where the writers are
The Writing Day

My sweetie gave me several morning hours to go write on Friday morning while we were still in Bend.  I scurried down to The Looney Bean, found a table, and off I went, writing like crazy for about two hours. 

It was again a bittersweet time.  I was alone and writing and enjoying it but I knew it had to end.  I felt that time growing like a gathering thunderstorm, making itself present.  My wife came in before I was finished so I paused to chat with her.  While doing that, I clicked through some email.

"You don't seem to be writing now," she observed.

"No, I was, ah, interrupted," I replied. 

Irritation flashed over her face.  "I'll go look in some more shops," she answered, and departed, mostly without rancor. I resumed writing but with a little less enthusiasm.

It's always a fine balance, serving others' needs and desires and balancing my own needs and desires to be alone and write.  It reminded me why I used to take off for writer conferences.  There I would mingle with my tribe, and learn and practice writing. 

But the writer conferences are less attractive to me the past few years.  I like being with writers but I currently feel a strong desire just to be alone and write.  I'd already suggested to her that I might take off a few days to create my own writing retreat. My wife is amenable to it.  It's mostly a question of when I will go and where I will go.  I'm thinking that I'll stay local, perhaps just go to the Green Springs Inn up in the mountains, for three or four days.  It's just thirty minutes away. 

Meanwhile, I'm back at The Beanery.  I did an hour of writing like crazy this morning.  Much of it was actually editing, tweaking details of mood, attention and pacing from yesterday's writing.  Although my butt has - once again - gone numb on me, I still have three quarters of my coffee remaining.  I figure I'll stretch, perhaps step outside and walk around the building for some air, and then resume writing like crazy. 

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