Chances are if you're a millennial, you likely have a friend who claims to be a "writer," and is just waiting until they can finish up that pesky novel so things will actually feel legitimate. For those I know, I am that "writer" friend, except I've actually finished drafts of numerous novels. I just haven't done anything with them. This summer, I was determined to at least try and change that. That's why I made the decision to send myself on a writing retreat.

I went out to a cottage on the Connecticut shoreline where there was no Internet, no cable, and very little cell phone reception. It was exactly the place I needed to get away from the distractions from everything else that had been plaguing my attempts at getting anything done while I was at home.

Now, writing retreats are a real thing and occur in all sorts of cool places all over the world (think islands off the coast of Ireland, the deepest woods of Peru, and small apartments in Florence, Italy). However, my decision to do this came up a little too late to sign up for something formal, and the $2,000 average price tag was a tad above my budget. So I made up my own, setting rules and regulations for myself as there would be at a retreat. Everyday, I had to read at least 150 pages (I'm a notoriously slow reader), write at least one chapter in my latest novel, and spend my extra 2-3 hours of relaxing time thinking about stories and "spending time" with my characters. I also limited my indoor and cell phone time.

Let me tell you, every single minute couldn't have been more worth it.

I'd been finding myself blocked with my work while I was cooped up in my Manhattan apartment, blasting Vampire Weekend and eating cheese sticks until I had something else I had to do. That all floated away at the cottage. Looking out at the Long Island Sound, I could suddenly hear everything my characters had to say. I could see them moving around their settings, interacting with each other, and doing things that they had never been able to do in the crowded headspace of my life at home.

Okay, I might sound a little nutty, but that's also how the brain of a writer works. After a week, I came home with my fingers being a little sore, my body a little bug bitten from staying outside too late because it was the best place to work, and happier than I've been with my writing in a very long time. And while I know I am now back at work and real life, constantly distracted with something else to do, I can also remind myself of that wonderful space I was in. It forces me to give up one love for another sometimes, but now they're all getting more attention, in general.

Writing is often a career path where I find many people rolling their eyes at me because the seriousness and the hard work that goes into it. Even being a writer myself, sometimes I forget about the difficulties of the craft, and while this week reinforced that for me, it also reminded me how much I love everything about it and can't imagine myself doing anything else. I'm not sure if there's an equivalent for every career out there, but I do know everyone deserves to be able to fall in love with what they do all over again in the way I did over that week.