Road Trip Wednesday - Dream Writing Retreat

Going to try adding Wednesday to my blogging schedule. I doubt I have enough brain power to come up with something stunningly creative for Wednesdays on my own, so I'm going to hop on the YA Highway's Road Trip Wednesday. 


Today's RTW prompt is: 
Describe your dream writing retreat. Where would you go? Who and what would you bring?


London
If I were to craft the perfect writing retreat it would be a week (or more, what the hell, it's a fantasy) in a quiet hotel in Bloomsbury, in easy walking distance to the British Library, the Strand and the river. I'd write in the morning, walk in the afternoon and meet with friends for dinner and drinks in the evening. I might even take a few day trips out of King's Cross.

British Library

In any season London is a walker's paradise. And I write best in my head while walking. I used to work in the City (a lowly tea-lady, not a high powered venture capitalist, in case you were wondering) and sometimes, instead of hoping on the tube, I'd walk down High Holborn, into the West End, down to Victoria Embankment, across Hungerford Bridge and once, I walked all the way home to Balham. 

Victoria Embankment

Stories are buried in every nook and cranny of the city. For me, it's a layered, never ending source of ideas. Sometimes, I walk through London in my dreams. 


I actually wouldn't take anyone with me. I'm surrounded by people who need me all the time right now and the optimal writing experience would be mostly silent. I know there will be other times in my life when I'll want/need others to spark my creativity, but that's not now.


As for what I would take with me, laptop, of course. And I would probably take Writing the BreakOut Novel by Donald Maass in case I get stuck. Ipod and lots of music is also not negotiable - I know this goes against my previous request for silence, but I don't consider music noise, I consider it writing impetus.


What about you, what's your idea of a perfect writing retreat?

SW17

First, I wrote to my friend, Rachel, who lives in North London. When she emailed that she's  in Germany for work, I was so relieved. All my other friends from when I lived in London don't live there anymore. Lynn's in Carlise, Jack and Dan and their girls are in Devon. Chris and his family are in the Isle of Wight. Makes it a nightmare to try to visit them all, but now I'm so glad they're no where near Tooting SW17.

It's weird how distance and history can magnify a tragedy. When horrible things happen right in my city or state, it's easier to ignore, or at least feel jaded about it. But there's something about seeing London burning that brings me to tears. I follow the Google map, watch the cell phone footage, think and think and think, how did this happen to my London?

I know it's not true, that it's arrogance to say it, but I feel like I created London, at least my own London, when I lived there. It's probably more accurate to say that it created me. No other city (not even NYC) has messed with my DNA the way London has. I would go back, live there forever, in a heartbeat, if other things were not tying me to where I am. I dream about London, still, even though it's been nearly 12 years since I lived there.

So seeing kids rioting outside Clapham Junction, ripping TV's out of a Ladbrooks in Tooting, tossing burning molotov cocktails, breaks my heart. I wish I was there, weirdly, that I could help. On twitter, there's a boots-on-the-ground movement (#riotcleanup) to help neighborhoods clean up. I can only hope that the anger and spleen being vented on the city is countered by enough of the opposite - community, kindness and solidarity.

Watching this video of the #riotclean up that happened yesterday in Clapham brought on the waterworks AGAIN, but at least in a good way.