A month of sunsets
My first writing residency at age 50
Back when I worked in TV news and pined for a richer creative life, I heard the term “writing residency” and imagined a dreamy sabbatical somewhere far away, probably in a castle. I imagined the residency would provide a plush, quiet space in which the writer could toil away at her next great work, in solitude, surrounded by books, a crackling fire in the wood-burning fireplace. Maybe a butler to bring around meals.
In other words, a writing residency was available only to real writers, not a wannabe like me.
Fast forward to today, and I just returned from my first ever writing residency. In place of a castle, this residency offered a cottage, and instead of a butler, I was welcomed and cared for by a warm community in the buttery soft town of Fairhope, Alabama.
This reality was filled with golden sunlight dappling through live oaks drenched in Spanish moss. Tender pink and white Camellias bloomed, surrounded by birdsong. People smiled and seemed genuinely happy. And how could they not be? To experience such supple surroundings during the dead of winter, when current events are falling on a spectrum from scary to terrifying to full blown madness?
The writing residency, the only one of its kind in Alabama, is run by the Fairhope Center for the Writing Arts, founded by local writer Sonny Brewer. The organization’s primary aim is to support writers by offering a free month’s stay in Wolff cottage, a mission style house built in 1920, owned by the city of Fairhope.
Imagine that! A community fully committed to supporting writers, just because they believe that writing is a noble endeavor worth saving. In the deep south, no less! The cottage is full of books, many by writers who have slept there. I could feel the energy of their work around me, the spines of books bearing their names cheering me on.
My first week, I furiously pirouetted between multiple projects. One hour I’d grind away at a complicated reporting project I’m still trying to finish, another hour I’d read through old journals and letters, annotating and pondering how all this source material should best come together.
A late morning during week one, I took a break from tasks and stepped out to sit on the front steps in the sunshine. An older man power walking by saw me and waved, then stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted “Writers rock!” while he pumped his fist in the air. I laughed out a thank you, my entire body humming with joyful appreciation.
"Our program is an escape-to-create or retreat-to-complete opportunity for a writer to get some good work done while living in one of the prettiest places in the country,” Sonny Brewer has said about this residency.
He’s not kidding about Fairhope’s beauty. The cottage sits within walking distance of the entire charming town, including the magnificent local Page & Palette Bookstore, founded by Betty Wolff, the cottage’s namesake. At night, twinkle lights on trees shower the downtown shops with glitter, the message being that every night in Fairhope is worth celebrating.
On the day I arrived, I walked to the municipal pier to watch the first of what turned into a month of glorious sunsets. The park above the pier and the walking trail that runs along the Mobile Bay both face west, a front row seat to view the glowing star at the center of our solar system slip down the backdrop of the sky, until it dips below the horizon and disappears. It never got old.
What was I working on during my residency? I’m actually still figuring that out, which is part of the process, the grinding, grunting work of it. What exactly does my diamond heart want to say? And how to craft sentences to say that, and how to shape those sentences into form—all these vital steps need space and time. Just to step away from regular life’s demands—chores, dogs, family, the never-ending fucking laundry. It’s kind of a miracle for the brain.
My brain became less cluttered, as I allowed it to drift and dream, away from the usual clatter and clammer that fights for my attention. A few days in, I could sense an internal shift, a quieting of my normally noisy, active thoughts. I felt it my second week when I bought a sandwich from a cafe, then carried it across the street to a small cemetery and ate it sitting on a bench, surrounded by grave markers and headstones for people I will never know.
I sat under a drapery of green, absorbing a quiet energy as I ate a sublime turkey sandwich on an everything bagel with avocado and blueberry jam. Seriously! Each texture and flavor revealed itself in small sensory explosions that I recognized and named, almost like an eating meditation practice. Songbirds tittered and trilled around me, and I felt thoroughly relaxed, peaceful and satisfied.
I realize now this is what Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, means when she recommends nurturing pleasure to feed creativity. Cameron suggests we intentionally cultivate joyful experiences as a practice, in order to awaken new internal currencies that fuel artistic work. I reconnected with this during the residency, through the tart blueberry jam on this sandwich, and many other rich experiences that I allowed myself to fully relish.
This interrupted my thinking of food as an adversary, a tantalizing lover who regularly seduces, then mocks me for putting out too much. I let that go, and just allowed myself to enjoy. I frequented Fairhope Chocolate, and bought an entire king cake filled with cream cheese and dark chocolate. I noshed on a blackened shrimp salad, the peppery crustaceans pulled from the gulf a day before I ate them. On Valentine’s Day, my husband surprised me by ordering a special lunch for me to pick up. It included a perfect square of tiramisu, and I savored every bite.
In the midst of all this pleasure, two ideas about my writing crystallized, revealing themselves in succinct, complete sentences that rang into my consciousness like a gong. They both appeared spontaneously and unexpectedly, one waking me from a deep sleep and the other snapping itself into place as I sipped my morning tea. The ideas weren’t questions, they were certainties, followed by a silent refrain — It is this. It is this. It is this.
This is the real beauty of a writing residency: not so much how many words you get down, or how many pages you crank out, but how you figure out a way to live in order to say what you need to say, an idea I first heard about on “Writer’s at the Well” podcast by
.I am so grateful for all of it—the food, the sunsets, the friends I made, the solitude, the time and space that reminded me of what I already knew. I just needed reminding.
I wish this kind of experience for everyone seeking a creative life, a chance to connect with beauty and pleasure and celebration during this brief passing through called life. For me, it was a reawakening that nourished my growing creative fruit. It was better than the castle fantasy because it was finally real.
If you are a writer, you should apply for this residency. And if you just want to travel to a sanguine, sweet spot, check out Fairhope, Alabama.
And watch the sunsets. Slow down. Taste pleasure. Insist on it.
That's beautiful. Brilliant initiative! Thanks for documenting. Good ideas spread so I hope that other communities consider such an initiative in their areas. Very jealous
Many thanks for your wonderful descriptive writing about Fairhope and your rewarding residency. A special town in my memory bank.