Notes from Kindling Words East Writing Retreat

the joy of living in a creative bubble for the weekend

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I found my creative joy again, or rather, it found me.

Last weekend, I attended the Kindling Words East retreat in Providence, Rhode Island for the first time. It’s a special retreat for published kidlit authors, illustrators, and editors to connect and rekindle the love of their craft in a business that can be rough on the creative soul.

Providence, RI

The retreat was like living inside a joyful bubble, surrounded by kind, creative folk at various levels in the industry, all wanting to connect and raise each other up with wisdom and inspiration.

I cannot share many specific details in this post. What happens at Kindling Words stays at Kindling Words…

No, really.

That’s one of the pledges we make as attendees. There’s also no pitching ideas allowed, and no photos posted online unless we get explicit permission—which was a joy in itself not to feel obligated to post on social media. In fact, my phone was in my bag most of the day except at night when I checked in with my husband. Getting off my phone while the U.S. political chaos unfolded in real time was a gift to my mental health. Instead, I had the luxury of three glorious days to unplug, refuel, and celebrate my creative muse again.

The retreat had an open, flexible schedule that changed each day based on attendees’ wants and needs. Regardless of their current career path in the industry, everyone was expected to be treated as equals. It was so refreshing to be in a non-competitive environment with other people who loved creating stories. I could ask any questions to any other published authors, illustrators, and editors and get answers, and they could do the same. We ate meals together in a ballroom, and I broke bread with so many amazing, down-to-earth, talented, accepting, kind, funny people.

My people. And I’ve missed that sense of community in my writing life since covid.

The retreat opened with a slideshow of attendees and their most recently published work, plus a photo of family or pets, whatever we wanted to share. It was incredible to realize that every single person in the room had created something cool and shared it with the world, including me.

The magical part of the retreat was the format. It was conversational, with everyone sharing and learning and giving advice at the same time. We were a bunch of creatives nerding out on creativity without judgment.

And there was a lot of play, including a quick game where illustrators and authors would get together and one would provide words and the illustrator would draw in one minute, and then the paper would be passed to the next group to continue the story. So I wrote:

And the illustrator drew (keeping their name anonymous):

Too adorable not to take a picture as a keepsake.

I will admit, it was really loud at times, and I have hearing loss that makes it difficult to understand conversations with a lot of background noise. Teaching has taught me to socialize, but as an introvert, I was struggling to maintain conversations without a timeout. Often, I retreated to my room to reset for a bit.

But even that was a joy.

yes, bear came to the retreat with me :)

Then on Saturday night in the ballroom, forty of us had the opportunity (first come, first serve out of 200 people?) to read up to 250 words from an unpublished work-in-progress or present 10 slides of artwork. As I listened to authors read future works, and viewed portfolio illustrations to grace future picture books, there was a growing awe that the moment was sacred. It became the room where it happened, so to speak.

At the nudge of a friend, I secured a spot and nervously read from the opening of THE DIGITAL OATH manuscript, since that opening was the easiest to adapt to their word count limit. My raw story had tension and momentum, and it called me back to the page. By reading it aloud, it ignited a spark. I stayed up late typing in my room, and in corners of the hotel the next day.

Something else rekindled inside me that weekend. Being with other creative people reminded me how to play and let joy back in.

I’ve been the responsible one since childhood, so it’s often hard for me to turn that off and let myself play without worrying. I tend to keep my guard up. If I’m irresponsible, even for a second, the world might come crashing down.

I had forgotten that joy doesn’t automatically lead to chaos, that the shoe doesn’t drop just because you celebrate. Play leads to joy, which leads to a sense of inner peace.

We need to honor the kid in us a little more and drop some of the baggage of adulthood.

Back at school on Monday felt surreal, though. It was a struggle to hold on to that newfound creative joy and softened outlook when confronted with the hardened real world.

But as I walked down the hallway that morning, I overheard a security team member mutter to herself, “I’m not gonna let them steal my smile.”

Her defiant tone surrounded my inspired energy like a force field.

After work, I bought myself a $10 bouquet of bright flowers and graced the center of my round kitchen table. A reminder that the present moment is sacred, and it should be celebrated.

I can fight to defend students, to defend books, and to defend democracy, but part of that fight as an author is also to cultivate and protect my creative joy.

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Thanks for reading! Keep spreading the word about The Reading Revolution—small things can have major long-term impact on future generations.