where I admit I need a Writer's Retreat

I realized my mistake of entering a writing conference giveaway, earlier this year.

My first entry, read by my Husband, was told to me "You wrote it like you didn't want it. I did not think it was one of your better writings."

Ouch.

It was true.

I was embarrassed to actually say I wanted to write, to acknowledge it's importance in my life.

And since that time, I've regretted how I didn't admit the truth.

Since writing that entry and mulling my insecurity about writing, I've been remembering things I'd forgotten as a child. Things, like my excitement of new colored pens: pink, blue, red, purples with fresh, blank sheets of papers and journals.

I remember being huddled for hours in my room with a poetry book by Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allen Poe as their words touched something inside me. I remember how I'd play instrumental music and mused my own words into songs on paper.

I remember attempting a diary, even though I preferred prose and poetry, instead.

Then recently, a high school best friend contacted me and cemented it. Twenty-five years later, I'm realizing how true it is, my love for writing

She said she used to have a box and in it were some things I'd written for her. Then she tells me how I was always taking pictures, back then. "Really?", I incredulously asked.

Even as a child, drawing and writing was my passion. Many birthday gifts and Christmas presents had some art supplies or fresh writing tools that I couldn't wait to be alone with.

All these year, I've tried to squash my love for writing. I've talked down to it and pegged it as some "doodling" of words because admitting the truth was too risky.

But those things aren't why I need to go to the Laity Lodge Writer's Retreat.

I'm done belittling my passion.

I'm done trying to make sense of the way I get lost for hours writing in my pajamas. I'm done excusing why I'm invigorated to pen a thought, that I'm scratching the words on receipts or napkins so I can remember them until I get home. I'm done with not admitting it because of what people close to me would think.

I'm done with self-preservation which tries to tame this wildness when I see a sunset that I'm compelled to write how it shimmered. I'm done ignoring how the stomach is made to wait hours until my heart is emptied on a page.

I'm done with the bubble of fear which keeps me trapped in my own head, with the minions of failure, frailty, insecurity, and unbelief.

I'm done denying the gift which He placed in me as if it were something I shouldn't accept.

I'm learning the art of the Embrace, of who He created me to be. And as much as I like to encourage others, this idea of being with other writers sets a thrill of excitement on the wings of another kind of encouragement.

My need to go to the Laity Lodge is more than just writing, it's also about community. I need a place of digging below the surface of what I want to say to find the things I didn't know I had to say and doing it with others,  just like me.

It's about being with birds of the same feather daring eachother to fly off the cliff of possibilities.

My need is: to be around this strange flock of folks who are like me. And from there fledge my writing wings in an atmosphere where we're pushed beyond the perch of our comfortable nests, to newer heights.

And soar.




If you're a writer, and deep down you know you are, then enter in with me and give it a whirl. Who knows, it just might work this time. Go here to learn more "Win a Free Trip to Laity Lodge Writer’s Retreat".