A letter from one creative to another: trusting the journey together

On solo retreats, unfinished novels, and returning to the stories (and paintings) that won’t let go

It was early evening when I stepped off the train and made my way toward the château in the beautiful Loire Valley of France.

I had spent three nights in Paris, but this was different. The air felt softer here. Roses spilled over stone walls, trees framed sweeping views of the countryside, and a handful of sheep grazed in the distance beyond the pool. Everything was quiet but alive.

My whole body exhaled.

This is what I’d been aching for.

Something shifted for me this spring.

I gave myself a gift I didn’t even know how much I needed—a solo writing retreat in France.

I’ve been meaning to share it with you for weeks now, but honestly, I kept putting it off.

Not because I didn’t want to talk about it—but because every time I think back to those days, something stirs in me. Gratitude, for sure. But also a kind of longing.

That retreat offered me something rare: stillness, space, and the reminder that creativity blooms when we slow down enough to really listen.

I’d searched for a quiet place to write—somewhere near the Angers train station, since I’d be heading next to my painting retreat about an hour away.

After an in-depth search on Google Maps, I stumbled upon the Château des Forges in the countryside outside of Angers. It looked too beautiful to be real. But it even had a restaurant on-site (I had a glass of wine and the same delicious quiche and salad every night—perfect).

Each morning, I had coffee on my balcony and wrote from 9 a.m. to noon.

Then I’d walk, rest, read by the pool, and often write again from 2 to 6 p.m.

That rhythm—slow but structured—completely nourished me.

It wasn’t always easy.

On day one, the words flowed.

On day two, I reread what I’d written and immediately thought: This isn’t any good. I should change the whole plot.

Sound familiar?

I doubted myself. I felt pressure to get it “right.”

But then I remembered how I work with my paintings.

When I feel stuck, I just begin—with color, with marks, with something small and intuitive. That’s how I find flow again.

So I did the same with my writing.

I kept going. I followed the scene, even when it veered off course.

And suddenly, I was sobbing—because what came out was something I hadn’t planned. It was something I needed to say.

Whether or not it stays in the novel, it mattered.

That’s the power of showing up for the process.

A few things I’d do differently next time:

• Spend less time in Paris, and give myself an extra full day at the château

• Bring more snacks

• Try to do this kind of retreat more often

Looking back, I see how deeply it fueled me—and how much I need more of that in my life.

Some other inspirations:

• Walks sparked new ideas. I didn’t push when I felt stuck—I just moved my body and let the ideas come.

• Solitude felt awkward at times, but it gave me purpose. I was alone, yes—but I had something to focus on.

• I wrote four chapters. Are they brilliant? Probably not. But they’re mine. And they’re a beginning.

• I kept a running list of ideas—little sparks from flower walks, poolside daydreams, overheard phrases, the staff at the château (one woman’s fabulous eyebrows made it into the novel).

Even the kitchen at the chateau became a full scene in the book.

That’s the magic: letting small, ordinary moments bloom into story.

And then, last weekend, I gave myself another kind of retreat—this time, much closer to home.

Just one day. But it surprised me how needed it was.

This retreat was very different.

My dear friend and mentor, Beth Kempton, led a virtual writing retreat called Salt + Sky as part of her SoulCircle community.

I didn’t have a word count goal or a rigid schedule this time.

Instead of sitting at my laptop, I went to the botanical gardens.

I wandered through the paths until I found a flower patch. I sat and listened to the suggested audio. I wrote longhand or spoke notes into my phone when the ideas came—and they did.

That’s when I do my best work:

When I let myself move from space to space and follow whatever thread feels alive.

That’s when my creativity flows.

One idea thread kept coming back to me. It’s one I simply cannot let go.

During my time in Paris, I stayed at a tiny boutique hotel.

I’d read The Midnight Library by Matt Haig years ago and had recently realized it might be a comp for my novel. So when I saw a copy in the hotel lobby, I took it as a sign.

I brought it up to my balcony—this narrow ledge with a view of Parisian rooftops and a sliver of the Eiffel Tower.

I opened to chapter one and… completely shut down.

Later, I told a friend that my inner critic had kicked in hard.

Told me my book would never be that good.

She reminded me, gently:

“You know it’s no good to compare your writing to someone else’s. You can’t possibly write like them—and you shouldn’t.”

Of course, I know this.

I teach this in my painting courses and retreats:

Your voice is needed. Your story matters.

Let it out. That’s when the magic happens.

But with my fiction, I still feel like an imposter sometimes.

Despite taking the Odyssey Writers Workshop, working with mentors, and having my book professionally edited, I’ve always worried it’s too weird.

(Which is exactly how I felt when I first started painting, too.)

Last weekend’s SoulCircle retreat felt like the perfect moment to return to my fiction—not the novel I started in France, but the one I’ve been working on for nearly twenty years.

The story about a woman who can step into her paintings.

The novel I once flew to LA to meet my dream agent for.

The one I’ve set aside, come back to, and now… can’t let go.

As part of last weekend’s retreat, Beth pulled an oracle card to answer the question: What is my work here?

The card said: Forge, Don’t Follow. Pave a new path. Be the leader you wish you had. (from The Starseed Oracle by Rebecca Campbell, Hay House).

And I felt it.

A call to trust myself.

To share the work.

To stop waiting.

My novel is full of fairytale magic and wild light—elements I believe we deeply need right now.

So I’m wondering:

Would you like to read it?

It’s finished. It’s been edited.

I’ve been sitting on it, waiting to send it to more agents. But during the retreat, I had the idea:

What if I shared the prologue with you here?

Would you enjoy that?

If so, let me know—by subscribing or replying with a comment.

I’d be so honored to bring this story to life with you.

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And I’ll leave you with this…

What has been nourishing you lately?

Is there something your heart has been quietly nudging you to begin—or return to?

What would it feel like to give yourself space—not for productivity, but for presence?

You don’t have to go to France to start.

Sometimes all it takes is a sketchbook, a quiet hour, and a little permission.

Sending so much love,

xo Juliette

P.S. Lately, I’ve been feeling called back to the basics in my paintings—just letting myself play with paint, follow color, and see where it leads. That same spirit is woven into all of my online courses, too. They’re not about getting it “right”—they’re about reconnecting with joy, trusting your creative voice, and finding your own rhythm. If you'd like to see more of what I teach, you can explore my painting courses and free resources here.

All photos and artwork by Juliette Crane

If you enjoyed this, please let me know by tapping the ❤️ at the top or bottom, leaving a comment, sharing it or by forwarding it on — thank you. We are in this together, and I’m so grateful to share this creative journey with you.