Retreating, with writers
laughter, inspiration and being alone together
A little reminder intro here as I’ve had many new subscribers join in the last couple of weeks, so thrilled you’ve discovered this little corner of the Internet. In case you’re thinking, what/who is this? I’m Emma Gannon, a writer and author of eight books across fiction and non-fiction. I like to write about wellbeing, creativity and living life on your own terms. The Hyphen newsletter is a community-based newsletter where we connect with each other in the comments. My book The Success Myth is about how society’s exhausting success ladder is making us ill and unfulfilled — and I have a new novel coming out with Harper Collins in 2025, so watch this space. Most recently I released a smaller indie book project called A Year of Nothing which is back on sale next month. I joined Substack two and a half years ago when I was burnt out and sad and it has totally changed my life & brought me back to life. Thanks for being here! 🌟
Supposed to be on a break but I was excited to get up and write today. It’s cold outside and the heating is on. I went to a new café nearby yesterday for a coffee; they are throwing a Halloween party next week. ‘Free prizes for the best-dressed,’ it said on the poster. I won’t be going (fancy dress isn’t my bag) but I like the idea of people in my neighbourhood enjoying Halloween. I find it cosy. A sign of getting older perhaps? When you enjoy other people having fun around you.
A mug of tea sits on my desk. I’m back home after five days away. My suitcase remains in the hallway unpacked; almost as if to contain the magic for a little longer. Once I unpack everything, it means the trip is officially over and life continues as normal. I’ve just returned from a retreat at Erth — in a rural part of Cornwall, described as “a hidden Cornish paradise” on a private peninsula that overlooks the Tamar and Lynher estuaries. It was stunning. I stayed in a Shepherd’s hut with no lock. When I asked about the lock, the host said: “Trust me, there’s no one about.”
The retreat was organised by writers, for writers. A different kind of retreat. We weren’t there to learn anything specific, just to be with each other. To share, rant, laugh, whatever we wanted. I found myself realising something: I’d been a bit lonely.
At a recent sound bath I attended in a local Church, I pulled a card at the end. I can’t remember what was on the card, it might have been a hedgehog. The words were along the lines of: you love to be alone in your cave and it is where the magic happens in terms of your work. But occasionally, you need to come out of your cave and connect.
I didn’t realise how starved I felt, of connection with other writers. Writers, to be clear, who aren’t in competition or obsessed with Schadenfreude or gossip, but those who simply want to give and receive support and maybe go for a swim/natter. Mid-thirties is a strange time for friendship. I don’t want to generalise so I’ll just talk about myself. I feel like I’ve changed a lot. I’m craving friendships with women older than me, friendships where you can’t help but bubble up with ideas, friendships built on a love of creativity, swimming, art, whatever it might be. Old friendships are fizzling away slightly, the love is there and will remain but it’s as though the pause button has been pressed, lives splinter in different directions. Diaries suddenly don’t match up. I don’t know what it’s like to have three kids.
I am craving connection and IRL community more than ever before. And that doesn’t mean nights out, or pub sessions, or events. It means sitting around a wooden table with candles burning and hearty food. It means visiting a new friend in another city.
I confided in a friend on the retreat, that sometimes I’m envious of other female friendship girl-gangs. I wish I was someone who could be raucous and drink wine in a caravan. She replied gently: “This can be our version of Wine in A Caravan.” (Neither of us drink.)
The biggest shift I’ve noticed recently is my unfolding love of being in quiet surroundings. Less of an urgent need to take pictures. Trusting my senses and my memory more. The condensation on the window of my hut, the frosty grass, the fog over the estuary, the stillness of the cold air. I breathed in and out; it was enough. When you realise what you see before you is enough, somehow it also transfers internally and makes me feel like I’m enough, too.
I thought I’d share my main takeaways. Documenting it for myself, mainly.