I love writing on the Island

 We sat on the recreational cruising boat with the late day sun streaking through the clouds and settling upon us with extended fingers. The boat was anchored in a small cove on the Ghost River, just west of where our cottage is. We were celebrating our friend Aimée’s fourty-something birthday, with a small group. We sipped white wine, which dissolved the disagreements of the day, and we chatted with other grown-ups, forgetting the inane conversations so prevalent with our kids.

Aimée asked me how my week at the writing retreat went. I said that it was amazing to be able to write uninterrupted every day. A friend of Aimée’s, who I had just met, asked me if I was a writer. I felt an inexplicable awkwardness, and my answer fell off my lips like saliva after a visit to the dentist.

“Yes…uh…no…well…ummm”.

Witnessing my clumsiness, she stared at me, and then leaned in, “It’s a hobby?”

“No, not a hobby,” I stammered.

“Oh?” she said, waiting for more.

I took a long sip of my wine, and adjusted my sunglasses.

Going to Wisconsin for a five-day retreat on Memoir Writing, with Kate Hopper, felt indulgent. I am a storyteller, and I love writing, but, creating a budget item this year called, “Writing conference” without a balancing item on the other side called, “Writing income” felt like a real stretch. I have been paid—twice—and the amount did little to offset the cost of the wine we consumed in our week together!

I had never been to an intensive writing retreat before and I had no idea what to expect. “Retreat” is not exactly an appropriate word: not if by retreat, one means mud-masks and relaxation, or withdrawing in order to rejuvenate. When writing memoir one has to show up and be seen—at least on the page. It is a vulnerable undertaking (which is why I had to go all the way to Wisconsin, to an island, to do it!)

Memoir is for old people, you might be thinking. I had a similar thought about curling, when I was in my twenties, and then I tried it. It isn’t just for old people. It is for all people who aren’t afraid to slip and slide and fall in front of others. It’s for people who can admit that life is messy, and that sweeping harder won’t always make it better, or clean the house.

Memoir is the accounting of personal experience; it is a revival of past events, memories and impressions. Creative writing is what brings it alive on the page. That is what we were doing, crafting our stories onto the page, in ways that made them engaging, dynamic, funny, and accessible. It was brilliant and amazing.

We met on Madeline Island, the largest of the Apostle Islands, on Lake Superior. The island had a quaint and gypsy-like feel, with only 300 year-round residents. The small town of La Pointe held an art walk and shopping evening for all workshop participants, and the live music, pottery, fabric art, scented candles, and clothing was tourist-priced, but magical.

Our writing workshop was held at Madeline Island School ofthe Arts, an old dairy farm that has been refurbished as an arts centre. It was isolated and peaceful. Our small group gathered daily in the bright and spacious loft of the barn. Our facilitator Kate Hopper inspired us with numerous writing examples and exercises daily. We spent time on our own, writing. And we spent time together, reading, sharing and learning. There were eight of us: all women, all mothers, and all writers—not one of us with the same story, but all of us with some element of shared experience. Each writer shared pieces of their life, through story telling, in bold and courageous ways, and we are all changed because of it.

“I realize that everyone must tell their stories, the ones they and their loved ones have lived. And I can feel it, the desperation in each of these narratives, no matter how different its outcome. I understand the need to tell and retell, to make sense of how their lives have changed.” (Kate Hopper. “Ready for Air”. 2013. p 275)

In the last decade, a certain message has seeped into my everything: Vulnerability breeds connection. Whether it has been through counseling, book study, reading, or on-line course work, the message has been consistent: take a risk, be vulnerable, it will build closeness. It takes courage. The six days that I spent with these complete strangers validated that notion—vulnerability does indeed build connection. We wrote; we read; we explored; we shared; we cried; we laughed; we ate; and we drank. We connected. I felt really close to these amazing women, and I have missed them every day since we parted.

On the way home from Wisconsin, I finished reading the book, “Ready for Air: A Journey through Premature Motherhood”, which was written by our facilitator Kate Hopper. The nugget of truth, about writing, came for me, in that book. She writes, “The more I get down [in writing], the more grounded and less alone I feel. It has always seemed strange to me that the solitary act of writing makes me feel more connected to the world, but it does.” (pp. 269-70)

I felt the boat sway and heard the water licking the underbelly. As Aimée and her friend watched me I swallowed my wine and said, “Yes, I do write, I am a writer.”