My first writing residency ever was at Hedgebrook, on Whidbey Island, Washington, in 2007.

At this residency, I was a few months into a marriage that would end less than a year later. No matter: I felt I had to squeeze every last bit of creative juice out of myself for the two weeks I had somehow managed to take off from work. My ex/friend from Olympia drove me to the ferry and off I went to Hedgebrook.

At this residency I met Gloria Steinem who was also in residence, and with whom we had dinner each night. There was an event dinner during my residency and the writers-in-residence were sprinkled throughout the tables. I understood that we were there to encourage potential funders, and I was fucking glad to. I distinctly remember being pleased to be sat next to some dapper older dyke and feeling my dormant extroversion jump right out to meet her, chatting away, hoping my friendly effort would help continue funding this absolute goddess-sent residency. Most days I wrestled with the drafts of what would become Excavation.

In 2009 I returned to Hedgebrook under very different circumstances. I was divorced and newly living with my new partner. We were talking about having a baby the following year. The residency felt even higher stakes to me, because I wasn’t sure if or when I’d ever get to do one again once I had a baby.

And the residency was different. One of the residents had a crackling energy that I experienced as irritatingly abrasive. When she arrived at our nightly dinners, she loudly announced her word count of the day.

I was mystified. Prior to her announcements, I had never kept track of word count. In fact, I still resent that intrusion upon my writing process. Of course I would later note word counts, when I have deadlines and word counts to actually meet. But the concept of the “right amount” of words per day still irks me.

And to be honest, there were other off moments, which I can’t be sure were from the first, idyllic residency or the second, more challenging one. I remember standing in front of the window during the second residency, though—feeling a sense of emptiness and grief I couldn’t place yet. Now I think it might have had something to do with the radical changes I’d made to my life—the marriage, the almost immediate understanding that I needed to leave it, the divorce, then living alone for a year, exclusively seeing the woman I left my husband for.

We bring all our baggage to residency. Sometimes that block of time will be spent standing in front of the window glowering at what, you do not know. Sometimes someone else’s writing process will come in and announce itself, disrupting what nascent writing process of your own that you’re trying to nurture.

During that rough second residency I borrowed a book from the Hedgebrook library to read while I was staying there. It was The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing. It felt at the time extremely important to me. As did the little beach I walked to—the lull of the water on the shore and the driftwood sculptures eventually creating a scene I would routinely visualize in EMDR sessions many years later.

As of this writing, I’m waiting to hear back from the writing residency that offered me dates next year that I can’t do. They also awarded me a full fellowship. They need to settle the dates of all the residents for the season and if my requested dates fit, then I will receive the residency and fellowship. The second of the two residencies I applied to, apparently in a fugue state back in May or June, rejected me. I happen to be in a delicate state of not caring about a lot of things that used to matter to me before, so I feel a bit neutral about the rejection (Ragdale). It means I don’t have to plan or think about extra travel next year beyond the travel I already have planned. If I do receive the residency I’m in limbo with, it will require planning and thinking. If it doesn’t pan out, I am only bummed out by the fact of missing out on a fellowship and the little feather in my cap it offers. My current writing process is coming in fits and starts, and I can’t even begin to imagine how next year will look (in many ways). I’m over here just moving day by day, a bit of improvement over hour by hour.

In the fall of 2022 I went to my third residency, awarded by Tin House (now McCormack Writing Center). It was my first airplane flight since 2019, and my first (anxious) flight of the pandemic.

I found a delightful studio set up, within five minutes walk to forest trails, a food co-op, food trucks, and other cute shops. There I worked on the book I had written a proposal for that would go nowhere, in part because I had terminated my agent before the book went to market. Most mornings of the ten days I was in residence began with a hike in the forest, a retreat unto itself. The time alone in a place other than home, especially during this phase of the pandemic, was beautiful. The weather was warm, sunny. My evenings were spent in bed watching some psychological thriller show, the name I forget now. My days were spent wrestling with the book, and working on a piece that was in editing and then was published during my fortunate time there, and discussing by phone the potential of re-releasing my books (which would occur three years later).

I do think that if I am unable to make an official writing residency happen, that I might make my own next year, but it’s hard to commit to that right now. I am, though, contemplating what it will mean for me to be completely off social media for the entire year of 2027. I want to see what my brain will do, how my brain will be. My other intention is to not say yes to much. The drive to do what other people ask me to do is low. Give me until April 2027, when I’m a year out from my mother’s passing—but even then, I think I’ve lost crucial elements of that drive (temporarily?). Fuck word counts. No to anything with deadlines. That’s where I am at, at least for the immediate future.

Funny that I write all this from the most obvious potential writing residency space—my office that sits in the backyard. It’s not the same. But if I need the figurative space of a ‘writing residency' the office will work in a pinch. For now I’m noting the ebbs and flows in me that pull and push toward and from writing.

May you all have respite and space for the creative work you want to do in this life. Thanks for reading.

Buy Excavation, Hollywood Notebook, and Bruja from Bookshop.org for a discount, plus support your local independent bookstore at the same time.