The girls planned a New York Broadway vacation and invited their parents. But we can't leave Elliot, so I volunteered to stay behind. Tom works hard. He deserves a four-day getaway.
And an empty house meant a place for a writer's retreat.
We had thought we wouldn't have another one before next year, but when I realized this could work, we went full tilt on planning. There was an agenda, assignments for tasks and food, a Secret Santa exchange, and a call out for blow-up mattresses. All I had to do, besides my workshops, was clean and rearrange some furniture in the Steelers room for the air beds. Oh, and decorate for Christmas in November.
Them: "You'll put up a tree, right?"
Me: "I will not. That's way too early because we don't do fake Christmas trees. But I have a pitiful fake tree in the corner of my living room with lights on it and a couple of ornaments left over from Christmas 2023."
Them: "We should decorate it with pictures of sexy men."
Well, that I could do.
I used pictures from my Daily Hunk calendar and Christmas ribbon, wrapping the base with holiday paper. It was a hit, although my Walmart guy wanted to know where his pic was on the tree.
One by one, writers arrived, and inch by inch, my refrigerator filled, the kitchen table grew crowded, and the countertops disappeared. We were not going to starve, that was for sure.
Three of us had bedrooms. The others were on blow-up mattresses and my futon in the Steelers room. On Friday, we celebrated Christmas. We officially formed our group on Saturday, opened social media and email accounts, and held workshops. Two of us are football fans, so we had the Redzone running in the background on Sunday while we worked. We ate from sunrise to bedtime, and cocktails flowed. Sleep was minimal.
There is something about finding your people that makes the future brighter. That it came at the end of the year?
That's a sign.
2024 is the year I make this a career!
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