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Imagine a place where time slows down, where the clamor of everyday life fades into the background, and all you can hear is the rhythmic tap of your keyboard. Here, your mind has the freedom to explore the depths of creativity that often lie dormant in the hustle and bustle of routine life.
Pack your Freewrite and an open mind — inspiration awaits at writing workshops and retreats.
If you’ve spent time in a writing community or around writers, you’ll have heard of (and maybe even attended) writers retreats and workshops.
In a profession that's often solo, community events like these are a central part of any writer’s education and inspiration. I would recommend going to them as often as possible.
While writing workshops are all unique, the main purpose of a workshop is instructional, and it usually focuses on a specific aspect of writing. It can be anything from building better characters to outlining your novel or critiquing your screenplay.
Workshops usually last anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days, and can be free or charge a price, often depending on the experience of the instructor.
In a workshop, you’ll generally get to spend dedicated time working on your project, whether it’s new or old, and find yourself in a structured learning environment.
One of my favorite workshops to teach is one in which I guide writers through building a tool kit for writing their upcoming novel. Writers arrive with an idea, and I walk them through building a journal to house that idea and feed off their inspirations for it.
Participants leave with a tool kit of bespoke resources, an outline, a synopsis, and more.
You can find workshops on just about any topic, but they are always hands-on in a very structured way.
Writing retreats can, and often do, include workshops, but it’s not necessary at every retreat. Writing retreats are generally designed as an oasis where you can get away from the rigors and distractions of your real life in order to focus on your writing and your craft.
Some writing retreats can be solo affairs, while others are organized with a group of writers. In larger groups, there are often workshops or classes scheduled throughout the retreat period, but at its core, a writing retreat is a place where you’re working on your own writing.
At group retreats, there is often also scheduled time dedicated to talking about writing craft, exchanging ideas, and drawing inspiration from a group of like-minded individuals.
Retreats are often a day to a few days long — sometimes longer! — and tend to cost more than simple workshops, especially if a full schedule of workshops and educated instructors are involved. Retreats are also often hosted in inspiring locations, though the location will affect the price.
So how do you find workshops and retreats to attend?
The first thing to do is take into account your budget and time allowance. Events near you will be cheaper to get to than a fanciful destination, so we suggest starting with your local writing groups.
In most geographic regions, there are organized groups for writers. For example, I’m part of the League of Utah Writers(since I live in Utah) and my local chapter is constantly letting me know about opportunities for workshops.
Your local library and nearby university English departments are also great resources for finding writing workshops.
National organizations, which are usually arranged by genre, often host workshops and conferences, as well. The Horror Writers Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association, Mystery Writers, and many others will have resources to help you find events relevant to your chosen genre.
You can also arrange your own retreat! I’ve occasionally spent weekends in a hotel room by myself trying to find my own oasis away from life while under the pressure of a deadline.
I’ve also booked cabins that can accommodate thirty people to spend a weekend with writing friends, just writing and talking craft. Yeah, it can be a pain to arrange a deposit and all the food for a crowd that big, but many hands make light work.
And I alwaysleave more creatively invigorated and with more work done than when I started.
Can't get away right now? Block out a day on your calendar to lock yourself in a room at home and write. Let your friends and family know that you won't be available, and give the whole day over to writing.
At the end of the day, that's what we're all working toward: more words on the page.
I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.
My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.
Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?
So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?
So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?
Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.
I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.
Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.
I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.
I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.
If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.
I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.
The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.
I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.
But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.
I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.
This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.
I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).
I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.
I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.
But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.
It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:
My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.
But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.
The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.
And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.
It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”
If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?
My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.
I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.
But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.
Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?
Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?
Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.
I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.
I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.
It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.
So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:
If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?
If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?
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