Writer's Retreat

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

Dear Sarah,

I trust you’re keeping warm, your students are making progress, and you’re not bothered by the noise of rambunctious youth.

On my second writer’s retreat at the Benedictine Monastery in Erie—unlike the first retreat where people partied in the halls—silence prevailed. Mostly. The first night, I stayed up later than usual to join the group discussion in the garden room. A mistake. I slept fitfully and heard toilets flushing throughout the night. The monastery’s toilets roared like ocean waves crashing in a storm. Perhaps that’s why the decorator chose a bathroom sink shaped like a sea shell. The ocean theme didn’t continue for decorations, however. Polite signs took over.

Please do not remove make up with wash cloths or towels. Thank you!

Please Note: Our plumbing system can only handle toilet tissue. Do NOT flush other items.

During months when heat is off: Please leave the lid of the toilet seat up . . . prevent mold and mildew.

The signs entertained me while I brushed my teeth, but none reminded me of what I really needed—not to lock Donna out of the bathroom. I did that to her last year at a critical moment. She is a writing friend I meet at conferences and retreats. She’s writing a novel in verse for middle school students called I Hate Puppies. We shared the bathroom between our rooms again this year. Locking each other’s door signaled the room was occupied. This year I devised a plan. I locked both doors. When my mind focused on the next paragraph in my story, and I couldn’t get out of my locked bathroom door, I remembered I needed to unlock Donna’s door.

Love,

Janet

Dear Todd,

The last we talked, Spence and I were at Anita’s and you were on speaker phone, driving to set up a Walk to End Alzheimer’s. I wonder if you still have that job, a worthy cause.

When I attended a writer’s retreat in Erie with six other people the last weekend in January, Donna—a poet, story writer, and middle school teacher—stretched for yoga with me in the garden room. The first morning she needed to fetch her yoga mat from her car. While she did, I walked barefoot down the cool tile hall and onto the vcomfy carpet of the garden room. Dark engulfed me. The glass windows didn’t let in any light before the sun rose. My thigh bumped a hard object. Figuring I’d banged into a table, I set my computer down.

Clutching my phone, I backed to the doorway and felt along its edges. No light switches. Hoping not to stumble over a chair and break my puffaloo, I used the phone’s flashlight and inched along the walls until I found six switches on the far wall ten feet in from the hall. I flipped all the switches. The room—about the size of a basket ball court, though a fatter and shorter rectangle—lit up revealing plants, tables, sofas, and chairs. I set the computer on a chair.

Donna hustled in. “I forgot my car keys and had to go back to the room.” She unrolled her mat. “It’s frozen.” She stepped on the edges to flatten them. They crackled.

I booted up the computer and selected Adriene’s YouTube video “Detox Flow – 20-Minute Yoga Flow for Detox and Digestion.” Ready.

I imagine setting up for your events didn’t resemble our crazy procedure.

Love,

Janet

Dear Laura and Beau,

Give yourselves and your little Anduin hugs for me. I hear stories of folks gathering in your farm house kitchen for meals and celebrations. I can imagine how welcome they feel.

When I attended a writer’s retreat at the Mount Saint Benedict Monastery, I didn’t eat in the dining room with the nuns like other writers. Because of my food sensitivities, I’d packed my own meals. I ate alone in the guest kitchen and read The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman.

But like you at your house, people found me.

A high voice interrupted my cracker and tuna fish munching at lunch Friday. “Would you help me?” Dressed for Erie’s bitter outside cold, a young woman held a bag in each hand. “I can’t open my door.” She led me to a door with a colorful sign reading “Yvonne.”

Saturday, I slid my homemade chicken pot pie into the oven to reheat for supper, and a lady attending another retreat stopped in the doorway. “Do you know where garbage bags are?” She raised a pair of boots she clutched in her hand. “I don’t want to put them down on the floor.” I opened every drawer and cupboard door until I found a garbage bag for her.

When I ate the heated pie, Chris, a writer of short stories with intriguing twists, carried a small pizza box into the kitchen. He’d ordered the pizza because the dining hall offered only “so many choices for vegetarians.” He stuffed his leftover pizza into the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Labatt Blue. He sipped. I ate. We chatted about writing, our families, and life.

Other writers stopped by too. With all the visitors, the guest kitchen felt welcoming.

Love,

Janet

Dear Michael and Lisset,

I hope the school year is proceeding well for both of you. When I imagine you in your counseling offices, I visualize your desks much larger than the one I used for the writer’s retreat at the Mount Saint Benedict Monastery the end of January.

Though small, the desk proved serviceable with sufficient legroom and drawers on the side. I used the first drawer to store all the brochures the nuns spread across the top of the desk and the second to store my writing materials. That left the desktop clutter-free for my computer and small notebook. The only problem? I needed to grow three inches to reach the desk while sitting in the chair. I improvised. I pulled an extra blanket out of the closet, folded the blanket to fit on the seat, and plopped on top. Perfect. And comfy too.

During the retreat last year, I wrote for my nature short story collection and took frequent breaks to stare out the window at the snow covered trees in the courtyard. This year, I focused on a new collection about folks in my rural community. I rarely glanced outside. I wrote “A Bear Story” about wanting to encounter a bear so I would have a story to tell when my neighbors told theirs and “Christmas Stranger” about a man opening the door of my friend’s car where I waited—in the dark—for her to buy lettuce in the grocery store.

Before bed at the monastery, I sunk into a stuffed red chair and treated myself to reading a few chapters in Ariel Lawhon’s The Frozen River—an apt novel for this time of year. I hope you have time to relax in comfy chairs in the evenings at your house.

Love,

Janet

Dear Marlene,

I hope you did something special to celebrate your birthday on January 20.

Ten days later I indulged myself by attending a writer’s retreat at Mt. Saint Benedict in Erie. The writer in residence, Timons Esaias, wrote the panda pillow story I’d suggested for Seth.

Timons is as kind and helpful as that panda pillow. He held workshops in the monastery’s garden room. With spider plants and a Norfolk Island pine soaking up sunshine by the windows at his back, Timons sat at the head of the table. He stroked his silver beard, told stories, and led exercises—all the while sprinkling nuggets of wisdom for writers.

Sheila, a nurse who writes mysteries, sat across from me at the first workshop. Halfway through she needed to borrow a pen. She’d been writing so much that her new pen had run out of ink. Though she was in charge of hospitality, I didn’t see much of her. I’m not a night owl so skipped the late night pizza party. Because of my food sensitivities, I brought my own food instead of eating with the others in the dining room. Nor did I, like Sheila, respond to the bells ringing in the tower and attend mass with the nuns.

I saw more of Timons during two individual conferences. He offered advice on developing characters, eliminating needless words and—best of all—approaching my second collection of short stories. He told me to write one scene or one story. Don’t think about the whole book. “Do one thing at a time. Don’t worry. Just have fun.”

Good advice for life.

Love,

Janet