A Home-Made Writers’ Retreat

by Charles C. Cole

In October 2013, I was invited to a writers’ weekend retreat in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. From previous attendees, I had heard great things. One might successfully navigate through a particularly awkward chapter or see an inspirational perspective on a complicated protagonist’s backstory. And there would be dedicated quiet time to focus on continuing the tale, something many of us had difficulty finding with demanding “day jobs” and young children in the home.

After attending a few adult ed. seminars where we brought and shared our work, I was finally “in.” Twice a year, a retired friend, who had come from money, invited a small circle of local authors to his family’s huge summer camp. In the center of spacious woods, the place must have been almost twice as big as my humble pre-fab colonial house.

It wasn’t all readings and feedback in front of a roaring stone fireplace. We were free to break for cards or volleyball or croquet or just walk the nearby trails. We were also assigned organizing meals and dish-cleaning duty. And each night, we were encouraged to reflect in an official “guest registry,” adding personal thoughts and feelings, as well as the day’s highlights.

There was an almost electric buzz when a dozen friends returned from a spring pilgrimage. There had been drinking and pot and flirting and maybe more than flirting. The results: I saw engaging productions of original plays and read published stories from voices that were meant to sing. I was envious and, I felt, maybe on the cusp of deserving these common expressions of accolades. So I took the plunge.

To my dismay, of our limited list of invitees: one was hungover from attending a concert, one took sick, one stayed home to care for an ill toddler, one was double-booked with family obligations, and one was attending a distant wedding. Two friends simply lost their enthusiasm and declined. And then we were only three. I suspected “success” was based on a large collaborative pool of interested listeners, but I was going nonetheless.

Meals became eggs for breakfast, “Italian” sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner. And coffee. The host had recently given up drugs and alcohol due to a birthday wish from his college-age daughter. In the day, I wrote alone in the quiet garden house. After dark, we shared stories in front of the fire. I should note the cool place was not “winterized.” The host’s bedroom had its own fireplace. I chose to sleep on the floor before the fire rather than upstairs in a room that had more windows than walls.

The well-tended gravel driveway was long and wrapped around the expansive lawn. We were eating lunch at a picnic table when a police cruiser made an unexpected appearance. My host, Hinrich, was a male. The other guest, Lorimar, was a similar-aged female. At the time, they were both single. He made a funny face and stood.

“I didn’t think we were that loud, honestly,” he said. “Casper, you should have banged on the wall, old boy. You needn’t have called the police.”

Lorimar stood, seemingly outraged. “You dared me, pig! I never would have.” She stormed inside.

Hinrich, unimpressed and unapologetic, glanced at the remains of her sandwich on the table. “Think she’s done? I have no tolerance for temptation.” I honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking.

The cruiser stopped twenty feet away. As the uniformed driver stepped out, we approached. I let Hinrich take the lead.

“Hello, my friend. Nice wheels. Is there a problem?”

“A girl’s missing. Maybe you heard,” explained the officer.

“News to me. Writers’ retreat,” explained Hinrich. “All contact with the outside world is verboten.”

“So, nothing unusual? No strange vehicles? No screams?”

“Nein,” responded Hinrich. “Feel free to look.”

The policeman dismissed the idea with a casual wave. “I’m good.” He glanced up at the house.

“You sure?” asked Hinrich.

“My grandmother was a maid here a long time ago. She only had good things to say. Thank you for your time.” As he returned to his cruiser, Lori stepped back out with a fresh drink. She waved and smiled.

“I didn’t want to hide from the authorities,” she said through clenched teeth.

Hinrich reached for her lunch on the table, grabbed the remains of her pickle and took a loud bite. “The body remains undisturbed,” he said, sighing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Lori.

“He’s just being funny,” I said.

“You, pig,” said Lori. “You’re not even a good lover. Why do I do it?”

“Because my bedroom has a fireplace, of course.”

Lori raised an eyebrow. “What about the first time?”

“I was married. It was tantalizing taboo to a lapsed Catholic girl.”

“You’re so full of yourself. You were not my first affair, nor my last.”

“I sense a competition,” said Hinrich, smiling at me. “How many?”

“Lovers? None of your business.”

“Nein, you misunderstand. Affairs, of course.”

She relaxed. “Seven. What can I say? I’m a slut.”

“Seven for me as well. We are tied,” said Hinrich, rubbing his index finger over his lips. “But there’s still time. Ask me again in the spring.”

That night, before the roaring fire, we acted a scene from Hinrich’s newest play: three couples in one house, swapping lovers. The bastard had a symphonic way with the English language, even more remarkable since it wasn’t his first language.

My only comment worth sharing: “Why is there always a character called Hinrich in your plays?”

“Write what you know,” he blurted, knowing full well the rules included: “Listen. Don’t respond to criticism.”

In the morning, my wife emailed: “The cat has diarrhea. Can you leave early? If you watch the kids, I’ll go to the vet’s.”

I’ve heard the retreats still happen. And Hinrich is once more enjoying alcohol. I didn’t write in the guest registry the first two nights. In the morning, after saying my farewells, I managed: “To Hinrich for this opportunity, keep living the dream.”