Lessons from Banff Centre's writing retreat

I’ve spent the most wonderful two weeks immersed in the Summer Writers’ Retreat at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. The retreat was unstructured, designed to support writers and provide quality time to write amidst the stunning natural beauty of Banff.

Ground squirrels, deer, and elk kept me company on my daily walks while the majestic Rockies towered over me. The town of Banff was only a quick ten-minute walk away, crowded and touristy, but fun to explore, nonetheless. I hiked up Tunnel Mountain and saw amazing scenic views and attended two musical events which I enjoyed thoroughly without fully understanding.

But the whole point of the retreat was to become a better writer, and to that end the Banff Centre provided all the support I could want. Matthew Trafford was my mentor during the retreat, and he was amazingly generous in sharing his time, expertise, and encouragement with me. There were two reading nights, where all participants got a chance to read from their work and hear others read. I was flabbergasted by the diversity of writers and their brilliance. And there were two participative workshops, led by the writing mentors. So, LOTS of opportunities for learning.

Because it was self-structured, the things I learned are likely very different from what others learned which, I think, makes them even more valuable. Here are some of my take-aways:

It’s amazing how much writing I can get done when I don’t have anything else to think about. I didn’t have to work, cook, clean, or visit anybody. I unplugged from social media (mostly) and online games and TV shows. I allowed myself to write, read, walk, explore, learn, discover, and nap. Oh, and eat. I did my fair share of all those things and still managed to write 35,000 words, which is good for me.

I have good days and bad days with my writing, and with how I perceive my writing. Some days my writing flows, and some days it’s like pouring molasses through a pinhole. Some days I think I’m bloody brilliant, and other days I feel like everything I create is flat and wooden and lifeless. And I think I’m right in both cases. I think that’s just how it goes. For me, at least.

It’s comforting to remind myself that I’m just a normal middle-aged woman writing about my life. That isn’t to say that I don’t need to write (or at least edit) brilliantly, but I don’t need to have brilliantly creative story ideas with whimsical twists and turns and electrifying suspense building towards a surprising but logical denouement. I just need to tell my story and tell it well. In fact, I think there’s fewer things more powerful than a well-told story that people can relate to.

It can be emotionally hard for me to review and relive the moments I’m writing about. Writing about times of joy is even more difficult, in many ways, than the times of trauma. I will never have that specific kind of joy with that specific person again, and it breaks my heart every time I think about that. There are times I need to be gentle with myself. I’m not racing to any hard deadline. I can take my time when I need to.

I can hold my own as a writer. This writing retreat was competitive, and I was accepted. I received great feedback on my work-in-progress and, while I wasn’t at the top of the participant pile when it came to creative brilliance or writing chops, I felt like I could hold my own. Given how new I am to writing, compared to most of the participants, that was plenty good enough for me.

Just write it all out and don’t worry about how it will come together. Yet. Also known as “trusting the process”, this wasn’t new advice for me but something I need constant reminders about. I’ve now officially given up trying to figure out what the rhythm and cadence should be between scenes, between the primary story and flashbacks, and between different themes. I’m still curious, for sure, about how it will all unfold but it’s not yet time to worry about that. It will come.

I have the voices of many other people bouncing around in my head and they’re not as helpful as my own. I had imaginary people in my mind telling me to go sight-see, participate, socialize, connect with other people. This was all good advice, but things sure were more pleasant and productive when I decided to listen to my own voice, which simply said, “write”.  

One swear word on the written page is worth five spoken in real life. I need to use them sparingly or I’ll sound like a trucker. Good to fucking know!

I encourage all you writers out there to check out Banff Centre writers’ retreats, if you get a chance! And if you go, let me know what you learned.