My French Writing Adventure

Reflections on two weeks of writing, cooking and taking pictures in Gascony

For years, I put it off.

The idea of taking two weeks to write—without meetings, client work, or the usual churn of busyness—felt indulgent. Would stepping away slow down my momentum? What if I spent two weeks staring at a blank page? What if I wasn't a writer at all?

But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that if I was ever going to finish this book, I needed space—not a stolen hour here or there, not a frantic weekend retreat, but real, uninterrupted time. So, in October, I took a deep breath and booked a creative residency with

Kate Hill

at Relais de Camont in Gascony, France.

It’s hard to take time for ourselves to work on the things that don’t just bring us joy but shape who we are and the impact we want to have on the world. Studies show that 80 percent of people think creativity is key to economic growth, but 75 percent of us feel pressure to be productive rather than creative—as if one takes away from the other. Additionally, 72 percent of us find inspiration in unexpected moments, encouraging us to seek new experiences that unlock ideas. With the world rapidly changing and pushing us to pivot constantly, time away provides the space to explore and reflect.

I’m grateful I took this leap—something I plan to do at least every other year, if not annually. Dedicating this time helped me accomplish work that a year of scattered efforts couldn’t. More importantly, it helped me clarify where I want to focus my energy.

The idea of a writing retreat had been on my mind since deciding to write a book about my story at the intersection of technology and politics over the last twenty years.

I discovered Kate and Camont through her Substack,

The Camont Journals with Kate Hill

, where she documents her love of French cooking. She recently serialized a memoir about her journeys living on a barge and traveling the world. I felt a connection to her, and for over a year, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to go to Camont.

For months, I was both excited and nervous. I struggled to get words on the page despite working with coaches, carving out weekends, and rethinking the book’s structure. I set myself a single goal: to finish the first draft over these two weeks, no matter how rough it might be.

Traveling to an unfamiliar place in another country can be nerve-wracking. Kate put me at ease by ensuring I had all the information I needed, but I was still anxious. The train ride from Paris to Agen was filled with excitement and anticipation. Words and ideas were already spilling out of me. When we pulled into Camont, I saw it was exactly as promised.

The garden embraced me, and calm washed over me. It was the kind of space I dreamed of having one day—flowers, herbs, fruit trees, and cozy nooks where time seemed to stretch. Antiques and garden tools, used for years, were tucked into corners, creating the kind of lived-in beauty you can’t design, only cultivate.

The kitchen was straight out of a coffee table book on French cooking. Camont is 300 years old, and Kate spent decades restoring it. Every detail, from the original tile floors to the well-worn cast iron pots, felt like an invitation to slow down and savor. It had everything a cook could want.

The kitchen table, nestled beside the wood stove, became my home base. Initially, I worried the chairs might be uncomfortable, but I settled in quickly. The fire provided constant companionship, and Kate, her dog Chica, and her cat Terre checked in occasionally. They ensured I had everything I needed while leaving me to work.

On Wednesday, we visited the farmers market. I managed to buy my supplies without speaking French, a small victory. The stalls overflowed with fresh bread, cheeses, meats, and vegetables. Meal planning wasn’t about recipes but discovery—seeing what called to me and building from there. We grabbed coffee and croissants, then returned to the farm.

Now, it was time to write.

I started with my college years because so much of what happened between 1999 and 2003 at the student newspaper shaped who I am today. My worries about writer’s block vanished. Each day, I wrote in two long sessions, three to four hours each. The words flowed.

Writing about 2011 to 2024 was a rollercoaster of emotions. After finishing my chapter on 2015, I went to bed feeling on top of the world—it had been one of my best years at Facebook. I woke up with a pit in my stomach. Was any of this worth reading? Was I writing something meaningful? And then came the most challenging years of my life.

I braced for the chapters on Facebook’s later years, expecting old wounds to reopen. But as I wrote, something surprising happened: I felt fine. I didn’t need to numb the memories with wine. I finished those chapters, and instead of feeling drained, I felt proud. I had faced it, processed it, and put it on the page.

After six days, I had written 30,000 words. I kept pushing through breaks, riding the momentum. Once I got past 2019, I could see the finish line. I couldn’t stop until it was done.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, a different creative spark reignited. A friend on Facebook posted a question: What childhood hobby would you love to do again? Without thinking, I answered—photography. I have always loved taking pictures. I picked up my phone and started taking photos in a place designed for them.

For days, I couldn’t stop. The light, the furniture, the books, the moss-covered garden—it was endless inspiration. I even used ChatGPT to refine my compositions, getting feedback on angles, styling, and framing. My visual brain woke up in a way it hadn’t in years.

By the second week, I sensed something shifting in me. I was sleeping better. I was calmer. Before leaving, I had asked ChatGPT to help me map out my perfect day at Camont based on my goals and what I loved. And I was living it. Mornings started with coffee by the fire. Terre came to say hello in search of scratches and milk, and the quiet hum of the world was still asleep. I wasn’t lonely; I was fulfilled.

And then, on one of the market days, Kate introduced me to a friend as a writer. I froze. Had she really called me that? The title felt foreign—like something I hadn’t yet earned. I brushed it off.

But later, at Sunday supper, another friend turned to me and asked, “So, Katie, you’re a writer?”

I hesitated. Was I? The instinct was to clarify, to add consultant, strategist, or anything else. But the question lingered in my mind. Had I been a writer all along and just not owned it?

That last Sunday night, I wrote the prologue, filled in a missing chapter—2009 to 2010—and finally compiled everything into one document—56,000 words, 180 pages. I sent it to my editor. I had done it.

As I packed to leave the following day, I realized something: I had come to France to finish the first draft of my book, but I left with something even more valuable—clarity, peace, and a new way of seeing myself, thanks to engaging with people who knew nothing of me except as a writer.

The time away allowed me to focus on an important project, embrace creativity, and understand how I want to spend my time. I realized I’m not just a consultant; I’m a writer, and it’s time to start owning that.

I won’t be putting off another retreat like this again.

Here’s a recap video with footage of the farm and the farmers’ markets!

NOTE: I used ChatGPT to help brainstorm and edit this piece.