I had a decent weekend. I didn’t get a lick of anything written. Sure, I did revise and add to what I already have on my WIP, but two hundred words did not impress me. I need to kick it into high gear and stop letting myself get distracted by messed up toes, curly-haired nephews, fat cats and studly men. And food.
Really. This is what has been distracting me lately.
I could have worked on my stuff last night, but after a day spent slow-cooking white beans (which kicked serious ass, y’all) and smothered cabbage, I was done. I watched a little football, except not a single team I wanted to win, won. It was disgusting so I gave up on that. I watched my youngest nephew on Saturday afternoon, trying to coax him into eating something and finally got him to chow on a banana. I went to my oldest nephew’s house on Sunday afternoon and did this whole jaw-dropping thing. It’s so nice. The kitchen is…well, I don’t really cook despite my recent spurt of domestic goddess-ness, but that kitchen could make me want to cook. *drool*
But that has nothing to do with the title of this blog post. Nothing at all.
When I got home from my nephew’s house, I took a pain killer and plopped on the sofa to watch Island Hunters. It seemed a natural progression for me to go from House Hunters and House Hunters International to people buying islands. I didn’t know you could just buy an island if you had the money for it. I watched these people wander around sandy beaches with tropical…things on the trees and realized these people aren’t buying islands just for privacy or in preparation for the zombiepocalypse. They’re buying it because when you can throw a million dollars down on your own island…well, that says something about you.
So I posted on Facebook that I was going to buy an island when I made my millions. I forgot the people who follow me are wonderfully creative people. It didn’t take much for someone to talk me into buying a mountain instead. In Costa Rica. I’m more than happy to buy it as long as burly, sexy mountain men are included. Someone in the Cabal recommended we cash in all the bail money we’ve been pooling together (in case one of us ends up in the tank) because we won’t need it there. Hello? We’d be our own law. I get to be sheriff. But I put my foot down. We’re not having a brothel. We won’t need it since it will be a Cabal only retreat. (and I don’t share very well)
The idea has merit. Maybe not owing mountain men, but a writing retreat sounds wonderful. It has to be a place where writer friends can get together and hash out plot points. I know myself and I wouldn’t write with people around me. I like to talk too much for that. However, hanging out with other writers, bouncing ideas off them, laughing and sobbing over the publishing industry sounds wonderful.
Maybe that’s something I can aim for in my dotage. A writers retreat deep in the swamps (because despite my dislike of beaches, I’m afraid of heights more). What do y’all think? What kind of writers retreat would you like?