The retreat itself was wonderful. There was a main lodge, a roomy house overlooking Lake Superior, where four writers in residence had bedrooms, and four writing sheds (I loved mine and still dream of having something like it again someday). If you got a bedroom overlooking the lake, your writing shed was in the woods, and if your bedroom overlooked the woods, your shed had a lake view. I had a lovely, roomy bedroom overlooking the lake.
A caretaker did the housework and bought groceries; you could put anything you wanted on a list in the kitchen, and it would appear in the fridge. Writers did their own cooking. Because writers had to share space during the day, silence was observed until 5 p.m. every day so as to keep the writers from falling into socializing instead of working. The caretaker also made sure there was always a fire laid in the fireplace, so you could have one whenever you wanted (and, this being the north shore of Lake Superior, you often did, even in July).
My four weeks there was a productive, peaceful time. I was either writing, reading, walking, or riding my bike to a nearby resort where I could use a public phone to call David. It was a gift I do indeed thank Joan Drury for.
However... friends who had been there warned me that Drury was a difficult person. She owned a home next door to the retreat, and they told me that if she was staying there, she would usually come for dinner at least once a week, and at these dinners she expected to be fawned over. Each one of them had a story of being insulted or offended in conversation with Drury. "Whatever you do," my friends said, "just don't have dinner with Joan."
For the first three weeks I was there, Drury wasn't. But the final week she was, and one night she did indeed come for dinner. I was mindful of my friends' warnings, but I was too curious not to attend the dinner.
As with so many things in life, I really should have listened to my friends. In the course of dinner, Drury told me that one project I was working on was of no interest to anyone and completely unpublishable, and that another project, which I had been most productive with during my stay, had been a waste of time that squandered the opportunity she had given me.
One of the the other writers who arrived that week was from Minneapolis, where Drury lived, and was a friend of hers. A semi-famous ex-girlfriend of mine had been involved with this writer's lover while on sabbatical in Minneapolis a couple of years earlier; this writer considered my ex to have "stolen" her lover and she had stopped talking to me once we had stumbled upon the connection in a getting-to-know-you conversation. Apparently she talked to Drury about it, because it amused Drury, during the dinner, to reveal my former relationship in an insulting way calculated to get a laugh at my expense.
Which is when I got up and went to my writing shed.
I don't know if Drury was universally nasty or if she picked a scapegoat at every meal, and I was just unlucky. Some of my friends thought she picked on women who weren't deferential or fawningly grateful enough; I don't really know, I only met her the once, and once was enough. The other three writers in residence at the time seemed to like her well enough, and stayed up late laughing and drinking with her in the living room of the lodge.
I just took a break, wanting to find something from the letters I wrote while I was there, and got sucked in. It's fascinating in a painful way; I was so early in my recovery from an anxiety disorder and it's all out there on the page, these long daily letters I wrote to (very patient) friends, full of crazy ups and downs. Nothing I'd really want to excerpt here. On the other hand, I had forgotten the good camaraderie I had with the other writers there; I always see myself alone in my memory but the letters reveal we were quite a social bunch. Also, I smuggled a hamster into my writing shed with me, and fed the local chipmunks her pellets and seed mix. They used to come and stare at me through my screen door if I hadn't put any out on the stoop, and there were several I knew by sight.
Anyway, I read this morning that the retreat is closing. While I don't share the article's enthusiasm for Joan Drury (if I have a "fairy godmother," I do so very much hope it's not her), on balance I think this is the passing of a good thing. I'm sorry it won't still be there for other women; I don't know of any other writing retreat that is both free and open to writers at all levels, and Drury is to be honored for that.
2 comments:
I'm a Norcrofter, too. When I went there (August 1996), I had been the first European to get the residence. As I was reading your description of Joan Drury's character I had the impression she was not the Joan Drury I met at Norcroft. I cannot remember she having treated any of the residents as it seems she treated you. I remember her as a wonderful kind woman. I am sorry your memories have this dark side.
I fisrt met Joan the day I arrived. She came back the following Friday afternoon and stayed there for dinner with the residents. After dinner we sat before the fireplace and talked to each other, and the residents read excerpts of what we had written during the week.
Having spent two weeks in Norcroft is one of the best things that have happened to me.
Joan was once touched by a comment another writer made about her size. That writer said Joan needed such a big body to carry her big heart. I found that to be true. I also found it true that her ego was over-sized.
Money, I think, does strange things to a person. Joan inherited her wealth and did a lot of good. She also opened a publishing company to publish her own works.
I was awed by my stay at Norcroft, but not in a altogether positive way. The sheer abundance there -- the endless food, the blackboard demands, the disparity between my life and that paradise - altered the focus I hoped to reserve for work.
Joan is a character, I think, and surely a three-dimensional one. I believe if she's to be admired for anything, it's Norcroft.
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