The Writing Retreat

That was the way of the world: if you were a woman, then you had a job to do, and that was to pretend to love everyone else walking all over your body, leaving imprints on your face. You were supposed to crave it, to beg for more.

Where did one’s power lie in a world that stripped it from you, over and over again? How could we reclaim it when the dominant forces dangled it above our heads, shouting: Only the strong survive?

At thirteen I learned from Roza's stolen book that girls don't have to be sweet little creatures, that they could in fact be angry and dark and sexual.

Physical abuse versus emotional neglect? Some might say the neglect is worse. Because it negates your very existence.

My anger and helplessness connected me to something, a powerful and primal energy. And the only corridor to it was through utter despondency, utter desperation.

For so long I let other people make me feel like that wasn’t good enough,

The power of my resistance filled me, sparkling like a billion twinkling stars.

Keep going. Despite all the bullshit, magical things are coming to you.

Where did one's power lie in a world that stripped it from you, over and over again? How could we reclaim it when dominant forces dangled it over our heads, shouting, "only the strong survive?

If you’re going to do stupid shit, do it well. Don’t be lazy enough to get caught so easily. Try a little harder. Otherwise you don’t deserve any of it. Okay?

Don’t let her get in your head, okay? I know people like that. They make you think they’re great as long as they need you. And as soon as they don’t—like when Wren met this guy—then they drop you. Simple as that.

And then, as I sat there, the true reality hit, clubbing me in the back of the head. I was going to Roza Vallo’s monthlong writing retreat with a killer case of writer’s block.

mixture of horror and despair filled my gut. I’d kept it a secret. Ursula didn’t know that I’d failed to write anything post-Wren.

She wanted to gaze at them directly, to hold them in her palms like newborn kittens covered with caul.

The moral is that we don’t need to worry. The appropriate punishments will be meted out to the appropriate people. Often in this very lifetime.

Maybe the answer was even simpler than I could have imagined. Maybe the power had never really gone away. Maybe it still lived in me, in my guts, in my bones. Maybe all I had to do was see it.

Her charisma was starting to unfurl, its vines wrapping around the table.

Hi darling, I read your book and I wanted to reach out and let you know that I loved the ending. I have to feel some sliver of pride, since you never would’ve written this story if not for the retreat. I would love to tell you these things in person, but of course that is not possible. Feel free to show this message to the police, as momentarily I will be dropping this

burner” phone into the ocean. (What ocean? The detectives scratch their burly heads.) I do wish that you were here with me. But I understand that you needed to go home. Your life will be less exciting, but perhaps that stability is what you seek. Just know: that wildness still exists inside you. Please protect it, foster it, keep it safe. And who knows, maybe you will prove the impossible: that you hold more than one masterpiece inside you. Know that I will be following you, cheering the ferocious creature in you, for the rest of my days. Kisses. R.