#VOPhermitages

[raisingsupergirl]

The Literal Literary Hermit

I often hear that "the world" says we can't do things. We can't follow our dreams. Or we can't be who we want to be. And on the surface, this sounds pretty profound. But I did something this last week that reminded me that the world is a pretty big freakin' place, and most of the time it's our own mind telling us that we can't do something. And you know what that is? It's an excuse. It's an excuse to avoid hard work, a little bit of planning, and the possibility of failure. But let's rewind. My revelation started in a hole in the ground.

In fact, I'm sitting here, right now, looking out the window of my 200-square-foot hermitage, watching ice chunks flow by in the Mississippi river. I've been here for five days, and other than calls home to my wife and daughters twice each day, I've had two conversations since I've been here. And both of them lasted less than two minutes. So, why am I here? What have I been doing? And what have I learned. Well, to answer those questions, I need to go back just a little bit farther.

First, you need to know that I'm thirty-two years old, I'm a full-time physical therapist, I have a lovely extroverted wife and two "lively" daughters (one and four years old), I'm the owner and editor-in-chief of a fiction magazine (shameless plug alert: GoHavok.com), and I've been writing fiction novels for almost a decade now. I'm also a Christian and a Freemason, and I, unlike my family, am not an extrovert. But the thing to take away from all of this is that I'm a writer. I've written seven novels (four independently and three collaboratively). And yet, I've never published anything over 1,000 words. Why?

Well, the short answer is that I haven't yet written anything that a big publisher has considered "sellable." Sure, I've had some hits from smaller publishers, and I could self-publish like your cousin's friend, but, for me, there's just something in my soul that needs that first book to be read by more than twelve people, and it’s worth the wait... mostly (and to be clear, I know plenty of writers who have done extremely well indie/self-publishing, and I know others who don’t have any desire to sell tens of thousands of copies as long as their family and friends can enjoy what they’ve written. I give both groups due credit and respect. But I’m not them). The problem is, statistically, most authors sell their first book in their early thirties (remember that I'm thirty-two). And I'm starting to realize this is because, by the time someone hits their thirties, they've pretty much settled into who they're going to be. And with each passing year, it gets harder for me to justify "wasting" time on stories that nobody's going to read. So, we finally come to the inciting event of the first act—the point of no return.

I wrote a book in November 2017. I thought it was great. Relatable characters, exciting plot, inspiring message, an out-of-this-world setting. But, apparently, it was a mess. Yes, it received positive feedback on a number of levels, but in the end, it needed a lot of work. And I was heartbroken because this was the novel to make or break me. If it didn't force the stars to align, I just couldn't make myself commit to another 200-hour paperweight. So what did I do? I sat it aside for a year and let it build into a source of anxiety and frustration. Every time I thought about it, it made me mad. Why? Because I knew it had huge potential. I knew I had the talent to make it shine. But I just. Didn’t. Have. The. Time. Until a friend of mine told me about a place called Visions of Peace Hermitages.

$40/night or $200/week. Forty minutes from my house. Seven hermitages (literally dug into the earth) overlooking the Mississippi river. No internet. No TV. No YouFaced TwitterSnapstagram. In short, no distractions. And suddenly, I knew my novel had a chance. Just one more hurdle to overcome—convince my wife to be a single parent for six days while I kicked back and followed my dream. Turns out, she's amazing. Not one single word of protest came out of her mouth. Apparently we'd been together long enough for her to finally understand my passion, even if she didn't understand my stories.

So, for a total of $300 ($200 for the hermitage and $100 for the food) and 40 hours of paid time off from work, I set out on a Sunday and made one last run at the thing that I'd literally dreamed about all of my adult life. I was going to re-tell the novel written on my heart. And here's what happened…

Day 1 (Sunday): Snow-covered highways and single-digit temperatures brought me to my fortress of solitude. I arrived optimistic and more than a little nervous. I spent the first few hours unpacking, organizing, reorganizing, and generally "settling in." I spent some time in prayer and some more time walking the grounds to take pictures and familiarize myself with my surroundings. And then, unable to contain my excitement, I sat down to the first chapter. I wrote and edited for four hours that first day, then made myself a simple dinner, read a little Walden, and turned in at 10:30, determined to get a good night's rest before my first full day. Unfortunately, I tossed and turned all stinking night. For a hole in the ground, that place had more noises than a haunted mansion. I really don't know how it sounded like people were walking around upstairs and playing music next door. There was literally no upstairs or next door. The bed was hard and small, three space heaters on full blast weren't enough to keep me from freezing, and my mind would not stop. And did I mention that there were train tracks 200 yards away from my front door, or that the barges on the Mississippi don't shut down at night? Yeah, not a great start. 

Day 2: I awoke at 6:30am, made a cup of coffee, a PB&J sandwich (team crunchy, hoorah), some strawberries, and a glass of OJ, and then watched the sun rise over the river. Well, I watched the sun rise through a veil of clouds over the river. But despite the overcast conditions, a fresh bed of snow had fallen, painting a breathtaking backdrop for me to write my Great American Novel. And I spent the next eleven-ish hours doing just that. Writing. Again, a small lunch and dinner, short calls home at 12:30pm and 7:30pm as scheduled, but no Walden. I was in it to win it. Another hour of writing before bed, and it was lights out again by 10:30. Then, another bad night of sleep. My skin was dry and itchy due to the space heaters.

Day 3: 6:30 wake-up. Yummy breakfast (PB/honey/banana sandwich, OJ, coffee), another cloudy sunrise, calls home at the same scheduled times, simple lunch and dinner, and another successful day of writing. I was getting in a serious groove, and all my romanticized notions of afternoon jogs and evening musings were now just distractions that I didn't have time for. Before bed, I boiled water on the stove, which seemed to help the dry air, and thus my itchiness. I slept a little better, but still not great.

Day 4 (Wednesday): THERE'S A REASON PEOPLE CALL IT HUMP DAY. 7:00 wake-up due to sleeping poorly the past few nights, cloudy sunrise, banana/OJ/coffee. No lunch (pistachios and strawberries at some point in the day) and a simple dinner. Calls home at 12:30 and 7:30 as always. I barely got through half the chapters I'd planned. Overall, very bogged down and feeling like this was a mistake even though the work I'd done so far was better than I'd hoped for. In bed by 10pm, and lo-and-behold, I slept BETTER! My brain shut off, I stayed warm, and I slept through most of the night. Hallelujah!

Day 5: What a day. A bright, clear sunrise over the mighty Mississippi. A quick banana/OJ/coffee breakfast while I started in on the day's writing. Another snack lunch and quick family call at 12:30 because I was on such a roll, and I made up for my lack of productivity the day before and then some. I called home at the scheduled 7:30 time to celebrate my news with the family and… nobody answered. I called literally six more times over the next ten minutes. Nothing. My wife knew the scheduled time and she didn't care. She didn't care about me. She didn't care that I was gone. She didn't care if I ever came back. And when she FINALLY called me back FIFTEEN minutes later, she said she didn't realize that it had gotten that late. And she didn't even feel bad that she'd made me wait FIFTEEN minutes! She didn't care! So, obviously, being confined away from one's family in a 200-square-foot hermitage does weird things to a person's mind, which resulted in a less than encouraging phone call. But hey, other than that, a great day.

Day 6: Did I mention that being secluded for prolonged periods does weird things to a person? Well, I rewarded my previous productivity by again sleeping in to seven, and another crystal clear sunrise pulled me from a deep, restful slumber. And then I saw my first sign of life for several days—a little ladybug crawling across the ceiling over my bed. "Hallooo, lady bug!" I said as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. "Or are ye a MANbug?" And I proceeded to have a five-minute conversation with the little guy in an Irish accent. I mean, the ladybug didn't have an Irish accent. Just me. And I resolved at that moment to watch Braveheart and Brave when I got home because the accent had so inspired me that morning. I could do it! Just a handful of chapters left. Let's go!

And then at 1:58 pm, I finished my novel. I could write another blog post on the supreme sense of victory that finishing a novel evokes, but let me just briefly say, "YAAAAHOOOOOOO!" and be done with it. I then spent the rest of the afternoon walking down by the river and FINALLY appreciating the quiet magic of that place devoted to God's majesty ("Be still and know that I am God."). Though, I will say that after a week of creating an alternate reality in my head, I found it impossible to turn off the narrative. I constantly found myself creating conversations, describing poetic scenes, and outlining plots based on everything I saw during my walk. Kind of annoying, really ("You never want to cross the Muddy in the shallow places. The undertow will pull you right under. No, find the deepest spot and paddle like your life depends on it, because it does.").

So here I am, on the evening of day six, writing this blog because when I go home tomorrow, there's NO WAY I'm going to be on my computer. I'm going to cuddle with my family until I squeeze their eyeballs out. But before I wrap things up, let me just share a few final thoughts that I jotted down during my stay here.

1) My location truly was amazing. I've never been somewhere simultaneously so secluded and connected. With trains and barges gliding by at regular intervals, I was constantly reminded of the outside world without being distracted by it. I was a silent observer. It was an introvert's dream.

2) The body isn't meant to be sedentary. I wrote for eleven to twelve hours per day for five days straight. That's around sixty hours, most of which was spent either sitting or lying down, usually in five-hour intervals without changing position. Even with brief sessions of stretching, pushups, etc. each day, my body was absolutely wrecked (anybody know a good physical therapist?). In case you didn't notice, my appetite dwindled, as did my waistline, but I also lost muscle mass, my digestive system was an absolute disaster, and when I went for a walk on that last day, I almost passed out from the sheer lack of cardiovascular health. There IS a reason professional writers only write four to five hours per day. Trust me.

3) What I did was NOT sustainable. Aside from my physical health, my mental health suffered as well. In case you didn't notice, I started having conversations with bugs and getting mad at my wife for being fifteen minutes late to a phone call. And in the latter half of the week, all I wanted to do was quit. I enjoyed the story I was living in, but nothing about it was "fun." It was a constant struggle to keep engaged, and at times, the only thing that kept me going was the promise of deer chili and a Bulleit old fashioned, with which I plan to reward myself right after I finish this blog.

4) I did a lot of counting. Maybe it had something to do with my mild OCD or my seclusion, or maybe it was a coping mechanism to keep myself on track, but I broke down everything possible into fractions and percentages. Half way through the braunschweiger on day two? I'd better slow down. Averaging 2,000 words/hour for the first two days? That means I should finish on time if I write ten hours per day for the next three days. I did more measuring and math in those five days than I'm comfortable admitting. 

5) I had everything I needed in those 200 square feet… I think. Like I said, I was only there for a week, but I totally see how those tiny house minimalists make it work. Less to clean. Less to keep track of. More appreciation for what you do have. Then again, I'm not sure I could have fit on that twin bed with my wife and two daughters.

6) I missed a lot of opportunities, but it's okay. As I said, this place is amazing. I could have spent a week just walking the grounds, enjoying the sunrise, and generally observing the VOP Hermitage's "rule" on the plaque that was hanging in the chapel—"Listen well and produce nothing." The problem was, I had come here to produce. And that's what I did. This place can be used for many things, and I plan to come back again.

7) I may not be an extrovert, but man, I miss my family. I really do. There's not a lot more to say about that. I appreciate them. I appreciate their energy. I appreciate the fact that they love me. I appreciate the fact that my wife allowed this whole life-changing retreat happen. And I can't wait to see them.

 8) My book is done. I'll send it off to beta-readers one more time. I'll make some adjustments based on their feedback. And then my agent will send it off to publishers. And I'll wait. I don't know what will happen, and that's okay. I edited 80,000 words and wrote 20,000 more over the last five days, and I also grew a lot through the experience. Even if this book doesn't work out, I'm not sure if I'll give up on the dream. Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. Or maybe that dream will just look different than it did before. I don't know. But as my main character says in the final lines of my novel (and I'm paraphrasing because copyright/first rights laws): "A lot of things make a person. And in some ways, nothing does. We are who we are, yesterday, today, and forever. It's simple, really. Live life and regret nothing."