For the past four years, Barry and I have taken an annual winter writing retreat. It helps us reconnect with our writing projects—and with each other. We’ve come to really look forward to these.

This year, we chose a cute boutique hotel near the Indiana Dunes, one of our favorite places, though we usually visit in the summer. Typically, we rent an Airbnb, but last year I ended up cooking way too much. While I enjoyed that, this time I wanted more writing time.

The retreat came at just the right moment. I’ve been struggling with novel number three, while Barry is revising the novel he wrote during the pandemic. I’m a little jealous of how clean and disciplined his writing process is.

As for my novel—I’m happy with parts of it, but there are other parts that have completely perplexed me. It deals with three timelines, which might explain some of the difficulty I’ve been having.

Barry and I settled into our retreat routine easily: mornings spent writing in companionable silence in the glorious sunroom down the hall from our suite, where squirrels played in the trees, and, out the window, gently sloping hills. Afternoons were for reading or exploring, and evenings meant dining out. One night, we went to the best Italian place, where I had tagliatelle with buttered mushrooms.

I’d felt connected to my story, but there were parts I hadn’t quite managed to make any progress on. There’s one timeline—the most important one—that I had barely touched. I think I just didn’t know how to approach it. I figured this was the time to dive in. So, I set a timer for thirty minutes to focus (I’ve found the Pomodoro Method, which I first read about in Lauren Graham’s Talking as Fast as I Can, really works when it’s hard to get started).

We were into the second half hour of writing on an overcast day when it happened. The sunroom was warmed by light from a nearby lamp, I could’ve just sat there, gazing out the window, laughing at the bad weather while sipping tea and typing, but suddenly, my writing captivated me. Light academia music played in my AirPods. When the timer dinged, I forced myself to stop writing and sit back.

Barry asked how it had gone. My eyes filled. “It’s finally happening,” I said. The scene I’d been working on had finally come into view. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a great start. My novel had begun to bloom.

Since then, I’ve been inseparable from my novel. Even when I’m doing other things, it’s always in my mind. I’m rearranging pieces in my head, adding new scenes, thinking about it constantly. I’m impatient when doing almost anything that’s not writing. It’s the first time I’ve felt this way since I started the book.

I hope it continues.

Hooray for writing retreats.

What’s your favorite place to go for inspiration?