Why I Don’t Do Writing Retreats

And other “normal” things you don’t need to do as a creative.

When I was a teenager, I wrote one of my favourite authors and told her that she was a big reason I was inspired to become a writer one day. I gushed, told her about my plans for writing, and thanked her for all of her work that had motivated me so much.

Her response?

She told me that she was honoured to have inspired me, and that writing is an excellent career for people who want to stay below the poverty line.

Yeah.

Yowch.

She then proceeded to list out all the things I could and should do to get published, which, forgive me, I promptly discarded. I figured any advice to come from that place was probably not advice I wanted to internalize.

Now, if this stings your heart just to read it — allow me to offer an alternative perspective:

I’ve had a successful career as a writer in all sorts of genres, and it is entirely possible to make great money as a writer. Totally doable with a good confluence of timing, luck, chance, and hard work. (Mostly good luck though, let’s be real.)

But I’m not sharing this today to charge your battery about what’s possible (though that is always nice!)

Instead, I wanted to share what I haven’t done as a writer — and how, when we’re pursuing a goal, it can be really easy to start assuming you need to do what others do in order to succeed. (The plethora of “how to” posts that live on the Internet can attest to this!)

When we’re trying to do something big and scary, it’s normal to look for a map. And often, it’s a good idea to get the lay of the land from others who have gone before you in pursuit of similar goals.

But there are two kinds of maps: conscious and subconscious.

Conscious maps are the ones we’re taking in when we’re reading advice on a particular topic, which we can choose to believe or disregard.

Subconscious maps are the maps we take in by default, simply by soaking up the actions of the people around us — especially the ones we look up to, who have achieved what we want. And because they’re subconscious, it can be difficult to get ourselves into the awareness place where we realize we have a choice to disregard them or not. (Note: If you are neurodivergent 👋, hi, hello, this will likely apply doubly to you, on account of masking! Ask me how I know.)

The downside of internalizing subconscious maps is that you can completely miss out on becoming the type of creative you actually are, because you’re too busy trying to fit into the ‘template of success’ that you’ve internalized.

A fab example of this was recently shared by my buddy and nature artist, Steph FC, who boldly shared her take on why she doesn’t do something that many of her colleagues do, which is draw on location:

“I’m writing this for the artists who feel pressured to draw on location, to feel validated by doing The Thing you’re supposed to do if you’re a nature artist. I’m writing this to let them know that not every nature artist likes to draw or paint outdoors and that it’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything about your cred as a nature artist. It just means you don’t like or don’t want to pack up half your studio and make art outside.”

It’s such a simple thing, right? Just drawing on location. But when you’re a budding nature artist and soaking up the world of other nature artists, it’s easy to think that drawing on location is one of those activities that you just do, because everyone else is doing it. Like you get your ‘draw on location’ stamp in your artist passport, and they’ll let you into the club.

The funny thing is, every industry has These Things You’re Supposed to Do, and if you’re not careful, you can start to think they’re necessary to succeed — when really, they’re not.

My perspective of These Things stems from the writer world where I’ve lived for nearly two decades, so today I wanted to share some things you may think you need to do because of subconscious maps that you’ve internalized, but you just don’t.

When you start looking for these maps, you’ll probably be surprised just how many of them become apparent. If you love these things, that is great for you! But if you don’t, rest easy that you’re not alone.

1) Writing retreats

I spoiled this in the headline and please trust that I have nothing against them or the people who love or run them!

Despite publishing oodles of books, I have never been on a writing retreat. The main reasons are a) I’m not a people or schedule person, and even having the constraints of dedicated hours to “socialize” with other humans and “alone time” for writing would be exhausting to me to work within. I just don’t jive in these settings, and would rather do my own thing at all times.

And more importantly b) Most writing retreats are in gorgeous natural settings, and I promise you — if I’m in a place where I can hike in nature instead of write, I am going to hike in nature instead of write.

Every single time.

While it would be easy to beat myself and up think ‘oh grow up, you could probably enjoy a retreat if you really tried it!” I also know that one of the things that makes me me is my love of nature and essentially turning feral at the sight of the outdoors, so I let myself just be me and assume that special spark is something that has meaning and it’s worth protecting, even if it means I (perhaps) look like a curmudgeonly misfit. Thankfully as I age, I lose all semblance of caring about this!

2) Critique groups.

This one is a bit of technicality for me, but I think it’s worth mentioning. I do think it’s important for writers to have other writers that can help them with their projects. And every (published) book I’ve ever written has gone through not just my own lens, but also through another kind soul who helps me suss out where I need to clean it up. (Often, this person is my agent!)

But the people who I ask to help me change depending on the books I’m writing.

I’ve never had a dedicated critique group where I share my work with others and then critique their work in return. Nor have I done the thing where I have a group of unchanging writer(s) who reads all of my stuff.

My method is much more economical: I have a handful of folks whose opinions I trust, and when I need help, I’ll ask one of them for a read — and I’ll ask them based on the particular element of the book that I think is lacking.

So, if I notice the emotional heart of a story is a little off, I may ask the writer friend of mine who excels at noticing those small, underlying threads of emotional growth in a story. If I’m concerned my jokes aren’t landing, I’ll ask the funny women in my life to have a look. If I’m uncertain on some research aspect, I’ll ask someone who maybe isn’t a writer, but has useful knowledge that can help. (Of course, if they ever need a hand, they know I’m there for them as well.)

But my point here is that these people often don’t know each other, and there’s no semblance of ‘group’ or any schedule or routine around the sharing, critiquing, or “club” feel to any of it.

I mention this one, because when I was starting out, there was a big FOMO element to having a critique group that gets together every month and trades stories and critiques. It’s nice if it appeals to you!

But it’s not at all necessary if it doesn’t work for you, or if you find yourself, like me, with a lovely eclectic group of souls in your world.

The reality is, you likely don’t need everyone’s opinion in that critique group, and I’ve seen a lot of writers twist themselves up because there’s one too many cooks in the kitchen. The reality is (I’m sorry!) that many people will have opinions that just aren’t useful to you. The hard part is figuring out which opinions are helpful, and which are not.

Being selective about who reads your stuff can be a great thing, so if that means you shift your idea of critiquing, I say go for it.

3) NaNoWriMo.

I know, I just wrote an essay recently about NaNoWriMo and here I am telling you that I don’t love it!

As you can guess, it’s not that I’m against learning the skill of writing a book quickly. I think it’s a great tool to add to your creative swiss army knife. But, as with Inktober, the 100DayProject, and other similar challenges, the FOMO of witnessing thousands of other people in communities take on these pursuits in the same timeline is a hell of a drug — and it’s very easy to feel like there’s something wrong, weak, or unmotivated about yourself if you aren’t in a position to take part.

I’ve said before that these challenges are like Creative Ironmans, and like the physical version, good prep and timing is mandatory for you to not injure yourself.

Sometimes, the schedule of your life means that you can’t do something when others are doing it, and while it may seem trite to tell you that “you’re still awesome when you follow your own timing”, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

So by all means, write that book during NaNoWriMo. But a book written in December, or March, or July, or any other month or stretch of months is also a book. And possibly even a better one if it doesn’t drag you into burnout to get it out of you.

4) Write everyday.

It’s not hyperbole to say that I’ve heard this one a thousand times over the past decades. Say it with me: “Good writers write everyday!”

I could couch this in context with a lot of wiffly-waffling, and say something like “well yes, it IS true that developing a writing habit is important and blah blah blah”, but honestly? Let’s save time with the truth:

Real writers write. Sometime.

That’s quite literally the only metric that makes one a writer. Do you find or create time to write — at some point?

If so, congrats, you’re part of the club.

In my experience, the grippiness of the whole ‘real writers write everyday” thing is a testament to how often people misinterpret what works for them as what works for everyone. Classic faulty thinking, which can also be easily weaponized if the aforementioned person is selling something. (Let the record show, you do not need a branded notebook or journal to have good ideas.)

So, if you’ve ever felt plagued by your own particular writing habits, and whether or not The Powers That Be will somehow revoke your abilities, it’s okay to just, like, write when you can, or want to. Yes, sometimes you’ll have to write when you don’t want to, but that’s a choice that you get to make on a case by case basis.

If you sense you want to grow your skills and write more often. to do so, and have the capacity for it, by all means, write more! But if life hasn’t provided you with that freedom at this point, it’s okay.

All books get written one word at a time. You can

For me, I have absolutely gone stretches of time without writing at all. Usually when I’m busy doing things that are required of my own unique existence. Like traveling, tending my human, binge-watching TV shows about angsty gay vampires, or dealing with heavy life stuff that will always find you.

Letting yourself be you with your own timing and pacing is creative self care at it’s finest, and you will never regret honouring what’s right for you — even if it goes against the subconscious maps of The Things We’re Supposed to Do.”

That’s my aim with our essay this week.

It’s not to knock whatever norms of your industry do light you up.

Instead, I want to remind you that you can let yourself be you at every turn, and you will be rewarded with even more clarity and confidence that will turn up in your work, and your life, in general.

It’s okay to love writing retreats, critique groups, drawing on location, or anything else that shows up often in your field. It probably shows up often for a reason.

But sometimes, our creative spirit asks us to go against the norms and subconscious maps out there, and part of your job is to remind yourself that your map is yours — and you get to decide exactly what it looks like.