I’m back from a retreat—not as a host, but as a guest. Not your normal kind of retreat either, but with a group of fellow writers. We go as a group to simply spend time together, talk openly about where we’re at, ask advice, discuss what’s on our mind, run some casual workshops, and also: be silly and have fun. It all felt a little witchy — the bright moon, purple skies, low-lit lamps in every corner, fairy lights strung outside, dinners shared around a big table with tall taper candles. Tarot cards scattered across tables. A witchy, magical Autumnal energy.
In my early thirties, I felt a pang of loneliness. I had wonderful friends—from school, university, and old jobs — and plenty of people I could meet for dinner, text, or call. But something still felt missing. I tried to explain it to Paul, but I couldn’t quite make sense of it myself. I kept thinking, I don’t have any friends, which wasn’t true at all. What I really meant was that I didn’t have close creative friends I could talk to about writing/creativity in an unfiltered way. I had plenty of acquaintances and people who wanted to “pick my brain,” but what I longed for were real writer friends — people I could speak with honestly about the business of being a writer and geek out unselfconsciously. Writer friends who wouldn’t feel jealous or competitive, either.