A Late Fall Writing Retreat

An inspiring trip, maybe.

Ginger Cook
3 min readNov 29, 2022


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. ❤



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.