Two years ago, I spent a week at a writer’s conference in Italy, just outside of Siena.  My first real venture into writer’s conference territory.  We made it a family affair with parents, mother-in-law, husband and three kids in tow.   Pulling our crew into the idyllic rustic farm and villa, Tenuta di Spannocchia, we had all the character makings of a liberal-arts version of National Lampoon’s European Vacation.  The scene looked film-worthy stunning of eliciting writer mojo. Our kids frolicked in the organic Tuscan farm fields.  They took tours of ancient breeds of Italian pigs and painted watercolors under a vine-trellised pergola.  Our parents learned to make pasta.  We befriended a cat named Tomato. I, on the other hand, sat with my notebook, in the writing circle of my dreams, feeling unworthy and petrified.  I met writers and professors of literature who had clearly logged many, many more hours and had given much more skin to the writing game than me. I drank in their wisdom and insights.  I drank my body weight in red wine.  I remained a grateful observer of my classmates’ bravery and brilliance but the red wine hadn’t brought me enough courage to put my own work out there. … Continue reading A Renaissance Mom’s Writing Retreat To Italy