Over the past few years, I’ve been targeted with advertisements to attend some rather glamourous writing retreats. You know the ones: a Byron Bay all-inclusive stay with sound baths and meditation; a river-cruise to ignite your next mystery manuscript; or perhaps even a three-month stay in a Tuscan Villa feasting on pappardelle and tomatoes that you planted, watered and harvested, all during the same retreat.
For me, the most appealing retreats are the ones that combine writing, wellness and yoga. I mean, how could I not come out the other side being a better person? $3000? $5000? Can you really put a price on your next book deal?
Well, if I’m being utterly boring and honest, you can. In the 2022 National Survey of Australian Book Authors, writers were found to earn on average $18,200 from creative works. And while I may not be a fan of budgets, even a quick glance at those numbers has me questioning the types of writers who can actually afford to attend such luxurious retreats.
Writing retreats – quick links
My retreat in Paris
Let me backtrack a few years (actually, apparently closer to a decade) to when I decided to attend a writers retreat in Paris. It was a decision that didn’t involve a lot of planning or foresight, and happened to be more of a stars aligning kind of moment.
It was 2016 and I was moving to France off the back of a two-year stint in China, where I was the Food Editor for Time Out Shanghai. I was burnt out from too many eight-course degustation menus and 2am whiskeys. I’d been on rolling deadlines for far longer than my stress levels agreed was acceptable, and I was looking for some kind of mental and creative reset.
A month of reading, writing and talking all things creative in the Latin Quarter of Paris seemed like the perfect antidote to the hustle and intensity of a city like Shanghai.
In the beginning, the question of who would be at the retreat and who would be running it wasn’t as important to me as the idea of having a luxurious chunk of time dedicated to my manuscript that I’d had to shelve while my world was filled with eating, drinking and writing (yes, poor me). I had the first half of a novel – set in Paris, no less – drafted, and I was keen to get back into it.
Researching the retreat further, I faced a more complicated truth. The fee. US$4000 was no small amount, and accommodation and meals weren’t included. But, thankfully, until then, I’d been employed full-time, plus I was child-free and much more reckless than I am now, so I could easily convince myself that it was worth it.
Selling a dream
While there, I was given the space to write and to explore new genres. I was building on my writing experience, I was motivated to write, I was even told that my half-finished manuscript was, apparently, not terrible.
But what of my fellow attendees? Who were these other ‘writers’ who were willing to fork out for such an experience, plus take a month-long ‘holiday’ in addition to staying in one of the most expensive cities in Europe during summer? Well, there were some non-fiction writers, college students, a few retirees, travel writers.
I guess like me, there were also some writers who were trying something new. Filling a gap in their schedules before moving towards something different. While I was determined to be productive during that month (clearly still high on deadline-induced cortisol), I’m guessing the value for some people was more in the experience of the retreat than in putting pen to paper. And, during my four weeks in Paris, I had time to question why.
Writing retreats are really in the market of selling a dream. They are targeting people that, someday, want to write a book and they are banking on the equation that surrounding a non-writer with writers magically equals a new bestseller. I think it’s probably a similar debate as to the benefit of doing an MFA – although to an Australian, this feels like a very American line of thinking.
Still, attending any kind of writing workshop raises the age-old question: can you really ‘teach’ writing?
Another touted benefit of writing retreats is the community you’ll walk away with. Sure, I met some fabulous people on my retreat. We had wine and strolled the streets of Paris, but it takes time to build the trust and camaraderie that makes for a successful writing group.
Oftentimes, the reality is that being surrounded by writers can feel rather intimidating. Sharing your work, laying bare your soul to relative strangers – sounds fun, right? Besides, writers can be competitive. They can’t help comparing word counts and plotlines, and later, advances and publishing deals. Does this type of environment actually help or hinder creativity?
Was it worth it?
Thinking back on the experience now, was it worth it? In some ways, yes. I certainly loved my month in Paris. But could I have achieved the same amount if I’d just spent a week writing in an apartment, or at some secluded farmhouse with a writing manual or even an online course set up next to me? Also probably yes.
I mean, there must be a reason I’ve not attended any further writing retreats since 2016 … and yet, the books somehow still get written.
‘But,’ I hear you lamenting, ‘what about the yoga, the wellness, the natural wines and locally-sourced vegetables?’ Well, by all means, attend if your finances allow. Book me a spot while you’re at it. But I do think it’s important to go into the experience with both realistic expectations and either a plan to write (or better yet, continue writing), or at least an understanding that just by going to the retreat, words won’t magically fall onto the page.
Go for the experience, not to solve your writer’s block. Go for the yoga to help realign your neck from when you’ve been chained to your laptop making edits. Go to socialise and have fun, because writing is ultimately a very solitary endeavour and sometimes you need a break from being in your own head. Just don’t go expecting the world, even though you might feel like you’ve paid for it.
