I hesitate to tell this story because it makes me look more than a little inept. Believe me, I’m usually very good at navigating life and being an adult, even if this experience would argue otherwise.
Earlier this month, I was blessed to be able to attend a
writers’ retreat. The lodge slept forty and there were about thirty of us. One
woman spearheaded our three daily meals, but we were each assigned kitchen duties.
There was a large table of treats everyone contributed to that was open for 24-hour
grazing. (This will be important to my tale later.)
Five days. No internet. No cell service. No life
interruptions.
I had two main goals.
Number one: Make friends so when I attend a conference held
by the same organization in September where I’ll pitch my novel to editors and
agents (because after ten years as an indie author, I’m willing to give
traditional publishing another thought) I won’t feel as awkward, weird, and
lonely as I am wont to do in a crowd.
Number two: Finish my Kindle Vella story.
I left home at 6:30 a.m. By 7:30, L.A. traffic was behind me
and I was in the desert. I arrived at a friend's in Mesa, AZ in time for her to
feed me lunch and remind me of how lucky I am to know her. 3 hours later, I'm
back on the road, surprised by the empty, barren landscape. I miss the last gas
station. Start to get nervous. No cell service. No internet. The GPS is an
arrow on a blank screen. Ride for several miles on an empty tank. I see a sign
promising gas three miles off the main road. I chase after it, only to find the
shack of a shop only has diesel. The proprietor tells me she can no longer
afford to provide gas, but there's a station eight miles away (further from my
destination.) I come to a small town with a library, post office, school, and
something called a pumpkin depot. No gas. A local promises me there's gas
another mile south. My car is now running on fumes and I'm rolling down hills
at every opportunity and praying on the inclines. I find the gas pumps adjacent
to another mom-and-pop store. I fill the tank and offer prayers of
thanksgiving. (At this point, I would have paid a thousand dollars a gallon. I
hesitated to even look at the cost, but, even though I was in the back of
beyond, the gas was still cheaper than in Orange County.)
Back on the road, every other vehicle I pass is a giant
truck driven by a man wearing a cowboy hat. I arrive in Payson to find it
woodsy and much cooler than Mesa. I follow the road out of town and now, with a
full tank of gas, can climb the hills without fear. Although, I was frantic to get to my destination before dark. Twenty miles of dirt road and the instructions
which seemed so inadequate before, start to make sense. Turn at the house...if
you pass the creek, you've gone too far...look for the green pipe...pass the
red and brown cabin. At 6:30, I arrive at the lodge where thirty other writers
are mingling. My car is covered in orange dust, but I'm ready to write. I’m nearly
the last to arrive.
Boy howdy was I ever productive! My main goal was to finish
my Kindle Vella story, The Cocoa Concoction--which happened on the first day.
It turns out that without family and friends, internet, cell service, and
household chores beckoning me, I can be wildly productive. I finished that
story. Edited two others, and read through a third. By Saturday, I had run out
of things to do. Not wanting to start a new project, I decided to head home a
day early.
I was saying goodbye and loading up my car when I realized I
had locked my purse in my trunk. Inside my purse were my phone, my glasses,
and my keys. I desperately needed help. A few of my new friends were able to
get cell service, but without my glasses, I couldn’t read any numbers. A circle
of my new friends was looking things up and making calls. We tried a few locksmiths,
but no one wanted to drive twenty miles down a dirt road to help.
I went to the neighbor to see if they knew anyone with the
right sort of tools and know-how. She didn’t know anyone personally, but she
pointed at a group of people playing in the creek at the edge of the property
and suggested I ask them. They said they thought they could do it.
There were three men, two women, and four little kids. The
kids and women came back with me to the house while the men hiked back to their
campsite to get their trucks and tools. I fed the kids with snacks my writer
friends donated from the before-mentioned treat table and tried to keep the moms
and kids happy.
The men were able to break into the car pretty easily, but
as soon as they did, the car—knowing it was being broken into—went into panic
mode. The alarm went off, and worse, the button to open the trunk and the latch
to fold down the back seats to access the trunk were both frozen. Three hours
later, thanks to YouTube, the men with their tools dissembled the car’s alarm
system. While they were breaking into my car, I’m tossing out candy and treats
and trying to keep everyone happy. The men were throwing out cuss words just as
liberally. (Did I mention this was a group of Mormon women writers?)
Remember my first goal? To make friends? E V E R Y O N E there
knew who I was by the time I left. I was the weirdo with the screaming car who
interrupted writing time by bringing a gang using colorful language to the
retreat.
When I went away to college, after living in a small town
for my whole life and graduating from high school with the same kids who had been in my
kindergarten class, (No lie. My best friends in high school were also in my
kindergarten class) my dad told me the best way to make friends is to ask for
help then double repay the favor. I guess I got half of the equation right, and
I now owe a lot of favors. I like to think I have thirty new friends.
Still, I came home with a finished story, two completely
edited books, and the realization of what I can accomplish without
interruptions. Also, I added a bunch of new friends on social media. The whole
experience was a win, even if it had its moments of terror and frustration.
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