A Writer’s Retreat

With the soft strains of WQXR to keep me company, I followed Maine’s coastal Route 1 north, making my way once again to Campobello Island, New Brunswick, in Canada. My last brief visit to the island, home of the historic Roosevelt family summer compound, felt cut short and left me with a longing to return. This time I had a purpose: to work on my new book for a few days in quiet and solitude.

The skies were dark when I arrived, with a light rain that threatened to turn into something heavier. For what I had come to do, it was just about perfect. Hidden away off Route 774 on Friars Bay, behind a thick patch of berry bushes, was a narrow path leading to my small rental cottage. It was more charming than the pictures online let on, built in the mid 1800s, with clapboard siding and a view of the water. It was an ideal writer’s retreat: remote enough that I could disappear for a few days and, more importantly, go by my own schedule rather than the dictates of the office. I could get up early and spend long mornings and afternoons working out the lives of the two young characters at the center of the book.

I brought all the essentials to the cottage: a ream of paper and my portable Smith Corona typewriter. I was ready to get started -- or so I thought.

First, I needed dinner.

I was told by the homeowner there was a restaurant at the end of the path through the woods, which sounded easy enough. I walked over only to find the doors locked and a weathered sign explaining why: closed Sunday. With limited cell service, Siri was not going to be much help either. By now, in late August, with school starting again on the mainland, Campobello had become very quiet. Most of the summer visitors were gone. A few stragglers remained, perhaps unwilling to admit that summer was beginning to wind down. No one was around to point me in the right direction.

Finally, a neighbor out walking came to the rescue and suggested the island’s general store, which turned out to be as useful for information as it was for groceries. I stocked up on breakfast food and learned that my best prospect for dinner was the dining room at the public golf course. That discovery was enough to get me through the next few days.

The mornings have settled into a good routine. I get up early to dark skies, prepare coffee—after figuring out how the antiquated coffee maker works—and turn on WQXR. Then I sit down at the Smith Corona and write.

My goal for the trip was 50 pages of narrative, and I am nearly there. Outside, there is still no sun. It is gray, damp, and fairly dismal, which may not be much of an advertisement for Campobello but happens to be excellent writing weather.

So, for the moment, I am hoping the drizzle holds out a little longer. A few more days of this and, with luck, a few more pages. Then I am off to my camp on East Grand Lake, where I will be very happy to be around friends and family again.