Never mind the retreats, writing is no team sport

As holidays go, writing retreats and workshops in scenic places are an excellent option. For a long time, I was opposed to such frivolous endeavours - until a nephew set me right. He came back from a retreat not only with a newly-minted short story, but with a fully workshopped wife. But then, few are as lucky as him.

The best place to write, I have long maintained, is home. Things are different now from Virginia Woolf's time, when, as she argued in her 1929 extended essay, A Room of One's Own, a woman needed money and a room of her own to write fiction. Today, most are lucky to have a room of one's own for a few hours each day. Even women.

All you need is a place where you can be left undisturbed for a few hours, with a thermos of tea or coffee. Sometimes you will write 100 words, sometimes 500. That's enough. You will feel restored.


But these routines are for the serious writer. What about those who feel they are somewhat artistic, but lack the patience to pursue it every day? Why not do it on holiday instead? Spend a week in a luxury resort, work on a personal essay alongside like-minded cohorts, under the watchful eye of a literary star who, at the end of each day, will finetune your structure and tone.

By the end of the week, you go back home, rejuvenated, with an Insta-worthy certificate in hand, and a new 1,500-word whodunnit. Look closely, and there might also be family options, where each morning you go off to your short story seminar, while your partner goes off to explore the nearest town.

Of course, you can do the retreat together and come away with two new short stories, as recently happened with said nephew. It is only a matter of time before publishers join the game, offering you a chance to show your poems to the editor of your choice at a 7-star resort in Rajasthan, over a weekend of single-malt tasting. I'm waiting for the 'Peacock Writing Retreat', hopefully sponsored by Macallan. I already have a whole batch of lethal haikus ready.

A novelist and essayist friend who conducts week-long retreats in the hills tells me the experience is restorative even for a legend like her. 'When you are surrounded by these newbie writers, hungry for publication and fame, you remember the fire that once burned in you too.'

I know exactly what she meant. As one grows older and settles into a writing career, one misses the unadulterated enthusiasm for fiction one felt at 20, before publication, reviews, book launches, and festivals. When one wrote as if in a fever dream, the completed story or essay shaped you as much as you shaped it.

'You know when I talk with some of the younger ones, I miss the selfishness that once flowed through me for publication. And I know it is the selfish ones that one day might have a book to their name,' the legend tells me.

'Perhaps on the last evening you could ask them to wrestle on the terrace and declare a winner. It will definitely help with their inner resolve, not to mention their grip. Nirala would have approved. As would John Irving,' I put in my two bits.

Selfishness and self-regard... I remember those siblings. They are the meat and bones of a writer's soul. A self-regard that does not begrudge a friend a masterpiece, but makes you neglect your family's well-being because you are convinced that the novel you are working on is a major artistic undertaking. This youthful selfishness fuels your creative illusions.

And in a writing retreat, I am sure one feels one is part of a legitimate community. But then, with years of experience, blessed by monumental self-regard, I also know that writing is not a team sport. The quicker you grow accustomed to the isolation, the better it is for you in the long run.