Retreating writers - Lu Hersey

Last week, for the first time ever, I thought perhaps being sent to a convent wasn’t such a bad idea. Especially at a time when the alternative was marriage (taking away all your rights), followed by never-ending slave labour (with no decent oven, hoover or washing machine), and probably dying in childbirth.

Not that going on a writing retreat bears any real comparison to a convent, except that you’re staying in a place of peace and tranquillity, where the outside world seems very remote. Oh, and you spend hours by yourself in deep contemplation, even if it’s not necessarily contemplating the divine (though a major character in my current novel is a goddess, so I sort of was).

This was my first ever Arvon writing retreat – and I chose to stay at the Clockhouse. I’d never been able to afford a retreat before, but my kids had clubbed together and treated me to a voucher, which went a long way towards the cost. And I now realise that what sounded like an expensive indulgence is actually a real bargain. I did more concentrated work in five days than I’ve previously managed over two months, because everything was set up to be the writer’s ideal environment.
In case you don't know, this is the set up:

• The fantastic food is all provided and there’s loads of choice. You can be a coeliac vegan and still eat your fill (not that I am, but you could be)

• You have the company of other writers (though only if you choose it) at mealtimes and in the evening – and writers can make the best sounding board for your ideas. And they love to talk books

Fellow retreating writer Clare Furniss, exploring the redwoods

• Talking of boards, your personal study room has a large empty pinboard (with lots of pins) to stick up your ideas, pictures, brain maps etc – as well as a writing desk with a view, and a comfortable sofa for reading and putting your feet up

View from my study window

• You have an amazingly comfortable bedroom, with neutral décor and a fantastic view. And your own bathroom.

Bedroom wall reflects a shadow view in early morning light

• It’s quiet. So quiet, it’s extraordinary. Just a chorus of birdsong to lift your heart

• There’s an amazing and eclectic library with sofas and a wood burner downstairs if you feel like a change of scene

• There’s a herb garden just outside the kitchen. And a wildflower garden next to it

So are there any downsides? Yes. You’ll find a week isn’t enough. You’ll want to stay for at least another week.

Would I go back? Hell, yes. It was the most relaxing, escape from outside pressures, incredibly productive writing experience of my life. Frankly, in an ideal world, I'd sell the house and move in.

Which brings me back to the idea of the nunnery...

Lu Hersey

Twitter: @LuWrites

Blog: Lu Writes

Deep Water, published by Usborne, out now

Pop-Up Magic by Sheena Wilkinson

In the wake of International Women’s Day, I can’t help thinking about how many fantastic women there are in literature – not just the writers, but the people who make things happen, especially those who nurture and support other writers. When I was asked to tutor a course at The Story House Ireland, with fellow YA writer E.R. Murray, I was thrilled. I’ve tutored regularly for Arvon, on whose model the Story House is based, and I love the intensity of the five-day residential course. And the Story House was new and exciting.

I hadn’t realised how new. I hadn’t realised how exciting.

As a writer, I meet all sorts of people and am often struck by the energy and devotion of those who work in literature development. Even so, Margaret O’Brien and Nollaig Brennan, who set up and run The Story House, are exceptional. I had gathered from their correspondence that this wasn’t their full-time job and I knew the SH didn’t have a permanent centre, unlike Arvon with its three houses in England, or Moniack Mhor in Scotland or Wales’s Ty Newydd.

Like me, Margaret had gone to Arvon as a student some years ago and been so impressed by its magic that she had conceived a dream to bring something of that back home to Ireland. Arvon believes that everyone has the right to write and its courses provide the balance of nurture and challenge to make that possible. Ireland is full of stories and writers, and there are retreats and writing groups and courses, but there was, until recently, nothing remotely like Arvon. When Nollaig read Margaret’s open letter to President Higgins 

(http://www.thestoryhouseireland.org/single-post/2017/01/21/An-Open-Letter-to-President-Higgins) she contacted her, and together they made the Story House happen. I won’t try to tell the story – the Story House is all about letting people tell their own – but do have a read of it here. http://www.thestoryhouseireland.org/single-post/2015/01/17/I-Am-Afraid-of-What-I-Might-Write-So-Begins-a-Story-by-Margaret-OBrien.

Margaret and Nollaig 

I’ve been to Arvon many times and I have, like many people, a deep affection for all three of its houses. There is a wonderful sense, when you arrive at Totleigh Barton, or Lumb Bank or the Hurst, of both history and the future. These houses have been there for centuries; they have welcomed thousands of writers, and will continue to welcome thousands more. When you know them well, you notice the small changes and improvements – new mugs here, new curtains there – in the way you do when visiting a good friend, but essentially they are comfortingly the same.

But it’s not just about bricks and mortar. My week at the Story House taught me that. Writing For Young People took place in a beautiful old house in County Carlow, which, if anything, was slightly grander than an Arvon house, being a popular wedding venvue. Margaret and Nollaig had leased the house for the week, as they have to do for every course. I was impressed, all week, by how brilliantly they worked to create the Arvon atmosphere. It helped that the house was delightful, comfortable and spacious, and the participants lively and enthusiastic. 

Lisnavagh House, Co. Carlow

It helped that both Elizabeth and I, and mid-week guest Patricia Forde, had all had our own writing transformed at Arvon. But the real credit must go to Margaret and Nollaig: but even so, it takes real skill to make such a week run smoothly. Skill, vision, and determination. I was amazed at how these two women, both with their own busy lives, could create and sustain this magic.

I’m so proud to have been invited into the Story House family, and look forward to seeing it go from strength to strength. One day, I hope in the not-too-distant future, there will be a permanent Story House in Ireland, and then those of us who have been involved at this pop-up stage will be able to get together and say, Ah yes, we remember back in the early days…

posh workshop space!

Back to the Classroom -- NOT about school visits

It was 2011. I was a full-time teacher with one novel published and prize-winning, and another due the following year. I had just signed up for an Arvon YA course with Celia Rees and Linda Newbery, and I was so excited that I shared the information with an acquaintance who was an aspiring writer. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t like that, being told what to do. I would never go to something like that.’ She remains unpublished. (And by the way, the course was amazing, and many of us are still friends, with several now published or well on the way.)

all will be revealed...

This isn’t a contribution to the Can Writing be Taught debate: it’s my experience as both learner and teacher that talent can’t be influenced by a teacher or mentor or contact with others, but that many elements of craft and language-awareness can.

I love learning. I was a swot at school and I worked and played hard at university (four degrees at two universities). When writing became a big part of my life, it was natural to me to seek out places where I could learn about that too.

Back in 2001, I signed up for a course called Novel Writing at the local FE college. I had, then, a very rough unfinished first draft of an unpublishable novel, whose progress was erratic because back in those days I used to write ‘when I felt like it’ or ‘when I was inspired’. (Shrieks of silent mirth.) The very first thing the tutor gave us was an exercise in the correct use of the semi-colon. I had a PhD in English and to be honest, I was a bit offended. Surely, I thought, people on a novel writing course don’t need basic punctuation lessons? (OK, more shrieks of silent mirth: I was young and naïve.)

Despite the bad beginning, the course was useful, if for no other reason than that it gave me an incentive to make weekly progress, and introduced me to the importance of giving and receiving feedback. Now, when I meet and mentor aspiring writers I always encourage them to seek out something similar, and I often feel annoyed at their (not infrequent) reluctance. Don’t they know how lucky they are, I fume, to have access to so many courses? I give them Arvon brochures and tell them honestly how my first Arvon course taught me more about writing than a subsequent M.A. in Creative Writing.

Recently I was interviewed as part of an initiative of the NI Arts Council to identify areas of need for arts professionals, and the main thing I could think of was the need for professional development for published writers. There are plenty of courses and mentoring opportunities for aspiring and emerging writers, but anything beyond that tends to be generated by writers themselves, often informally. Of course there must be writers who feel they don’t need professional development, and good luck to them, but I’m sure there are many like me, with a few successful books under our books but no idea how things will work out in the future, who would love to be able to keep on learning. After all, professional ballet dancers take daily classes; athletes train. Yes, of course I learn on my own. Every book I read – and write –  teaches me something. But there is something magical about being in a class, with a wise guide, and other learners to share experiences with.

Books are wonderful, but sometimes you need people. I’m teaching myself the guitar: I’ve always sung but this is my first attempt at learning to accompany myself. I have a reasonable ear, so I wince and try again when it sounds horrible, and I have made progress. After six weeks, when I could play a song all the way through at normal speed without embarrassing gaps while I fumbled for the next chord, I let my stepfather (a brilliant guitarist) hear me. My chord changes were grand, he assured me – but my strumming was wrong. I had been so focussed on the more difficult thing that I hadn’t realised how badly I was doing something equally important. If he hadn’t shown me, I would never have known – even with a lifetime of watching other people play. Even with a good Teach Yourself Guitar book. Sometimes you need people.

sometimes you need people 

That’s why I was so thrilled when, last week, Arvon announced a course especially for its own tutors. I signed up immediately and, given that it’s in January, I’m just praying not to be snowed in, so that I can go and be a student again.