My writing retreat provides a haven from the outside world. Filled with papers, calendars, reference books, manila folders, it extends a lifeline between me and the world in my novels. I sink into the worn, leather chair, its arms cracking in spots, and I survey the organized chaos. After traveling from classroom to classroom as a teacher, never knowing whether a desk was permanent or temporary, I find solace that my desk, my writing room, my laptop, will be here to greet me, rain or shine. On the far table, I see copyediting binders from the classes I have taken, a plot planner I use to for my current novel, a stack of French travel books and maps from my last trip to France. My scribbler’s notebooks lie askew on the neighboring chair—inside the pages lurk the contents of what new project? A new poetry collection? Some flash fiction? Thoughts and notations for yet another novel? The answer rests within this day, maybe tomorrow, and even better, next week.
--Gini Grossenbacher, M.Ed.
