The Prodigal Pencil

I have multiple topics that I’ll be blogging about soon: The Pennwriters annual conference held in May; the baby shower that commemorated the upcoming birth of Frama-12; and a Zoom interview with Laura Savino, author of Jet Boss. Today, though, I feel compelled to write about a spur-of-the-moment writer retreat.

My friend, Antigone and I formulated the idea while we sat at one of Panera’s outdoor tables. We both agreed we needed to get away for inspiration. Antigone hoped exposure to nature would unblock her creativity. I needed to focus on the ending for book three of my fantasy trilogy. We booked a few nights at Pendle Hill, a Quaker retreat center.

We began our sojourn by cleansing our creative palates through exposure to nature. This involved wildlife.

And of course a meditative stroll through Pendle Hill’s labyrinth.

I’d had my first introduction to labyrinths years ago when my brother-in-law mowed one into a flat section of his and my sister’s backyard.

Due to this earlier experience, I confidently led Antigone into Pendle Hill’s labyrinth. Feeling like an experienced tour guide, I announced, “This path will take us to the center.”

A minute into our stroll, Antigone made the observation that we seemed to be moving farther and farther from the center. Truthfully, it had been ages since I’d walked a labyrinth. I forgot how long it took to trek through the whole thing. Still, I assured her we’d reach the stump in the middle any second now. Many more seconds elapsed. The path kept curving from that centrally located stump.

After a few more turns, Antigone asked, “Are you sure this really goes to the middle?”

“Positive.” Although at this point I began to have doubts. “This is supposed to be a meditative walk,” I reminded. “We can meditate on wondering when the heck we’ll reach the center.”

We walked on.

“Here we are,” I said for the tenth time. “Just a few more turns.”

I’m not sure how many times I proclaimed we’d almost made it before we actually reached the center. “See? I told you it would get us there.”

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we follow the path back out again, meditating all the way.” Or in my case, regretting that we’d come out so early that dew still dampened the grass. Why hadn’t I worn my hiking boots? I’d packed them, especially for wet-grass mornings like this. They had rubber toes.

Now we were ready for the writing to commence. We returned to our room on the third floor of the Firbank Building to change out of wet socks and to collect our old-school writing paraphernalia. Antigone brought her hardcover journal and a pen. I gathered my spiral notebook and a folder brimming with notes. My writing implement of choice was a sunny yellow, Paper*Mate SharpWriter #2 mechanical pencil. I keep a collection at home, each one assigned to a particular part of the house so that I won’t absentmindedly wander off with my pencil, put it down but not remember where I’d left it.

Outside, we trekked down a sidewalk, across the lawn to a shady bench strategically positioned a few hundred yards from the dining hall. Never underestimate the importance of sustenance when it comes to creativity.

A gentle breeze whispered through the trees as we settled onto the bench. I peered down at my folder and notebook. That’s when I made a horrifying discovery. I let out the plaintive cry of the scatterbrained, “Where’s my pencil?!”

Antigone calmly asked, “Did you leave it in the room?”

I’d never forget the most important part of the writing process … the eraser. Still, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that I had attached the pencil’s little plastic clip to the outside of my notebook before I’d left the room.

I slapped down my pencil-less notebook and stormed back the way we’d come, up three flights of stairs and down the hall to our room. It had to be on the desk. Except it wasn’t. I found no sign of it in any of my computer bag’s many zippered compartments. I looked under the bed and then riffled through the papers and miscellany on top. I checked the closet and the bureau even though I had no earthly memory of carrying my pencil anywhere near that side of the room. I stripped the bed on the off-chance the pencil had somehow nestled itself between the sheets.

When my extensive search revealed no sunny yellow pencil, I concluded that I’d dropped it on the way to the bench and retraced my steps. Antigone joined the search. Under the assumption it might be hidden under the clover, we shuffled across a lawn, sifting through blades of grass with our shoes.

“How can we not see it?” I wailed. “It’s yellow!”

Maybe it really was in our room and I’d missed it. We trudged the staircase together, hoping a second pair of eyes would locate my errant pencil. We rechecked the desk. I even peered into the wastebasket next to it. Antigone activated the flashlight app on her phone and pointed it under my bed. I looked in the closet again. We combed through the items on the desk multiple times, reenacting that definition of insanity about doing the same thing and expecting different results.

We finally accepted defeat. With a heavy heart and plodding feet, examining each blade of grass along the way, we recrossed the lawn to the registration office. The young woman working there kindly gave me a pen. I accepted it with as much gratitude as I could muster. While I harbor no animosity toward pens, they aren’t pencils.

We returned to our bench to resume our creative writing but had spent so much time searching for my mechanical pencil, that the dinner bell clanged. After lunch, we took another walk. And then we trooped back up the stairs for a rest. Thinking about writing can be exhausting work.

Hours later, when we came back outside, clouds had rolled in, covering the sun. A sudden thought struck me. Now that it wasn’t as bright, maybe my yellow pencil would stand out amid the greenery of the lawn.

No sooner had my brain formed that thought when my gaze fell upon my Paper*Mate SharpWriter #2. It lay in the grass near the same route we had passed countless times to no avail. Not even Ripley would have believed it.

I let out a whoop and snatched up my pencil. Words can’t begin to express the joy and excitement I felt as I held that simple piece of graphite-filled plastic in my hand. I danced and shouted. I wanted to go all biblical and cook a fattened calf, except we were staying at a place that served semi-vegetarian meals.

If you’re looking to boost your creativity, I highly recommend a two-day writer’s retreat. Just remember, the key to success is trusting in the labyrinth, and attaching your writing implement to yourself with a chain like they do with pens at the bank.

Until next time …. write on!