We've all done drawings representing our understanding of the plots of the other stories. I look at the drawings of my story and realize that everyone has represented the villain of my story as a monster with big ears and fangs, but that wasn't my intention. It was supposed to be a really badly-behaved child. I mentioned that to someone in the group and every said "Oh, yeah! That works too!"
Everyone is in one bedroom of the house we're using for the retreat, and they're all just hanging out, unpacking, getting their stuff together. I walk out into the dining room and realize that this is my parents' house. They've rented out their house for the retreat, but they're still staying there.
I had left the pages of the story I've been working on spread across the kitchen table so that I could see all of it as I was editing, but my mother had swept them into a pile and sort of tossed them aside. I asked her about it, and she said that she was trying to make room for "the writers." I started yelling at her, asking her what the hell she thought I was doing there, and she just sort of rolled her eyes at me.
It suddenly occured to me that I didn't have to be there. I wasn't going to be able to get anything done at my parents' house where they didn't take me seriously and even the other writers at the conference couldn't understand what I was trying to do. I realized that I have a husband and a house and that I could just go home and everything would be fine if I left. I cussed out my parents, telling them that the biggest reason I hadn't made it as an author was because they had actively discouraged me, denigrating my ambition my whole life. I told them that I hated them, and that I would be an author despite them and that when I had achieved some level of recognition, I would never acknowledge them because they didn't deserve it.
I woke up wondering how much of this feeling is real, and how much of it is just me being angry at myself for not doing enough to get my writing out lately.