at a light, a driver in an SUV pounds his steering wheel, jams to music only he can hear. I suddenly realize I'm
smiling. Not a "she-must-be-so-happy-she's-off-work" kind of smile. My smile's bigger, wider, sillier than my wheel-jamming
SUV neighbor. It's a "woohoo, I've-got-a-whole-weekend-to-myself" kind of smile.
The light turns green. Nothing will break this mood. Not the fact that I'm late. Not the fact that I've way overpacked.
Not even the evening's complement of rude drivers. After all, it's Chicago. What other kind of drivers are there?
6 p.m., Cruising Along Lakeshore Drive
Before long, I spot my exit. Fullerton. Signs point. This way for Brookfield Zoo. This way for the Peggy Notebaert
Nature Museum. This way to—
My hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. This way to Children's Memorial Hospital.
One light. Two. Three. I'm stopped at the intersection of Fullerton and Clark, thrumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
This is the street. Follow it another five blocks or so and you'd come to Children's. Turn right here. Head North, and a
few blocks later, I could visit the physicians who shepherded our 15-year-old a year ago through her most recent
neurosurgery. Head West a few blocks from there, and you'd come to a grand old mansion, nestled along a wooded
residential street. Another familiar place for our family.
Ronald McDonald House.
I wonder how many families are living at the house now, worrying about their sons or daughters as they prepare for
surgery or recover from it, marking their days by hospital time while the rest of the world rushes by.
As I send a prayer their way, the light changes green.
Two blocks west of Clark, the driveway for the Cenacle Retreat Center appears as if out of nowhere. A low annex
joins two six-story buildings. The facility is well kept, understated. I'm reminded of a rectory or convent.
With so many trips under my belt to Children's and Ronald McDonald House, I wonder why I've never noticed the center
before now. Then again, I think, as I pull into the blacktop lot in search of a space to park, maybe I shouldn't be so
surprised.
The other times I've driven this way my head wasn't in the writing zone. It was in the mom zone, the patient advocate zone.
It was juggling my daughter's needs, struggling with questions for the physicians we were about to see that day, or
planning a shopping list of the supplies I needed at the House.
I circle the lot and, to my surprise, I find a space. I consider it a good sign that I've managed to snare the second to
the last parking space. I should be excited. I should be eager to start my weekend. Instead, I cut the engine and sit.
I'm two blocks from Children's, three blocks from The House, mere steps from a weekend away.
From my family.
From my worries about my girls.
From the siren's call of the laundry, the dishes, and the shoulds that lure me away from the hard work of writing.
I need this retreat. It's my time. My place. My space.
It's time to let go. Give in. Give myself permission to write.
Instead, I sit, and sit, and sit.
There's no big bang. No big aha moment I can point to and say that's where I made my choice. One moment I'm staring at the
brown brick two-flat leering over my car. The next I'm unloading the car. Bags in hand, I head inside.
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