Writing

A Late Fall Writing Retreat

An inspiring trip, maybe.

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…