Lunch was the ultimate spell. Everyone who ate Alex, the chef’s fish fingers with that mouth-watering white sauce was bound to never eat at the kafunda down the street again.

It’s one thing to call yourself a writer and never have anyone scrutinize your work. It’s another thing to tell yourself that you will go for a writers retreat and willingly have the best of the best in the writing industry, with all their red pens talk about your work. It’s an honor, a daunting one at that. But I did just that.

Thursday morning was nice and sunny; perfect beach weather. When I stepped onto the boat, I had apprehensions about so many things: Am I writer and what does that mean? Is my writing any good? Am I expected to write a book in four days? What If I’m the worst in the class? Will I be the youngest in the class? What is my style of writing? Can poetry count? What about script writing? What is my writing experience? Or, Do I have a story to tell? I tried to close out all these worries by focusing on the murky green water, then on the clouds, then on my journey companions but nothing worked.

Finally, I forced myself to come to terms with whom I was and how I wanted to this retreat-writing experience to shape me. I decided that 1. I am a writer, and 2. My work needs a critique. Once I confirmed these truths for myself my mind was immediately at ease. I hoped that the 8 other ladies whom I’d get to interact with over the weekend would be absolutely unforgiving in their critique and push me forward as a writer. Yikes, they were and it was exciting.

Jackee Batanda, our boisterous host welcomed us to the island with dancing cheer. I wanted to hush her and remind her that I’m only an amateur writer but I didn’t. I was being placed under a spell which I gladly accepted: She was dancing, the island was inviting with it’s ripened lemons, cool breeze, rocky walk way and the refreshing hot hand towels that greeted us at the entrance after an hours dry boat-ride. Pure heaven. Jackee had my attention. She could tell me to write a trilogy and I would as long as I could remain on the island.

Lunch was the ultimate spell. Everyone who ate Alex, the chef’s fish fingers with that mouth-watering white sauce was bound to never eat at the kafunda down the street again. We all ate in silent relish. We knew that the next few hours and days would be spent in deep thought and learning so don’t talk, just eat and eat slowly because there would be three courses. Plus, Jackee warned that she wouldn’t have anyone sleeping in her class. How could she put us through this delicious torture? I loved it. But as soon as our bodies were satisfied and our eyes had feasted on the islands beauties we settled for our first lesson: “Who are you? And what do you expect from this retreat? ”

No, I didn’t dare answer first. I waited to hear the other ladies announce how they had been writing for years and they just needed to “return to the basics” just to “remember how it all began”. They surprised me though. Each one was tackling a particular issue that they wanted to explore in writing. They had something to say and they wanted to learn the best way to say it. Issues like identity, patriotism, and death came up. One particular lady wanted to know why she should write and how it would help her. I felt welcome. Yes, they were all writers, some more experienced than others but all trying to grasp something through writing. I was encouraged and looked forward to the days to come.