Tonight I’m leaving my family for the weekend.
I’m not going far, just a few miles away. With some points I saved up, I booked a hotel room for a few nights. Just me, a king sized bed, my yoga pants, and my laptop. I will spend all weekend writing, with no monetary goal in mind.
I’m writing just to write. A unfamiliar concept for someone who pounds the keyboard in order to put food on the table. By the time I’ve hit all my deadlines, I’m too mentally exhausted to write just for me.
Fate gifted me with a scholarship to Mary Robinette Kowal‘s short story intensive workshop. It’s all virtual so I could have done it at home. Focusing on a virtual class is very different than being in a room surrounded by your classmates with an instructor who’s got her eye on you. My budget would prefer I stayed home to take this workshop. However, I’m short changing myself by not committing fully to the class.
Even though I knew about my class back in November, I didn’t book a room until last week. Talk about last minute. I went back and forth about spending the money. Mother’s guilt about ditching my kids for the weekend and not allowing them access to the indoor pool at my hotel. (I didn’t tell them about the pool.) I attempted to sabotage myself by saying I could stay home and take the class.
Giving myself permission to write is hard. Especially if I’m spending money to do it. This weekend is my own writer’s retreat. My form of self care.
So I’m running away with a suitcase full of snacks and coffee. Two laptops in case one craps out. Locking myself up for 3 days. I’m leaving my room only for breakfast and last minute meal runs.
Plenty of famous authors lock themselves in hotel rooms to write. Maybe I can channel a bit of Maya Angelou’s discipline and determination.
This weekend, I will write just for me.