Dear Patrick,
I hope you’re warm and cozy. When I was at Mount Saint Benedict Monastery for a writer’s retreat, I thought of you—tall, comforting, and a reliable support for your youngsters.
In the long hall that led to room 12 where I stayed, I met Todd—the tall, welcoming, Area 1 Pennwriters Representative. He paused on his mission to find a coffee pot for the group. Still bundled for the drive in frigid temperatures, I explained my plans for the weekend. I had an arc for my second short story collection, had polished two stories, and had ideas for a couple of stories to write. But could I recharge and find the energy I had for my last collection? His broad smile set the tone for the weekend. “See, you’re excited about the stories already.”
Later, I hustled down the silent hall for a meeting. Sudden acceleration almost knocked me off balance because the speed wasn’t appropriate for me, an old lady with wibble-wobbles, on the ramp at the end of the hall. I didn’t hustle after that. But other problems arose.
Mike, another tall, kind writer, and I walked back from a meeting together. We discussed the no-nos of writing stage directions instead of showing. My shoes squeaked. Loudly. Embarrassed, I said, “I can’t squeak up on anyone.” He laughed at the joke your grandpa would’ve approved. When I walked in the hall, I blushed because everyone had to know who was passing their door.
The last day, I met Todd, wheeling his gear down the hall. He, a night owl, had accomplished wonders—from reading through of his finished Cereal Gang novel to putting out a newsletter. Not a night owl, I’d written two stories and left the retreat recharged.
Love,
Janet
