Retreat Review

Last weekend I attended a writing/meditation retreat at Shambhala Mountain Center.

It was a wonderful experience. I had my own room, which was clean and comfortable..

and the meals were generous and delicious with both vegetarian and carnivore options daily.

The retreat format was simple and consisted of meditation sessions...

followed by journaling and writing. We had an evening session where we shared our work, but for the most part we just meditated and wrote.


I'd be lying if I said I achieved a major writing breakthrough while I was there, but it was a fantastic little getaway. I especially enjoyed hiking up to the Great Stupa, which is a sort of Buddhist shrine.

I also liked watching the birds, which were a variety I hadn't ever seen before, and I made friends with a cat.

In sum, it was a peaceful weekend that left me buzzing for several days after returning to Houston. I've committed to making meditation a daily practice for thirty days, just to see what happens, and I've settled upon a new routine that loosely follows the format we followed during the retreat: meditate for fifteen minutes to clear the mind, then write. I write (or draw) for a minimum of thirty minutes with no internet, no distractions. After that, if I want to do something else, look something up, etc, I allow myself to open a web browser, but I'm trying hard to get out of the habit of giving in to "monkey mind" when it's time to create.

Has this helped any? Who knows? I have no new work to show for all this yet, with the exception of a cute little story I wrote during the retreat that I might shop around to some of the web zines. I feel happier though, and I'm spending less time pointlessly clicking links on the web and more time in productive activity. I feel more calm and I have a renewed sense of optimism.

I also want to go back to Shambhala Mountain Center. I can't emphasize enough the value of getting out of the old routine for a few days and doing something that's just for you. Find that special something, writer friends, whether it's a mountain or a beach, a Buddhist center or a Trappist monastery. Escape and shake yourself up a bit. You'll be glad you did!

Writing Retreat

Well, writer friends, off I go to Colorado for a relaxing weekend of nature, meditation, and writing! Hopefully I'll come back with new ideas and techniques to share with you. If not, it'll have been a pleasant weekend in the mountains, and who can argue with that?

Happy Writing!

Authentic Inspiration: A Weekend for Writers

Flash Fiction: Never on a Sunday

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another Vince story today - microfiction this time. Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday and Weekend Writer's Retreat for more fun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sorry, man, no can do."

Migo's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you talking about? You're the biggest money whore in town. This type of gig is right up your alley."

"I'm short-handed." Vince leaned back in his battered leather desk chair. "Fausto is injured, Ozone's out of town for a few days, and Speedball won't work Sundays."

"Don't tell me he's gone religious."

"No, nothing like that." Vince grimaced. "Just a phase he's going through, like last month when he thought Peru could read his mind and was transmitting his thoughts to ancient Apache deities."

Migo shook his head. "Where do you find them?"

"I always stumble upon them somehow. Speedball does good work, though."

"Except he's crazy as a rabid squirrel on meth."

Vince pulled open a drawer and drew out a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon. "We can't all be sane, and who'd want to be, anyway?" He poured a measure into a glass and pushed it across the desk. "Drink up, friend. And pick another date for your little gun-running operation. Any date, as long as it's not a Sunday."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For more stories about Vince, go here.

Flash Fiction: Sugar Pills

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's been a long time since we had a story about Vince, so enjoy! Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday and Weekend Writer's Retreat for more fun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sara dug through the canvas bag in exasperation. Was this his idea of a joke? “Homeopathic remedies?” She shoved the bag across the table. “I’m a real nurse, Vince, not some quack playing 'let’s pretend.'”

“Hey, it’s not like I work for a manufacturer, you know. When I find stuff, I bring it to you. If you can use it, great. If not, it isn’t like I paid any money for it.”

“And where’d you steal this particular batch of sugar pills?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” Sara sat down with a sigh. She had felt so optimistic when her brother told her that he had acquired a stash of medicine. Shortages were rife at the hospital, and a lot of her patients lacked the money or the clout to leverage a spot at the top of the waiting list. It was embarrassing that her brother was a gang leader, but he could sometimes get things a person of her lowly station couldn't afford, or even find. “I had so hoped for tetracycline. Or at least some vitamins.”

“I’m sorry.” He touched her hair. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

Vince examined her with wary eyes. “There’s someone in particular you’re thinking of.”

“A kid. The parents aren’t rich or important, so she’ll probably die.”

“And these cycling pills would help, if you had them?”

“Tetracycline. Yeah, it’s what the doctor prescribed, but you practically have to be El Duque to get any. There’s none anywhere in the city.”

“We’ll see about that.” Vince straightened his leather vest. “I’m working a deal in about an hour, but after that, I’ll make some inquiries. There’s a few guys who owe me favors.”

“And more than a few who you owe money,” she reminded him.

He smiled, and it was the same boyish grin Sara remembered from their childhood. Vince had done a lot bad things since their parents died, but his generosity and spark of mischief were unchanged.

“What’s money, anyway?” Vince said. “It’s just some crazy thing that we all agree on, but isn’t really important in its own right.” He started toward the door, then stopped and dug in his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He went back to her and slipped something into her hand. “Don’t go pawning it so you can buy stuff for your patients, okay?”

Sara examined the piece of polished amber on a chain.

“Better than that bag of useless stuff, right?”

To Sara, jewelry was about as useful as homeopathy. She would wear it for a little while, until Vince forgot about it, and by then maybe there would be antibiotics for sale again on the black market. She could pawn it then. “Sure,” she told him, returning his winsome smile. “It's much nicer than sugar pills.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For more stories about Vince, go here.

Flash Fiction: Fortune-Teller

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's been a long time since we had a story about Vince, so enjoy! Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday and Weekend Writer's Retreat for more fun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vince sipped his whiskey, feigning nonchalance as he watched his contact move away through the crowded barroom. Leon’s Social Club wasn’t much of a club and the leather-clad thugs who frequented it weren’t inclined to be social. This was a place for hiding out or making deals, and the deal Vince just made left him uneasy.

He waved the waitress over. “Two more.”

She glanced at the empty chair.

“They’re both for me. I don’t like wasting time.”

The girl shifted on her skinny legs, watching him now with pale, watery eyes.

“Are you going to get me my drinks, or what?”

She glanced over her shoulder to be sure the boss wasn’t watching, then leaned in close. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“What?”

“The lines in your palm predict the future. I know the guy you were talking with just now. He’s bad news.”

“So am I.”

“Just let me look, okay?” She slid into the seat across from him.

With a bemused grin, Vince gave her his hand. “Tell me how tomorrow night’s deal is going to go. If you say it’ll be good and you’re right, I’ll give you a cut.”

“Your hands don’t say those kinds of things.” She traced a line on his palm. “But you won’t get killed, at any rate. You’re going to have a very happy marriage with lots of kids and a long life.”

Vince jerked away from her. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He tossed back the rest of his drink and stood up. “I’m not the marrying kind. Any kids I have would know better than to call me daddy, and like hell I’m going to die in my bed, old and feeble.”

“But I saw—”

“Your own deluded imaginings.” He fumbled in his pocket and slapped a coin on the table. “Nice try, though, honey. I admire entrepreneurs.”

The girl waited until she could no longer see him in the smoky room, then picked up the coin and examined it. Pure silver. She dropped it in her pocket with a little smirk of satisfaction, then cleared the empty glasses and went to the next table. “Any of you boys ever had your fortune told?”