Every now and then a glossy ad pops up promising a “transformational writers’ retreat.”
The photos always feature windswept cliffs, steaming mugs and a dozen thoughtful types gazing into the middle distance as if waiting for their muse to arrive by helicopter.
I’ve never attended one — not a single catered morning tea or group meditation — but the whole concept fascinates me.
At heart, a writers’ retreat is simply permission. Permission to step away from the daily noise, silence the phone, and tell the world, “I’m extremely busy working… honestly.”
But another part of me knows I’d be hopeless at it. Give me a peaceful lake and a sun-dappled verandah and I’d spend the first afternoon dozing, the second reorganising my notes by colour and emotional damage and the third wondering where everyone keeps vanishing to and whether the biscuits in the communal kitchen are included in the fee or guarded by some sort of Honour System I am destined to violate.
The settings vary — mountain cabins, European châteaux, eco-lodges tucked deep in the bush — but the pitch is always the same.
You’ll return home with pages filled, goals met and a renewed belief that you are, in fact, a writer and not just someone who rearranges stationery in interesting ways.
And part of me thinks: wouldn’t that be marvellous?
Still, the communal side does sound appealing — almost romantic. Sitting around a long table in the evening, each person reading a few paragraphs, everyone nodding politely while privately plotting how to fix their own chapter, abandon their own chapter or fake an entirely new chapter before tomorrow’s session.
Hearing other writers wrestle with doubts, detours and the universal fear of being asked, “So… what’s your book about?”
Learning that even the confident ones occasionally stare at their screens thinking, “Oh dear. Oh dear. What have I done?”
The truth is, most writers do their retreating at home, in stolen pockets of time. A closed study door. A café corner. The car parked under a tree, notebook wedged awkwardly against the steering wheel while you pretend this is absolutely normal behaviour.
We escape where we can. Perhaps that’s why organised retreats are so alluring — they turn the fantasy into a line item in your calendar.
Maybe one day I’ll go to one. Maybe I’ll even write something monumental. But until that day, I’m content with my own low-budget version: a quiet room, a hot drink and the hope that inspiration drops by unannounced and doesn’t immediately ask for snacks.
After all, a retreat isn’t a place. It’s a pause — and any writer can claim one.
JOHN MARTIN 