A Retreat in Carmel

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

I come to Carmel every year in January. I like to call this a writing retreat, but truth be told, it could just as easily be tagged a walking retreat, or a cooking retreat. Even a drinking retreat -- though that would serve mainly to establish myself in the cliched image of a Hemingwayesque writer. A turtleneck sweater could do the same, with less consequence on my liver. Still, I think that it is always a good idea to pair a turtleneck with a drop or two of something nice. Right now my preference is running to single malt scotch, preferably Laphroig.

I do write while I'm here, by the way. I've established myself at a small, round table in the kitchen of the house I rent, which is walking distance to both town and the beach. That is, you can walk to both of those areas from the house here in Carmel. Walking back is problematic because of the hill. The hill could be described as a near ninety-degree angle. Seriously, you might as well be climbing one of those rock walls on a cruise ship. It is roughly one hundred steps from base to top. In the five years that I have been renting this house, I have taken that hill to the tune of, say, about ten thousand steps. Would that I could say I have the glutes to prove it.

As I was saying, my excuse for this retreat is that I have been working on a novel that I began writing in 2004. I am now on the bizillionth draft of said novel, give or take. My spouse, Billy, thinks I should move on, and commence work on the next novel which I outlined about a year or two back. I tell him to reflect on this: The main character, and nameless narrator, in the Daphne Du Maurier novel, Rebecca told Maxim that her father was a painter. In response to Maxim's question regarding what her father painted, she replied that he painted a tree. Oh, trees, Maxim said (and I'm paraphrasing here, as I don't have the novel at hand). No, she said. He just painted one tree. And she went on to explain that her father believed that when you found one perfect thing, you should paint it over and over until you got it right. Well, that's my five-year novel. I haven't gotten it right yet.

I've heard it said that everyone has at least one novel in them. This advisement comes my way from those writing workshops which purport to lead you down a creative pathway. I've written two novels without benefit of finding this path. One is finished and the other, as I've said, is in progress. But I get the point of the one-novel-in-you thing. It's our story. The story that looms largest in our legend. If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending upon how you look at it), your story will be BIG. My story is medium-sized. It unfolded at the time I was finishing college, and I'm still trying to figure it out. Maybe when I do, I can finish the novel. But then I might have to give up the retreat in Carmel, or at least come clean about what I really do here.

So, what would Sandra do? Sandra would agree with Billy that I should finish the book and move on. So here, on my first post, I have to sheepishly admit that I can't always do what Sandra would do, even when I believe it's the best course. Alas, I am not Sandra. I am Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.