Writing

A Late Fall Writing Retreat

An inspiring trip, maybe.

Ginger Cook
3 min readNov 29, 2022

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When your husband is 7'9 but you only brought his workshirt to the cabin for pajamas. Photo by Olga Nayda on Unsplash

Do you want to guess how many half-written books I have lying in a wasteland somewhere? Probably hundreds. Simply tossed away, along with my old desktop computers from ages sixteen to thirty-eight.

Stories, perhaps best sellers, (right?!) were lost to the world of rubbish because I lacked the confidence to work harder on them. So, I tossed my junky computers, and sadly also ditched my words.

I’ve been working on writing a book again. This time I’m absolutely determined. I’m a writer. It’s what I’m meant to do. But at home, once I make it to four sentences — a dog barks, a kid texts, or I accidentally stumble upon an online sale.

Then my husband said these four sweet words to me:

Get the fuck out.

And he sent me far, far away to take a writing class for three days. No kids, no dogs, no appointments, no cooking. He’s a saint, by the way.

I’ve just settled in, and I’m in the most delightful spot with beautiful rolling hills and scenery. It’s a damn Hallmark movie setting, and precisely what I need to write with no interruptions.

I never go anywhere alone, because I’m the biggest wimp. How will I buy wine for myself or order something from a menu without my husband sitting next to me? Will I be able to walk into a store alone? We’ll see.

He did warn me about the drive here. I am deathly afraid of heights, and the roads were 6 million feet in the air, just waiting to crumble under the weight of my car. Curving, winding roads, the kind where you can’t see what’s ahead after 6 feet.

To prepare me, he sewed my butthole shut before I left. He said this would prevent me shitting myself and landing in a ravine. He also told me once I arrived, the concierge would remove the sewing with some tweezers to allow my bowels to flow freely once again.

After getting my key I leaned in slowly, lightly licked the ear of the guy at the front desk, and whispered, “Who do I talk to about the butthole stitch removal?”

After a lot of fuss, I realized my husband had lied about that part. We all had a good laugh, and I went to my room and used a bottle opener and a mirror. It did the trick.

Alas, here I am in my creative zone for the next three days. If you notice I’m not commenting on your stories, this is why. I haven’t left you, but I did promise a dear friend I would return with a novel better than The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

So, bitches, I got work to do.

And damn it, there’s a whirlpool tub in my room. I’ll have to ignore it unless my joints get sore.

I’ll catch up with you punks in three days.

GC out. ❤

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Ginger Cook

All the funny things please, they keep me from severe depression. If you like Pearl Jam and peanut butter, we might be soul mates.