lessons from writer camp

I spent last weekend in Port Matilda, PA, for Barrelhouse’s Writer Camp. My daily schedule looked something like this:

7am: Shuffle to the barn, drink coffee (which the family that runs Godspeed Events had already brewed! discovering that Writer Camp helps keep this little family-run business going was a sweet surprise)

7:10am: Start writing. Eventually the barn would fill with a bunch of other writers, all tapping away quietly at their laptops, and the sun would stream in the open barn doors, and Godspeed would put out some breakfast, and we would all keep writing.

12:00pm: Be ASTOUNDED to look up and realize it was already noon. Take a break to eat a random pile of snacks, walk along the creek, and lie in a hammock staring at the sky.

2:00pm: Back to writing in the barn.

5:00pm: Finally close my laptop and talk with my new writer friends until dinner time.

6:00pm: Eat dinner.

7:00pm: Shoot the shit for a while with people who are reading all the same weird books as me and worrying about the same stuff and finding little ways forward like me.

8:00pm: Don’t laugh at me! I literally went to my little cabana and started winding down at 8:00pm, absolutely wiped from all that writing.

I have not always been someone who could “write all day,” and I’ve rarely had a daily schedule that allows it. But especially in the last few months, I’ve begun to wonder if I’ve sold myself short when it comes to how much time I can actually spend butt-in-chair. If it’s been easier to say, Oh, I’m just someone who writes an hour a day, and rests on the weekends, without testing myself every once in a while to see what else I can do.

I think I’ve often been afraid to write all day. I’ve wondered if my brain can handle it. That old joke—your mind is a scary place, don’t go there alone—sticks in my craw. A few weeks ago when I was drafting an essay about my father—a man I have cut out of my life and, honestly, my brain, much of the time—I found myself on edge, irritable, glum for no reason, that whole week. It wasn’t until days later, when I mentioned the essay and my husband said, “Oh, that’s what you’ve been working on all week?” and gently pointed out that there might be a connection, that the possibility even occurred to me.

The power and unpredictability of my brain is a fact, but it’s also something I’ve sometimes allowed to circumscribe my life. I’ve been scared to write about any topic that could open up a mental can of worms, frightened to realize there’s a real cost when I do. I’ve stuck my toe in the waters of important projects, kept myself from diving in. Is that wisdom, or fear?

This weekend made me wonder if more is possible for me. After all, I wrote all day and didn’t have a mental breakdown. Was it taking a break? Sleeping a lot? Being surrounded by other people working, so I felt encouraged and not alone? Maybe, or maybe I can write all day, even outside of camp, so long as I’m listening to myself, doing my little mental health tasks, taking breaks, and remaining honest about when I’ve gotten into writing territory that might take some extra support and processing. At least now I feel open to the possibility, rather than skirting around it, just to be safe.