Moniack Moments

Dec 20, 2023

Hi friends,

Rather than a blow-by-blow account of my time at Moniack Mhor, I thought I’d share a diary entry, a photo essay and a voice note which together capture something of the experience of being on a writing retreat,. The tussle between ‘being’ and ‘doing’. Input and output. How it feels to share time and space with other writers on their own journeys. Perhaps it speaks to the later parts of this post? Says something that might resonate with you if you’re considering investing in yourself and your own writing?

This voicenote was recorded about 7 hours after the diary entry… I wonder if you can tell how the hours in between went?

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-5:48

Thursday 7th December, 2023

A long wooden dining table with a laptop, two candles, coffee and writing implements on top, To the left, someone else's messy work station. A book case behind the table and a window on the right — Our shared workspace. Janice Galloway’s donated library and gallery surround.

Back at the dining table this morning full of questions. Concern, too, for where this story is going. But also? I’m tired. Slept later than I’d like, though concede it was a good sleep. Much-needed after two fitful nights.

The cold has broken, finally. On those first few mornings, my face out of the covers, dark starts reminded me of those specific winter mornings at Auchengate. Frozen condensation on the inside of my window. A brittle cold.

Bodies seize up in the cold. Protection?

A wooden sign saying Moniack Mhor: Scotland's Writing Centre on it in front of a snowy landscape

A low winter sun in a blue sky over misty fields in the Scottish Highlands

Not like at home in the shared bed where I’m afforded the luxury of stretching out, hands above my head, feet and legs bare. My toes hook over the bottom seam of the mattress, rubbing it for comfort. Seeking the cold spot.

If I were looser in body, might the words be, too?

A week of extremes. Too cold by night; too hot by day. The fire blazes in the living room stove. Enthusiastic stokers open the vents and flames dance, fevered, behind the glass. The oil heater in the far corner under Janice Galloway’s gifted print of Alison Watt’s Sabine was on full bung last night when tasked to set the table for dinner. I switched it off at the wall and only now am wondering who had the job of lighting the fire in this now-comfortable room? Is it meant to stay on overnight for them before the fire takes?

A wooden desk with a candle, a notebook and pencil, a bowl of crystals and a dairy on top.

Reeking of the day, I’ve been in need of a shower before bed each night. Didn’t pack for being over-warm. Sniffed the armpits on the two t-shirts I brought. Neither wearable this morning. Can I do a hand wash?

Nor did I prepare for the degree of anxiety, or rather, impatience I’ve experienced in the face of this novel. I’ve written a few thousand words since I arrived, limping into a scene that should, by rights, be all punch and drama. I can feel it. Am excited by it. But these words, the lengthy pre-amble, this is coming first. Maybe I just need a run-up? Maybe, like the last time, the run-up will eventually be scrapped after serving its purpose?

Or maybe these words are good. Hint at the impatience of the central character, who is, too, desperate for the action but forced to endure a wait not of her own making?

The signs were promising at the start of the week. And I’m trying to hold on to them. Remember that the oracle cards I pulled on the first night encouraged me to accept circumstance with no judgement (failing on this!) To open and activate the spaces within my heart that need attention. What needs my attention now? I’m still asking, at least.

And then there was the Alison Watt, hanging above me the first night at dinner. Only noticed it when I went to leave the table. And on Tuesday morning, the mug found in the dresser. The only one with no handle. Blue-turquoise pottery piece, glazed with blue and umber smudges like the best late afternoon winter sky. A name scratched in its glazed curves: MOYA. Moya, the character in my novel who introduces the protagonist to that exact painting. I searched the other cups for names. All shop-bought.

Signs, all. There if you’re open to seeing them. A continuation of the private, ongoing conversation I’m conducting with the universe, someone told me.

I’m into that.