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By Bill McCann

Columnist

I’m recently back from a playwrights’ retreat where for ten days nobody said a word! The Stillwright Retreat held at Mt. Tabor on the grounds of the Dwelling Place monastery near Martin in Floyd County, Kentucky, was, for me, a time to reflect and write, to find a voice, and enjoy relaxing outdoors. And the secret to it all was the silence.

As you might imagine, I write a lot—columns for this paper, poems and papers for my classes at EKU, plays—radio and stage plays—for publication and production. Even before attending Stillwright the past 12 months had been productive: a play commissioned by Pikeville for their coming bicentennial about former Mayor William C. Hambley, 20-odd columns for the Sun, a few of which were published elsewhere, acceptance of a chapbook of flash fiction pieces, God Hired Gardeners, due out this fall. Well, you get the idea.

So I went to Martin wondering how the retreat might work, not knowing what to expect—other than that no one would speak. But of course, we talked.

Nearly all of our talking took place the first few hours of the first day and after 5 p.m. on the last day. In between those times, little was said. In my own case, when I spilled a glass of orange juice that flowed all over the end of the table one morning, I quietly whispered an apology. There may well have been other such exceptions. But otherwise: silence was the rule.

And silence was helpful to getting a lot of work accomplished. In ten days I managed to draft (not polish) a full-length historical play about the Hagan Gas Engine & Manufacturing Co., Inc. that was here in Winchester from about 1893 -1929, called “Wait! This Can’t Last,” as well as a ten-minute play, a five-minute play, several poems and numerous haiku. Probably a year’s worth of production; I was amazed at what was accomplished in a wordless environment.

Yet, truth be told, the Mt. Tabor retreat was not silent. The trees were alive with birds. A woodpecker was trying to take down trees all by itself—rat-a-tat-tatting constantly daily. Insects were buzzing and creeping around. A chainsaw roared. Leaves rustled. One day dripping and falling rain kept us close to buildings. The nuns drove up and down the drives causing rocks and pebbles to crunch under their car tires. And, twice a day, the monastery’s bell was rung to call the nuns to the chapel.

And, of course, we retreatants made noises too: chairs scraping back, doors opening and closing, scratches of pen and pencil on paper, setting objects down on tables and counters, tapping on laptops, scraping silverware on plates, turning on water, moving things or knocking over orange juice. Noise was everywhere.

At the same time though, silence prevailed, and in silence there was a lot that went unsaid, and questions went unasked. There was no need to ask where people were from, what they did for a living—we were all playwrights, though we played on different stages: NYC, New Mexico, Connecticut, New York state, and Kentucky. There was no need for the pleasantries that smooth relationships—how are you? may I help you? excuse me—but distract from, or perhaps even excuse not writing.

So in silence, I gained time to take in nature—something uncommon near Winchester’s railroad tracks—and ignore people. As a “people person,” this was an odd circumstance for me. But as the days went on I indeed grew to appreciate the value of silence in increasing productivity.

Stillwright is led by Erik Ehn, who teaches playwriting at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. This was the first Stillwright retreat held in Kentucky. Others have been held in New York, Texas, California and New Mexico. Though future retreats may be held in Kentucky, next year’s is scheduled for Albuquerque.

If you or anyone you know would like more information about Stillwright visit their website: https://www.stillwright.org. Or ff you’d like to schedule a retreat of your own at Mt. Tabor (silent or otherwise) visit www.mtabor.com.