Last week, I took a midweek writers retreat up to Salem, Massachusetts (of witchhunt fame) by way of Boston bus and train. The retreat was organized by those who organized the Writer Unboxed Uncon (the writing conference I won the scholarship to last year). It was informal and available to everyone who went to the conference, so you didn’t miss much.

There were a dozen or so of us.

In a squeaky, three-story Air BnB.

For a week.

It was the perfect set for a murder mystery and I would have been tempted to shoot a short film had I not writing to finish. The usual suspects?

• Therese Walsh, author and founder of WU
• Sean Walsh, playwright and Irish folk musician
• LJ Cohen, author and physician
• CG Blake, author and gentleman
• Brunonia Barry, author and Salem native
• Heather Webb, author and shit-getter-doner
• Linda Seed, author, sweetheart and editor
• Gretchen Riddle, author and tarot reader
• Soni Stokes, author and designer
• Kate Hannison, author and blue pencil editor
• Amy Rachiele, author and mob daughter
• Jeannine Thibodeau, author and joy monger (she’s happy a lot)
• B. Morrison, poet and freedom fighter
• Paul Toth, author and entrepreneur
• Tara Schaubert, knitter, reader, and crowd favorite

You should know a couple of things before I begin.

The first is that most of the women there are like mothers and aunts and older siblings to me. I list them not to name drop but because I never want to forget who was there and what fun we had together. I was kind of the young buck and, as always, out of my league.

I set out a series of ridiculous goals and accomplished a great many of them. I finished transferring the novel which I’ll submit in January right about the time the Joplin Photonovel comes out. The Photonovel enjoyed its first beta readers from some who were there — Momma Lisa (LJ) was particularly kind and encouraging about that project, which is good because I suffer from chronic Gaimanitis. You know, the “I just finished this huge project and it’s awful” syndrome.

Also finished three articles, a short story, and started a screenplay — Anniston.

Hooray.

I accomplished this by unjacking from The Matrix for five days straight. Now you’ll have people who say that we need data, we need the constant stream from your every life. They say this because they think having all of the data in the world is the same as understanding it. Look. You can have a name for every animal in the universe and still know them no more than the guy who first encounters them. So too with quasars and relationships and photos of that new burger joint’s lunch special.

Whatever.

The point is, some things can only grow in the dark and the quiet. Things like mold and moss and eggs. We humans? We need asceticism now and again. Writers retreats, if well-planned and prepared, can give that kind of introverted space. Depression itself is a survival instinct that forces us into introspection in order to make the right action coming out of that. This, among other reasons, is why I’m always preaching the gospel of melancholy to my choleric mother.

(Hi, mom. Nope, still not cutting my hair for Christmas pictures, sorry).

I got more done in five days of an internet-less existence among other people who were there to:

1. Eat good food.
2. Laugh hard laughs.
3. Write like Twain.
4. Get creeped out by Salem, MA enough to retreat into the house.

If you’re going to do a writers retreat…

I would recommend only doing it around people who are serious about getting work done, whose schedules roughly align, who know how to have a good time during meals and what not, and in a neutral location that can encourage people out of their routine. The least productive people were the natives from Salem. That’s no offense to them, it’s just admitting that they were in a different headspace than the rest of us.

Oh. And bring your learner’s rug. You know, the thing that’s like a prayer rug, only it puts you underneath your superiors.

Which, for me, was every other person there. The list above. Learned a ton about stories and the craft and whatnot. Even the Strandbeest exhibit taught me that a ruthless devotion to performance art can supplement a great piece of art.

Even if this post about how to do a writers retreat isn’t revolutionary, I have a “and then I found five dollars” conclusion: LJ Cohen’s book The Between is free right now on Kindle.

Enjoy gang. MUCH more to come soon.