Lakeside Writers' Retreat

The house sits amidst the trees and looks southwest over the calm lake. Ample windows on both levels give a sense of space and contact with the wildness of the landscape. The wildness is cultivated, like an English cottage garden, strewn with huge boulders broken off from the granite slabs of the Canadian Shield, decorated with folk art, and covered underfoot with a soft, cool floor of creeping thyme growing over the stepping stones fashioned out of cut logs from the felled birch tree.

Each writer has her own bedroom and license to wander freely throughout the house and the property. She can find a quiet corner in the little nook off the dining room or recline in the la-z-boy with her laptop. Maybe there is some soft jazz grooving in the background. Or silence. She might meander along the road, seekng inspiration in the wild raspberries eaten straight from the bush. Or float along on her back in the lake, staring up at the cloud animals drifting by across the brilliant blue sky. And they write when they want to write, read when they want to read, do nothing when they want to do nothing, all day long. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.

In the evening, they come together for a sundowner -- cosmopolitan's perhaps? And then they all chip in to prepare a simple meal (why am I imagining baguettes and cheese, olives and fresh field tomatoes?). It's time for wine, each has brought her favourite bottle. And for readings -- they take turns reading -- from the day's production or from something special that they chose just for this occasion, to share with the women who understand what they are trying to do and why they want this so much.

And then maybe they play Scattergories.

And in the night sky the stars twinkle more brightly than they ever have and the moon hangs large and smiling over the lake.