The Middle Third: Group Retreats
Another round of praise for going away.
Before I was a professional writer, the idea of a writing residency sounded as magical and rarefied as going to Mars. I had read so many writers’ memoirs that included knowing mentions of Yaddo and MacDowell, places that I sort of knew existed, that I had heard mentioned by my peers and professors, but that seemed beyond reach, tucked away on their high hills in Tennessee and Vermont and upstate New York. The idea that a bunch of artists got together, wrote books, made paintings, drank, and cheated on their spouses while someone else cooked and took care of the dishes sounded so fantastical that it must be fake.
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