In Retreat

Friday, early evening. I’m warm and sleepy, face burnt by wind and sun, limbs thick and loose with fatigue.

 

I hiked the Beara Way from Eyeries to Allihies today. Not so far really-11 kms, just over 6 miles. But the way was challenging: across the Slieve Miskish range, skirting the boggy and desolate peaks of Miskish and Knockgour,  whistling through lonely valleys. Not a soul, even now, in the height of trekking season in Ireland. Just the wind, the sheep, kestrals, and my thoughts to keep me company.

 

Early in my novel, The Crows of Beara, three characters go on a hike along the Beara Way: Daniel, an Irish guide, Annie, an American, and one of Annie’s Irish colleagues. Daniel drives them from Castletownbere until they reach a service road. He parks at a crossroads, then the three clamber over a turnstile into a farmer’s field and begin their ascent up a boggy mountain. It’s overcast, windy, and the bays below are hidden by a layer of fog.

 

I wrote the scene not from any specific memory of my time hiking the Beara in 2002, but from a composite of images I’d captured and held onto.

 

Today, I came to a sign pointing me back the way I’d come—Eyeries to the north, or east to Castletownbere, or south, to my intended destination of Allihies.  

Crossroads, Beara Way

 

I crossed a service road, clambered over a turnstile, and tromped through a field, scattering sheep in my wake. I began to ascend a boggy trail as thick mist raced down the mountain, obscuring my view of the sea.

image

 

When my character Annie reaches the peak on the trail, she pauses to catch her breath. The wind shoves the fog and mist aside and the bays, fields,  and villages below reveal themselves. Something constricts and then expands inside of her, as if her very soul had stilled in wonder, before filling its lungs with hope and longing and inexplicable joy.

 

As I paused on Knockgour to catch my breath, the wind pushed past me, carrying the mist up and over the mountain and out to sea. 

 

And my very soul stilled in wonder, before filling with delight. I realized I had written this moment. I had found the very place where Annie begins her transformation from one self into the next.

 

I’m on retreat here at Anam Cara. I’m a bit in retreat as well. I arrived a week ago (already, oh!). Only one other writer in residence this week; tomorrow the poetry group arrives. By the time you read this, I’ll have left behind a routine to which I’ve so easily, quietly adapted: an early morning run along country roads, breakfast in a steamy kitchen, writing until noon, followed by a couple of hours proofing the ARC of In Another Life, lunch, a long hike, home again to write before dinner, then a few more hours of writing and reading before the sun finally sets, well after 10 p.m. I leave my curtains open and from bed, I watch the clouds change colors and shapes over Coulagh Bay, until suddenly it’s morning again. Exquisite solitude.

 

I’ve written a couple drafts of an essay that’s been agitating for months to be released on paper. I finished proofing my novel. I worked on a class I’m offering at the end of July. There’s been an awful lot of gazing out the window from the desk in my room and meditating during my hikes, churning around ideas for the next novel. Tomorrow I’ll start researching some of these ideas. Go for another hike. Be deliciously alone.

 

But a new week begins Sunday, as the poetry workshop convenes, and I must open my heart to learning, studying, and sharing. Poetry. I’m terrified. I can’t wait. We’ll be doing some exploring, as well, including other sites in The Crows of Beara I’ve yet to (re)visit.

 

It’s Saturday now. I hear the others arriving. If I sneak out the back, with my pack, camera, notebook and water bottle, I can remain in retreat a little while longer . . .

 

 

The Journey of 1000 Lists: A Writer Travels

The lists that precede a journey. They begin in broad strokes, months in advance: where we will go, how we will get there, where we will stay, those travel Epiphanies that occur as we drain a bottle of wine or ramble along a forest trail. One year, while mapping out cycling routes in Burgundy, we realized we were meant to hike the Iveragh Peninsula in southwest Ireland. This year, while choosing a town in Burgundy to base ourselves, we decided it was time to visit Dordogne. Someday, we’ll actually make it to Burgundy.

 

A plan thus put into motion, the lists multiply, separate, fan out: packing lists; project lists; things to buy in preparation; things to do before we leave; an itinerary; do we want to end our trip in Paris, or visit someplace new? Which cat sitter did we feel most comfortable with?

 

Once scattered on the desk, pinned by magnets to the refrigerator, tucked into a book, the lists merge as the date of departure draws nigh. The big decisions are made. The small ones become a running stream of consciousness: which books to take (no e-readers here, thank you); which shoes—the shoes are everything, aren’t they? What happened to the spare phone charger cords? Will Lola spend three weeks under the bed, or will this new cat sitter coax her out and love her a little? I probably won’t get around to dusting the furniture before we go . . . Oh God, the milk . . . don’t forget to dump the milk.

 

No matter how far in advance I plan—and I’m a planner, bless my heart—these final days are filled with last-minute urgencies and “did you?” and “don’t forget!” and “what about?” Timing the loads of laundry, the paying of bills, the meals; must leave the laundry basket empty, the refrigerator hollow and shining.

 

Of all the things on my pre-departure lists—now list, singular, on the kitchen counter, beside the spare house keys for the cat sitter—I haven’t planned for writing. Not sure how I feel about that. This isn’t an intentional holiday from writing, though I haven’t left the page for more than three consecutive days in over two years. Maybe I should.

2014-09-28 17.43.22

 

I will return in late October and head straight to a writer’s conference. The query letter for my first novel is poised to begin its long journey through agent in-boxes. These past two weeks, since learning about a thematic competition for a novel that dovetails perfectly with the theme of my second novel, I have been frantically revising and editing, trying to get it into some sort of shape for a Gonzo submission by the September 30 deadline. Short stories written over the summer still need to find homes. I have work behind and ahead of me. I’m burned out.

 

Yet, this stopping business doesn’t feel right. Perhaps it will, when I’m pulled out of this element and routine and settle into another. Days of hiking and castle-hopping in the Dordogne, nights of cooking simple meals in our gîte, drinking supple Cahors and sipping creamy-spicy Armagnac—that should be enough to pull me out of the exigencies of word counts and submission tallies. A break from social media will slow the mind-chatter that insists I should be out there, engaging, commenting, posting, liking.

 

It is time to lift my head and look around, to pull out of the world of my imagination and let another world suffuse my senses. It is time to use a different language, quite literally, so that I may free my intellect from thinking in one so familiar.

 

I’ve packed one blank book (though that’s a bit of a cheat; I have a thing for papeteries and no doubt I’ll stock up on Rhodia or Clairefontaine or Calepino). Perhaps I will begin journaling again. Perhaps I will write, simply for writing’s sake. Perhaps those pages will remain blank, the Moleskine left forgotten at the bottom of my bag.

 

There’s a story idea I’ve carried around for years. For the first time, I travel to a specific place with the intention of absorbing its details—the contours of land, the quality of light, the aromas of villages and fields, the accents and colors of people—so that I may recall them in the months to come as I sketch out the idea I intend to sculpt into a novel.

 

There. See? I do have a plan, after all. It’s just not on my list.

 

Traveling- it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller. – Ibn Battuta

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake.
The great affair is to move.
– Robert Louis Stevenson

We like lists because we don’t want to die. – Umberto Eco