A Late Fall Writing Retreat
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. ❤