“Can two people be in love forever?” – CL

Dear CL,

First, I don’t know shit about marriage.

Second, I somehow ended up in a happy one.

Overall. Generally speaking. Mostly.

As you may have observed, cohabitating with one human is never fun all the time and anyone who says it is is definitely lying. I realize these fabricators seem real on Instagram with their sun-kissed beach photos, but All-the-Time-Blissful Marriage is not a fucking thing.

Generally Happy with your Life Partner, though, IS a thing.

And that’s the thing I have.

I’m not sure how or why we ended up here, and while I’d like to say we fell in love got married bought a house and built a life in some organized trajectory of soul-mate goal-setting, the truth is we did everything wrong.

Well, apparently not everything. I mean, look at George. >>>

We met too soon, had a kid too early, and separated for a year or two, here and there. And yet, on December 19 we will celebrate our 14^th anniversary, and I will probably think “Well I’ll be damned, I’m happy,” and I love him, a lot, even more than 14 years ago, which surprises me, and feels odd.

Sometimes, I want to kick him in the shins because he drives me around the bend. But I don’t want him gone. And I never think of my life without him because I don’t want it. At the last, he’s my best friend, and I like hanging out with him, and I like the life we’ve got going together, and that’s enough for me.

So I don’t know if people can be in love forever. I don’t know much about marriage or love, but I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned so far.

I think we’re sold a lie about marriage and romance. I think it starts with romantic comedies. I think we grow to believe “real love” looks like the first 6 months of a relationship extended over a lifetime.

I think that’s bullshit.

I think we’re told that if our love doesn’t look like the end of a Meg Ryan movie, all the time, even 7 years into it, there’s something wrong with our relationship, when actually nobody’s love looks like that. So in other words, YES, there is in fact something wrong with it.

There is always something wrong with it. The point is to get okay with the shit that’s wrong, or leave. We spend so much time trying to “fix” what’s wrong. What about asking ourselves “Can I live with what’s wrong?” And if the answer is “no,” then I guess we work like hell to get better, or we leave.

But often, I’ve found, the answer is “yes.” I can live with that. It’s not perfect, but it’s okay. It’s not a deal-breaker.

I think a lot of Happy Marriage rests in letting shit go that doesn’t matter, even though our egos may tell us it super dupes matters. And this extends to personality flaws. Sometimes giant ones. For example, my tendency to yell and swear-off our marriage altogether at least twice a year, and his, well, flaws. I’m sure they’re there.

I jest. He’s not perfect. But I don’t feel compelled to put Mac up here on the chopping block since he can’t defend himself. I will say, “He will never be the man who straightens the fringe on the carpet” (we have no carpet with fringe but I’m using that as a metaphor people). He will never be the one carefully planning shit in our lives (wait. I don’t do that either. WHERE IS OUR FAMILY PLANNER? Oh right. Ava.) He will probably never organize the garage. He will definitely always forget to put the kids to bed on time.

He will never have the Type A, assertive, GET ER DONE attitude that say, his wife has, and that annoys me sometimes because I can’t do everything! But then again now that I think about it you’re totally going to do it wrong so please just let me do it.

For example, he lives with that. And I live with his tendency to leave giant metal objects on our front lawn. No, leaning against our house. He’s moved on from the lawn.

Improvement!

No but seriously, we have some differences in communication (in short, I move IN YOUR FACE and he moves IN HIS SHELL) that are tough, and sometimes we go months in this push-pull thing of me demanding WE ADDRESS SHIT and him pretending I’m not there.

But eventually, we come around. Both of us. He talks to me and I remember I’m sane and the truth surfaces and we end up together, maybe in tears, maybe holding hands or hugging, but for sure remembering who and what and why we’re here, and that we fucking like each other and our kids as a little unit and would rather have each other than not have each other. And that’s our Meg Ryan movie.

We know we will get okay again, and that it will be enough.
I think we’re told our partners need to “fulfill” us. I think this is bullshit. I think we “fulfill” ourselves and bring that to the motherfucking table, as a service to our partner, and ourselves. I don’t want to be responsible for “fulfilling” anybody. I’m a broke-ass broke down human. I can support the shit out of you, and tell you the truth, and be your friend and kiss your lovely lips, but I don’t want your identity on my shoulders. I can hardly handle my own thankyouverymuch.

Nobody can fill the gaping hole in me because they’re too busy running around trying to fill the gaping hole in them and we’re all just pathetic little humans full of fear and wonder and selfishness and I will absolutely let you down. I gotta fill my own shit. I gotta get okay with the tragedy and beauty of my own gut situation before I can look at you, be your friend, your lover, your anything.

I think this is a truth nobody talks about but we should teach in schools: If you want your life to change, look within.

It’s not fun. It’s much more fun to blame everybody us, but in my experience I am pretty much always the problem. Even if I’m in a genuinely fucked-up situation, one may ask “Um, okay Janelle, sure this situation sucks donkey balls, but what got you here in the first place?”

Or, my personal favorite: “Why, pray tell, are you still here if you hate it so much?”

OH FUCK YOU VOICES.

Then again, sometimes things happen for no reason other than because life is a torturous bitch. One day she’s got three of your kids watering the Christmas tree under the light of your son’s headlamp. The next day she’s taking your friend in a car accident. That actually happened. RIP, beautiful Vanessa.

These are times I need you. And you need me. Let’s be there. That matters. That’s friendship and support, not existential fulfillment.

There’s a difference.

I spent a long time analyzing Mac’s faults. I spent a long time trying to fix him to meet my expectations, mold him into my vision of Perfect Fulfilling Life Partner. I spent so much time focused on that I failed to see him for what and who he is: A damn good, loving, loyal and kind father and husband. Things started to change when I got so desperate I stopped looking to him to “make me feel good” or “make my life meaningful.” I said “Fuck it. Fuck everything I know about ‘love.’ Fuck the Hallmark cards and Meg Ryan movies. I guess this is it.” I decided to focus more on what I could give than what I could take.

And I finally felt in love. This was weird. I did not understand this.

I think we misunderstand love. We think it flows from outside into us, which is true, we feel it from others, but mostly in my experience if flows from me outward but the effect is the same and I can only see clearly without resentment and expectations and fear. And love is the only thing that gets rid of resentment and expectations and fear. It seems very active to me. Like a choice, not a thing that merely exists or doesn’t exist between two people. It’s not passive. It moves. It lives.

I guess I learned that my ability to love comes from me. Not him.

Love flows out. And then it flows in. Can that last forever? Maybe. I don’t know.

But I think it’s enough for today.

I think sometimes we give up too soon. I think sometimes we stay too long. I think it’s hard to face the truth. I think mistakes can end up in beauty. I think sometimes our love gets buried beneath so much fear and resentment we can’t see which fucking way is up. I think sometimes love goes underground and we have to just keep showing up until it pops up again and I think over the years love changes from gazing into each other’s eyes to seeing your whole history in somebody’s eyes and that transition isn’t expected.

One day you look at a man and realize they’ve been with you since you were 21, and damn near all your memories hold their face and rather than a fiery romance of hot sex on the couch your love becomes steadily burning flames in the old woodstove nobody notices, but realize it’s just as powerful and hop in the fucking sack at year 14 of marriage, 4 kids, 2 people, taking it easy in a bit of love.

Can that last forever?

Who the fuck knows. I don’t know about forever. I only know I’m happy to meet him today for falafel, with my other dear friend Sarah.

And that’s enough for now. And old Emily Dickinson says “forever is composed of nows.”

Oh god, I’m quoting poetry. Way to make me soft, CL.

Love,
Janelle

****

Heyyyyy, there are only 5 spots left in  my January writing workshop.

You should probably grab one of them. Or all five. TELL YOUR FRIENDS.

In keeping with the general trajectory of my life, wherein I do everything in precisely the wrong way, my husband and I have, since the beginning, made practically every mistake available to humans.

We met too young: he was 19; I was 21. I got pregnant about 47 seconds later (okay fine it was 3 months, but it felt like seconds).

And, just like any Meg Ryan movie, we got married in front of a courthouse on a cold December day, wearing all black, and our baby in a sling.

After reproducing and marrying, we decided to get to know each other, and realized to our great dismay that we only vaguely enjoyed one another’s company. We broke up like 9 times a week, often wishing homicide didn’t carry quite such a heavy sentence.

We drank too much whiskey in too many dive bars while attempting the dubious task of living a “grown up” life with no money, maturity or discernible future.

The recipe for success, as you can see.

And yet somehow, we’re still here.

Despite some really solid efforts to eradicate our relationship (burn it down, in fact, TO THE GROUND), we are still, 12 years later, a unit.

And I’ll be damned if we aren’t the happiest unit you ever did see.

By some miracle (of what must be a really twisted love god), we have a damn good marriage. I mean it. We’re like happy. We flirt, laugh, hang out, send gushy texts, don’t have affairs.

Friends have told me it’s “refreshing” to see a marriage actually working. [Um, yeah, it’s “refreshing” to BE in a marriage that’s actually working.] Occasionally they ask us how we do it. “How does your marriage work so well?”

And since it’s generally people who are just starting out in a serious relationship or recently married, I feel a little awkward explaining that ‘what we did’ was everything wrong and ‘what we’re currently doing’ is apparently, everything wrong.

You see they always say the most important feature of a lasting marriage is “good communication.” They say it’s the cornerstone of a healthy relationship. As if patience and understanding, “I” statements instead of “you” statements, no sweeping generalizations, no attacks or criticisms or name-calling form the HOLY GRAIL of marital bliss.

All of this came to mind the other day when I was tutoring a student in the writing center who’s taking a communications class, and I read the following in her textbook:

“Marriage counselors have long emphasized the importance of communication for healthy, enduring relationships. A primary distinction between relationships that endure and those that collapse is the presence of effective communication. Couples who learn how to discuss their thoughts and feelings, adapt to each other, and manage conflict constructively tend to sustain intimacy over time.”

And then it gave the results of a poll in America, in which they found “a lack of effective communication to be the primary cause for divorce.”

If this is true, what the hell are Mac and I still doing together? And why are we so happy?

Our “conflict-resolution” goes something like this:

Me, in a horrid, critical tone: “Why do you [insert behavior that’s only annoying me because I’m overtired]? I mean how does that make sense to you? I don’t fucking get it. You make me insane. I can’t take this shit anymore.”

Him: “Whatever, Janelle. Go to bed.”

Me: “No, this isn’t because I’m tired. This is because you’ve got something wrong with you and I’m sick of it.”

Him:  “Then LEAVE.”

Me: “I would if we didn’t have these kids. Where the hell am I going to go now?”

Him, looking like he’s about the break my face: “I don’t know. Go anywhere. I can’t fucking stand being around you.”

Me: “I can’t stand you either! You have NO IDEA HOW MUCH IT SUCKS TO BE MARRIED TO YOU.”

Him: “I want to hit you in the face.”

Me: “Go ahead. Fuck you.”

And then he walks away and I chase him down because I don’t want to miss the opportunity to converse in this constructive manner.

Him: “Get away from me. I mean it.”

Me: “I can’t believe I have to deal with this shit for rest of my life.”

And with death glares, clinched fists and dark thoughts, we stomp off in different directions and slam a door or whatever. We go about our business, really fucking pissed, thinking we should probably divorce. About 8 to 12 minutes later one of us (usually whoever instigated the whole thing (WHAT? Why are you all looking at ME?) comes back around and says something totally unrelated, such as “How was Rocket’s parent-teacher conference?” or “Did you pay the Expedition payment?”

The other person answers. A couple minutes after that, the bigger asshole (no seriously, stop looking at me. You don’t know. You don’t LIVE HERE.) occasionally mumbles some sorry excuse for an apology, like  “Um, sorry for being a dick.”

And then, “I love you.”

And that’s it. That’s how it goes. We just drop it, until it happens again, AND IT ALWAYS HAPPENS AGAIN. Because seriously, after 12 years with somebody, the crap that still annoys you ain’t ever going away. You can talk about it “constructively” until you’re actually out of air, and every word on the topic has been uttered, and every approach has been tried, but seriously, if it hasn’t changed yet, it ain’t never changing. (Yes, I believe that sentence called for a double negative.)

For example, I will always be better at multi-tasking, at looking at a situation and seeing what needs to be done, at taking care of the twenty-seven thousand things that must be addressed in our day-to-day lives.

Mac will always be better at not being an overbearing asshole.

To each his own I suppose.

So basically they’ve lied to us again. They lied about adulthood (it really isn’t that fun). They lied about motherhood (one word: Babycenter). And now, they’ve lied about marriage, telling us that unless we sit down in a perfectly calm manner, thoughtfully “adapting” to one another, listening with the attention of a thousand Zen monks, our marriage will fail.

BULLSHIT.

As far as I can see it, marriage is messy. It’s ugly. It’s disheveled and weird and clunky. It’s a whole lot a of tenacity thrown in with bit of romance.

You know what it is? IT’S FUCKING WORK.

I am absolutely convinced that the only reason Mac and I are still together is because we stuck with one another with an insane, [irrational] bulldog vengeance. We gritted our teeth and dug them in and JUST WOULD NOT LET GO. We weren’t happy. We were so far from happy we made Misery look like a love story.

And we were dragged through the mud. We were towed across the coals. There were times so dark I thought I wouldn’t survive.

And there are still times I’d like to bust his gorgeous face across my knee.

But there’s never a time I regret standing in front of that courthouse 12 years ago, marrying a man I felt in the depth of my soul was the one for me, devoting myself to him without knowing how to do so, trusting something, something that told me it would be alright. And I’ve never regretted holding on, even when the only thing keeping me there was the fact that we had already started this life together, and our kids were just so beautiful, our family just so dear.

And as it turns out, we were just babies, trying to find our places in the world.

And when we finally did, it turns out they were right beside each other. I know that’s not everybody’s story. But it’s mine, so I’m telling it.

So screw those damn chick flicks. Screw the 50-year honeymoon bullshit. As far as I can tell, marriage is lived in the trenches, on the ground, in the mud. It’s built on the ruins of mistakes and struggle. But when it finds its footing, when it’s withstood all that crap, when it stands like the mightiest brick house you’ve ever seen, my god it’s lovely.

But they don’t tell us that shit in movies. It’s either 50-years of wild sex and unbridled joy — or it’s divorce.

I don’t buy it. I don’t buy any of it. I think there’s more to the story. At least there has been in mine.

So to my friends who’ve asked “How do you do it?”, I’ll tell ya all that I know (though let’s be honest, it isn’t much):

Marry somebody you love, then hang on like hell, with everything you’ve got, until one day you let go and to your surprise, you find you’re carrying him, and he’s carrying you – with big, easy open arms, and the most fucked-up perfect marriage you’ve ever seen.

And relax, you can do it all wrong…

until it’s all right.

If extended breastfeeding causes dependency, why do my babies keep weaning themselves before they’re two?

No really. I wanna know. I keep gettin’ gypped.

It appears Georgia is moving on from the nursing relationship (at 21 months).

And the thing is…I want to nurse her more. I want to keep this going. But she’s only vaguely interested and gives me a passing glance and asks for “gook” (milk) occasionally and I offer repeatedly…but it’s becoming clearer and clearer that she’s pretty much, well, “over it,” as they say.

WHY? WHHHHHHYYYYYYYY? I’m not ready.

Today in the grocery store parking lot I saw a woman sitting in the backseat with the door open, nursing her baby who was probably about 8 months old. And as they do at that age, the little one was just intent on it – pulling her nourishment with vigor and interest and focus. My toddler? Half-assed nursing at best. Any little something – any little noise – any action in the room – boom. she’s done. Off the lap.

“I got things to do and people to see. I’m out.”

And she takes off to terrorize the house and squeal and climb shit.

It probably has something to do with the fact that she takes a bottle because I went back to work when she was 4 months, and often I’m not here when she goes to bed. So it’s my fault. Obviously. I know that. I accept that.

But it still makes me a little sad, this moving on. The new stage. Clearly it’s fine. And yes, I know 21 months is a good, solid time to nurse your baby.

But she just seems so little still, just a little thing stompin’ around and raisin’ hell. Just a little thing exploring the world, checking it out, venturing into life with strong and sure, but tiny, vulnerable, and innocent steps. She’s little. I can enfold her in my arms. I can pull her into a ball against my chest.

She still smells like a baby.

People. She smells like a baby.

swoon.

But I’ve vowed to trust her and me and the process, and if she’s done, she’s done. I get to let go. I get to feel the pang of detachment and watch her walk along, in her new independence.

There are times as a mother when I have to put my money where my mouth is. Do I really believe in child-led weaning? Do I really believe my kids will let me know when they’re ready to move on? Well…do I or not?

Cause a part of me wants to fight her on it…wants to keep it going…wants to force the issue (not that you can “force” a baby to nurse) – but you know, ignore her [rather obvious] dismissal, pretend she still wants it — NOT LET GO.

But it’s a selfish move. It’s for me.  I want it. She is clearly quite undisturbed by the whole thing.

But when it gets down to it, I know my job is to provide a foundation, not BE the foundation. I build a solid ground upon which she can grow, in whatever direction that takes. I don’t get to determine HOW she grows. I don’t get to mold her into what I think she should be. She already is.

She is already complete. Everything she needs is within her. I nourish what’s there. I do my best to create a setting in which she can thrive. Find herself. Find herself.

Not find me.

It’s my job to find myself, and keep looking for me when I can’t see me — and if I ever, EVER start looking for “me” in my kids – looking for “me” in another individual, well then, I know I’m looking in the wrong place, expecting a child to make me whole, placing on them a responsibility for my well-being – demanding of them, taking away their freedom, making my existence their problem.

And I won’t do that.

So go, little Georgia. Go on, baby one.

I’m here when you need me. In whatever form that takes.

And I sure loved it while it lasted.

there she is

xo

“A Room of One’s Own”:

A Writing Retreat with Janelle Hanchett

October 22-28, 2024

Corsavy, French Pyrenees

“I was sitting on the couch, writing with pencil, trying to think up something and remembering what I just described. And I was – the tablet was that legal pad, you know, yellow with the lines, and I had a baby. My older son was barely walking, and he spit up on the tablet. And I was doing something really interesting, I think, with a sentence because I wrote around the puke…I figured I could always wipe that away, but I might not get that sentence again.”

– Toni Morrison

Before we get started with my novella, a note: I am offering two retreats this year in October, at the same retreat center. The difference between the two is that the one occurring first in October is created for writers with a current work in progress; it’s almost totally craft-focused. The retreat described on this page is created for everyone looking to reconnect with or establish a writing practice. It’s for exploration of creativity, for looking into our fears, for returning home with a clearer sense of what sustained creative work brings to our lives, and why it’s an endeavor worth pursuing. Now, welcome to my novella. 

***

In 2015, I held my first writing retreat with eight women. They were all from the first writing workshop I had ever taught, and we had been working together for a year.

In a word, it was magic. And you know how I feel about words like “it was magic.”

Only it was, in fact, magic.

The following year, I held my first retreat with 12 people who weren’t in that writing group, and it was, again, don’t make me say it.

We spent mornings on a sunny deck drinking coffee under the coastal redwoods, then headed off to the yurt with a roaring wood stove to discuss various aspects of the craft of writing. We ate lunch together at a massive, ancient wooden table, enjoying food prepared by my best friend, Sarah, who also happens to be a chef.

In the afternoons, we spread out around the retreat center and wrote or read or napped, sat in the hot tub or took a dip in the pool. In the evenings, we (well, they, since I don’t drink) sipped wine on the deck and after dinner, gathered around the enormous fireplace in the main ranch house to workshop one another’s writing.

We left as friends and better writers. And possibly crying.

These retreats have been transformative, and since we now live in the Netherlands, we figured we’d better take advantage of, well, Europe. So in 2021, we headed to southern France.

We hiked in the Pyrenees (look, I’m sorry the hike was longer than I thought it would be), got attacked by wild goats at lunch, recovered in ancient Roman baths deep in a valley under the soaring mountains. We visited the local market, laid down on the country road in the middle of the night to look at the stars, and ate croissants every morning from a local bakery.

In 2022 we went to a 10th-century castle in rural Catalunya. While there we learned that it was run by an

in fact built in the 900s lol

order of women for 100 years during the 11th century, which is absolutely unheard of. A whole community of women developed and thrived in the valley, until the Pope decided they had grown too powerful and shut down the order.

And when two guests (one of whom is my husband) literally heard women’s voices singing, the proprietor said “Oh, those are the women in the stones. They are happy you are here, a group of women writers.” I got chills again just now.

We walked to a very, very old hostel where the menu consisted of eight choices, handwritten, and every item came from the farmers in that very valley. We walked home at midnight under a night sky you wouldn’t believe.

We took a rack rail train into the Spanish Pyrenees and spent an afternoon at high-mountain lake with cafes and a very friendly Spanish dude renting little boats to paddle around in the sunshine. I can’t make this shit up.

And last year, we went to Tuscany. I AM NOT ABLE AT THIS MOMENT TO TALK ABOUT ITALY.

(It’s January in The Netherlands and I regret everything.)

And through it all we write, study writing, laugh with and learn from each other.

What I’m saying is this: My retreats are as much about living as they are about writing. They are about experiencing this world in a vivid and authentic way. They’re about just enough adventure (I do about 9 billion hours of research for our activities, but I have never been, so we are up for adventure). They are not curated perfection.

They are about being awake to this life, the people on this earth, the characters, the stories, the beauty and annoyance and wildness we encounter every day. How else can we write? How can we make art?

Somebody said writers are people who pay attention to things.

Real people, real food, real locations, real friendship.

And, at times, real wtf. We’ll pay attention, and we will remember.

In October 2024 we’re headed to a very special, very old farmhouse and retreat center set in one of the most beautiful places on earth: the Pyrenees. Oh, but we’re not just going to the mountains. We are in actually far east and WAY south, almost in Spain — so we will, my friends, for the first time, be taking a day trip to the fucking Mediterranean Sea.

I normally don’t tell people about the outing but this time, I had to. Have you ever been swimming in the Mediterranean? Felt the warmth of the water and the way the salt holds you at the surface, rocks you in the pure blue? It’s pretty awful.

I need this place, in my bones, right now. La Taillede is a farm originally built in the 1300s, set among chestnut, oak, ash and pine trees. Unblemished views and landscapes. That incredible green. Hiking straight from the house — there’s a swimming hole, and donkeys. A family-run farm, with an actual yurt — we finally have a yurt again!, La Taillede will embody everything we need: authenticity, comfort, astonishing beauty, astonishing realness.

We aren’t affected. We aren’t gold-trimmed.

But there are two hot tubs, a pool, a sauna and cold-plunge pool, sun deck, and fresh croissants and baguettes delivered daily. Did I mention donkeys?

Friends, here we fucking go.

Forest, streams, miles to wander. A wooden deck in the side of a hill on the property where you can do yoga in the mornings, read, or, and this is what I will definitely be doing: Lying on blankets at night to stargaze in the pitch dark. There’s a fire pit. We will definitely hang out by the fire.

Let’s go to the mountains.

Join us at October 22-28, 2024.

We will wake up, eat a lovely breakfast (and consume a lot of coffee and tea), then we’ll have 2.5 hours of craft workshops in the yurt –actual workshop space!

We will eat lunch, then have afternoons free for writing, exploring the area, sleeping, chatting. Staring off into the mountains.

You can hike to neighboring villages, take a swim if it’s warm enough, or find a private nook to write in. Most bedrooms have their own bathrooms, and there are lots of places for you to be alone to write or read and think.

In the evenings we’ll enjoy dinner prepared by Sarah with locally sourced ingredients. We will reconvene in the evening for discussions and/or workshop writing.

As always, my approach is this: I want us comfortable, content, friendly, mellow, and having A LOT of possibly raucous fun while also writing and seriously considering our relationship to writing.

Forgive the cliche but we work hard and play hard. I remind writers always that they are spending money on this—and so we shall write. I take my commitment to you very seriously and am honored you trust me as a teacher and mentor.

I built my writing career from 40 blog readers while raising three, then four kids. I published a book in 2018 and have a Master’s degree in English. I see writing in realistic terms and work from a place of pragmatism and honesty instead of airy declarations of the muse: I won’t insist you find “your jewel within” (simply because I don’t know what the fuck that means), but I will remind you how Toni Morrison wrote her first book on a yellow legal pad next to a toddler, who then vomited on it, and how she “wrote around the puke.”

I’m a write-around-the-puke kinda writer. But the thing is, in my opinion, that is the jewel, and it’s one I know well. It’s the one that has in fact changed my life.

We think. We discuss. We get deep into the grit of it. And then we pull back and enjoy our surroundings, food, each other, and life.

I want you to leave with a feeling of experiential transformation. As in, the experience itself adding as much to your writing as the workshops.

Here’s a sample daily schedule: 

This retreat is for everyone, wherever they are in relation to writing. From those who journal and are interested in developing a writing practice to published authors looking to get work done and reconnect to their own work and creative selves. 

We will examine the creative process from many angles, particularly addressing fear and the thought processes that block us from our work — or, perhaps better said, satisfying work. We will study the habits of other writers and I’ll share with you everything I know about “writing around the puke.” We will work hard on figuring out what brings you to the page and will keeps you there; we will help you define yourself as a creative person and writer, so you return home with a clearer sense of purpose and motivation.

While my other retreat is focused primarily on the craft of writing and created for those midway through a distinct work in progress, this workshop will address craft in a more universal way, intended for all levels of writers — those with a currently defined project and those without. (We’ll even work on helping you define a project for yourself!)

For example:

How do I get myself onto the page? My personality? (a discussion of voice)

How do I connect with an audience in a real and authentic way?

Why does my writing seem boring? How can I enliven it? 

What are the basic elements of storytelling?  

This is not a lecture/school retreat. This is a dynamic, fun, interactive time for you to get writing, explore your motivations, and go home with a clearer sense of yourself as a motherfucking writer. We are very serious and formal, though. So get ready for that. There is no swearing and no laughter. We all wear dinner jackets.

Sleeping Arrangements:

This retreat is open to 12 writers. There are many room and bed options, ranging from single to triple occupancy, twin to double or queen-sized beds. Below I have listed the room options and prices. If you’d like to sign up, just send the deposit, and you’ll hear from me within a few hours to hear your room preference. Or you can just email me.

Getting there:

Best to fly into Barcelona. From there, you’ll take a fast train to Figueres. And from there, our drivers will pick you up. This transportation is an additional cost of €170. We will be chartering mini-busses to and from Figueres, but this will all be discussed and arranged on a planning call once the retreat is filled. It always works out so smoothly, promise.

You can definitely rent a car with other writers if it’s cheaper, but given inflation and the cost of rental cars and fuel, I kinda doubt it will be. Not sure how aware you are of the inflation in western Europe, but holy shit. And the energy and fuel crisis. It’s fun.

Anyway the key point here is you will not be left alone to figure out how to get to a farm in the middle of the fucking Pyrenees, with only kind Spanish farmers to help you. Wait. Why does that sound fun.

We will have a Facebook group and then a WhatsApp group closer to the event. We will have planning calls and discuss all the things.

I truly hope you join us.

“A Room of One’s Own” 
A Writing Retreat in France with Janelle Hanchett

October 22-28, 2024

Cost: €2500-€2900  (can be paid in installments; please email me to discuss)

Anyway, here’s what that cost includes:

• • • • Six-night accommodations
      • All of your meals: Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, all prepared by Sarah, a professional chef. Healthy, expansive, and locally sourced.
      • 2.5-3 hours of writing workshops each morning (Again, if you’ve attended my retreats/workshops before, don’t worry, the content will be NEW.)
      • 1 hour of evening time together, either in a writing roundtable (where we receive feedback on work submitted), or have a discussion on writing process
      • Optional hikes, activities, massages and journeys into nearby villages (massages and some activities are an additional rate)
      • A full day outing. IT MAY INVOLVE THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA (any activities done here are included in your tuition)
      • Afternoons and evenings around free for writing, reading, staring into the distance. We often we end up hanging out, drinking wine (well, I don’t), listening to Mac and Sarah play guitar and sing. Somehow this seems to be everyone’s favorite feature of these retreats. DON’T WORRY I’M NOT OFFENDED

Please note that I honor room requests in order of signing up. If you have concerns and very strong preferences, please email me before paying the deposit so I can give you the most updated information. Otherwise, join us and know you’ll have a space in one of those two options. 

UPDATE 4/24/24: The retreat is full. If you’d like to be added to the waitlist, please email me asap. Thank you!

Single bed in large triple-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2500 (0 of 3 available)

Single bed in double-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2600 (0 of 6 available)

Queen bed in single-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2900 (0 of 1 available)

King bed in single-occupancy room, shared bathroom (with one other person): €2700 (0 of 2 available)

Note: These rooms involve terraces, sun decks, access to hot tubs, fireplaces, living spaces, small kitchens. They’re all fucking wonderful. If you have mobility issues, please discuss with me options and needs.

HOW TO JOIN US:

sold out

*REFUND POLICY: The €400 deposit is non-refundable. The full retreat amount will be due July 1, 2024. If you cannot attend the retreat after you’ve paid the remaining balance, I will refund you only if I can fill the spot, but I must be notified by August 1, 2024. I’m sorry this is so strict. I had a very questionable man a couple of years ago announce to me one week before the retreat that he wouldn’t be paying. Just flat out invented a story and expected to come anyway, for free. One of the most astonishing things I’ve ever experienced. I also once had three people cancel two weeks before the retreat (just bad luck). I try to keep my tuition rates relatively low, and part of that requires making sure all the spots are filled! Is this the longest refund policy ever, and the most ridiculous? I sure hope so. Anyway, by paying the deposit you agree to this policy. Thank you!

“Incorrigible Disturber of the Peace”:

A Writing Retreat with Janelle Hanchett

October 1-7, 2024

Corsavy, French Pyrenees

“The state of birth, suffering, love, and death are extreme states – extreme, universal, and inescapable. We all know this, but we would rather not know it. The artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge. It is for this reason that all societies have battled with the incorrigible disturber of the peace – the artist.”  

– James Baldwin

Before we get started with my novella, a note: I am offering two retreats this year in October, at the same retreat center. The difference between the two is that there retreat described on this page is created for writers with a current work in progress – discussions are primarily craft-focused. Of course we will discuss elements of process, fear, etc., but it is through the lens of craft, of the work itself. The retreat occurring later in October is process-focused, created for anyone looking to reconnect with or establish a writing practice. It’s for exploration of creativity, for looking into our fears, for returning home with a clearer sense of what sustained creative work brings to our lives, and why it’s an endeavor worth pursuing. Now, welcome to my novella. 

In 2015, I held my first writing retreat with eight women. They were all from the first writing workshop I had ever taught, and we had been working together for a year.

In a word, it was magic. And you know how I feel about words like “it was magic.”

Only it was, in fact, magic.

The following year, I held my first retreat with 12 people who weren’t in that writing group, and it was, again, don’t make me say it.

We spent mornings on a sunny deck drinking coffee under the coastal redwoods, then headed off to the yurt with a roaring wood stove to discuss various aspects of the craft of writing. We ate lunch together at a massive, ancient wooden table, enjoying food prepared by my best friend, Sarah, who also happens to be a chef.

In the afternoons, we spread out around the retreat center and wrote or read or napped, sat in the hot tub or took a dip in the pool. In the evenings, we (well, they, since I don’t drink) sipped wine on the deck and after dinner, gathered around the enormous fireplace in the main ranch house to workshop one another’s writing.

We left as friends and better writers. And possibly crying.

These retreats have been transformative, and since we now live in the Netherlands, we figured we’d better take advantage of, well, Europe. So in 2021, we headed to southern France.

We hiked in the Pyrenees (look, I’m sorry the hike was longer than I thought it would be), got attacked by wild goats at lunch, recovered in ancient Roman baths deep in a valley under the soaring mountains. We visited the local market, laid down on the country road in the middle of the night to look at the stars, and ate croissants every morning from a local bakery.

In 2022 we went to a 10th-century castle in rural Catalunya. While there we learned that it was run by an

in fact built in the 900s lol

order of women for 100 years during the 11th century, which is absolutely unheard of. A whole community of women developed and thrived in the valley, until the Pope decided they had grown too powerful and shut down the order.

And when two guests (one of whom is my husband) literally heard women’s voices singing, the proprietor said “Oh, those are the women in the stones. They are happy you are here, a group of women writers.” I got chills again just now.

We walked to a very, very old hostel where the menu consisted of eight choices, handwritten, and every item came from the farmers in that very valley. We walked home at midnight under a night sky you wouldn’t believe.

We took a rack rail train into the Spanish Pyrenees and spent an afternoon at high-mountain lake with cafes and a very friendly Spanish dude renting little boats to paddle around in the sunshine. I can’t make this shit up.

And last year, we went to Tuscany. I AM NOT ABLE AT THIS MOMENT TO TALK ABOUT ITALY.

(It’s January in The Netherlands and I regret everything.)

And through it all we write, study writing, laugh with and learn from each other.

What I’m saying is this: My retreats are as much about living as they are about writing. They are about experiencing this world in a vivid and authentic way. They’re about just enough adventure (I do about 9 billion hours of research for our activities, but I have never been, so we are up for adventure). They are not curated perfection.

They are about being awake to this life, the people on this earth, the characters, the stories, the beauty and annoyance and wildness we encounter every day. How else can we write? How can we make art?

Somebody said writers are people who pay attention to things.

Real people, real food, real locations, real friendship.

And, at times, real wtf. We’ll pay attention, and we will remember.

In October 2024 we’re headed to a very special, very old farmhouse and retreat center set in one of the most beautiful places on earth: the Pyrenees. Oh, but we’re not just going to the mountains. We are in actually far east and WAY south, almost in Spain — so we will, my friends, for the first time, be taking a day trip to the fucking Mediterranean Sea.

I normally don’t tell people about the outing but this time, I had to. Have you ever been swimming in the Mediterranean? Felt the warmth of the water and the way the salt holds you at the surface, rocks you in the pure blue? It’s pretty awful.

I need this place, in my bones, right now. La Taillede is a farm originally built in the 1300s, set among chestnut, oak, ash and pine trees. Unblemished views and landscapes. That incredible green. Hiking straight from the house — there’s a swimming hole, and donkeys. A family-run farm, with an actual yurt — we finally have a yurt again!, La Taillede will embody everything we need: authenticity, comfort, astonishing beauty, astonishing realness.

We aren’t affected. We aren’t gold-trimmed.

But there are two hot tubs, a pool, a sauna and cold-plunge pool, sun deck, and fresh croissants and baguettes delivered daily. Did I mention donkeys?

Friends, here we fucking go.

Forest, streams, miles to wander. A wooden deck in the side of a hill on the property where you can do yoga in the mornings, read, or, and this is what I will definitely be doing: Lying on blankets at night to stargaze in the pitch dark. There’s a fire pit. We will definitely hang out by the fire.

Let’s go to the mountains.

Join us at October 1-7, 2024.

We will wake up, eat a lovely breakfast (and consume a lot of coffee and tea), then we’ll have 2.5 hours of craft workshops in the yurt –actual workshop space!

We will eat lunch, then have afternoons free for writing, exploring the area, sleeping, chatting. Staring off into the mountains.

You can hike to neighboring villages, take a swim if it’s warm enough, or find a private nook to write in. Most bedrooms have their own bathrooms, and there are lots of places for you to be alone to write or read and think.

In the evenings we’ll enjoy dinner prepared by Sarah with locally sourced ingredients. We will reconvene in the evening for discussions and/or workshop writing.

As always, my approach is this: I want us comfortable, content, friendly, mellow, and having A LOT of possibly raucous fun while also writing and seriously considering our relationship to writing.

Forgive the cliche but we work hard and play hard. I remind writers always that they are spending money on this—and so we shall write. I take my commitment to you very seriously and am honored you trust me as a teacher and mentor.

I built my writing career from 40 blog readers while raising three, then four kids. I published a book in 2018 and have a Master’s degree in English. I see writing in realistic terms and work from a place of pragmatism and honesty instead of airy declarations of the muse: I won’t insist you find “your jewel within” (simply because I don’t know what the fuck that means), but I will remind you how Toni Morrison wrote her first book on a yellow legal pad next to a toddler, who then vomited on it, and how she “wrote around the puke.”

I’m a write-around-the-puke kinda writer. But the thing is, in my opinion, that is the jewel, and it’s one I know well. It’s the one that has in fact changed my life.

We think. We discuss. We get deep into the grit of it. And then we pull back and enjoy our surroundings, food, each other, and life.

I want you to leave with a feeling of experiential transformation. As in, the experience itself adding as much to your writing as the workshops.

Here’s a sample daily schedule: 

So, this retreat is for the writer looking to improve their craft, get writing done, and hang out in southern France (and a bit of Spain, let’s be real).

While we will talk about creative work generally, and focus some on fear and the thought processes that block us from writing, our main focus is on improving our skill in writing. That said, this is not a lecture/school course. This is a dynamic, fun, interactive time for you to hone your craft and learn how doing often affects thinking.

In other words, the act of writing often systematically deconstructs our fears about writing. I will explain this more, but for now, you’ll have to trust me.

This is why I focus mostly on craft. Because if we focus on becoming the best writers we can become, a lot of the mental bullshit will fall away. Or, perhaps better said, it simply becomes irrelevant.

Sleeping Arrangements:

This retreat is open to 12 writers. There are many room and bed options, ranging from single to triple occupancy, twin to double or queen-sized beds. Below I have listed the room options and prices, but once you send me the application and we’re good to go, I’ll ask you to choose a room. If you know immediately what you’d like, just let me know in the email and I’ll reserve it.

Getting there:

Best to fly into Barcelona. From there, you’ll take a fast train to Figueres. And from there, our drivers will pick you up. This transportation is an additional cost of €170. We will be chartering mini-busses to and from Figueres, but this will all be discussed and arranged on a planning call once the retreat is filled. It always works out so smoothly, promise.

You can definitely rent a car with other writers if it’s cheaper, but given inflation and the cost of rental cars and fuel, I kinda doubt it will be. Not sure how aware you are of the inflation in western Europe, but holy shit. And the energy and fuel crisis. It’s fun.

Anyway the key point here is you will not be left alone to figure out how to get to a farm in the middle of the fucking Pyrenees, with only kind Spanish farmers to help you. Wait. Why does that sound fun.

We will have a Facebook group and then a WhatsApp group closer to the event. We will have planning calls and discuss all the things.

I truly hope you join us.

“Incorrigible Disturber of Peace:” 
A Writing Retreat in France with Janelle Hanchett

October 1-7, 2024

Cost: €2500-€2850  (can be paid in installments; please email me to discuss)

Anyway, here’s what that cost includes:

• • • • Six-night accommodations
      • All of your meals: Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, all prepared by Sarah, a professional chef. Healthy, expansive, and locally sourced.
      • 2.5-3 hours of writing craft instruction each morning (Again, if you’ve attended my retreats/workshops before, don’t worry, the content will be NEW.)
      • 1 hour of evening time together, either in a writing roundtable (where we receive feedback on work submitted), or have a discussion on writing process
      • Optional hikes, yoga, and journeys into nearby villages
      • A full day outing. IT MAY INVOLVE THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA
      • Afternoons and evenings around free for writing, reading, staring into the distance. We often we end up hanging out, drinking wine (well, I don’t), listening to Mac and Sarah play guitar and sing. Somehow this seems to be everyone’s favorite feature of these retreats. DON’T WORRY I’M NOT OFFENDED.

Here are the rooms available. I cross them off as they fill but leave them here for my own bizarre, boring reasons.

Note: As of January 31, there is only one spot available, as indicated below: 

Single bed in large triple-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2500 (0 of 3 available)

Single bed in double-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2600 (1 of 6 available)

Queen bed in single-occupancy room with en suite bathroom: €2900 (0 available)

King bed in single-occupancy room, shared bathroom (with one other person): €2700 (0 of 2 available)

Note: These rooms involve terraces, sun decks, access to hot tubs, fireplaces, living spaces, small kitchens. They’re all fucking wonderful. If you have mobility issues, please discuss with me options and needs.

HOW TO JOIN US:

If you would like to join us in France, please apply by emailing me the following information:

• A bit about your writing life, and how this retreat fits into it.
• What are you working on? Or: what do you plan on working on at the retreat?
• A 20-page excerpt of your current project — can be disparate pieces. If you haven’t started the project yet, please just send 20-page writing sample.

*REFUND POLICY: The €400 deposit is non-refundable. The full retreat amount will be due July 1, 2024. If you cannot attend the retreat after you’ve paid the remaining balance, I will refund you if I can fill the spot, but I must be notified by July 1, 2024. I’m sorry this is so strict. I had a very questionable man a couple of years ago announce to me one week before the retreat that he wouldn’t be paying. Just flat out invented a story and expected to come anyway, for free. One of the most astonishing things I’ve ever experienced. I also once had three people cancel two weeks before the retreat (just bad luck). I try to keep my tuition rates relatively low, and part of that requires making sure all the spots are filled! Is this the longest refund policy ever, and the most ridiculous? I sure hope so. Anyway, by paying the deposit you agree to this policy. Thank you!