I am in the midst of a writing retreat at my university—four days in a quiet, comfortable place, working alongside other people who are thinking and creating and writing. It is a luxury. A gift of space and time (and food).
Time is one of a writer’s most precious resources. We all have busy lives that are filled with commitments that take us away from our writing. Even if we find time every day to write, we only have an hour, or two, because the dog needs to be walked, and the dishwasher needs to be emptied, and there’s a party and a movie and a soccer game.
Many of the things that take me away from writing are wonderful things that I enjoy—playing a game with my family, lingering over lunch with friends, re-reading the brilliant but very long novel I put on my syllabus for the spring semester. So, retreats like this one that offer dedicated writing time are important, if only to give me permission to turn away from valued pastimes.
Yet, time to write is not the only kind of time that matters. Yes, writers need time to sit down and put words on the page and then to labor over whether they chose the right words. But books need time, too. Like a stew, a book needs to simmer until its ingredients blend together. It needs to sit on the stove, literally on a back burner, while the writer takes care of other tasks. It needs to bubble slowly into being.
I had hoped to use this retreat to churn out pages, but instead I chopped potatoes and onions. I minced garlic. I peeled tomatoes. When I took a taste, I found something was missing, so I wandered in the pantry of my mind and added an image here, an image there. A dash of voice. A pinch of point of view.
I don’t know yet if my book is missing something or if I over-seasoned it in some way. It needs to simmer awhile before I taste it again. So, while the book cooks, I’ll turn to something else, though I’ll keep an eye on the stove. In a few hours or days or months, the book will have had its time, and it will be my turn again.