On this past weekend, Mid-Michigan RWA held its annual Retreat From Harsh Reality, my hands down favorite weekend of spring. On Friday morning, my friend and fellow romance writer Margo Hoornstra and I rode to the Bay Pointe Inn in Shelbyville, Michigan, in Majel, my trusty Ford Edge. Majel had a full tank of gas and had very recently visited a car wash to spruce up for the trip. I entered the Bay Pointe Inn’s address in Majel’s navigation system, and she got us there without breaking down or getting us lost. Good girl, Majel. I can always count on you.

The uneventful ride was a very auspicious beginning to a much-anticipated weekend of writing, learning, sharing, and having a darn good time with other writers who don’t bat an eye at our shared insanity. Guest author Katherine Ashe presented two excellent workshops. One helped us to explore why each of us writes. The other touched on writing and marketing the high concept novel. Great stuff! Ashe even took a personal interest in helping me hone the high concept pitch for my work in progress. Even more great stuff!!

During lunch, Margo realized that our Board of Directors had overlooked buying a gift of appreciation for our retreat chair. Yikes! As president this year, Margo couldn’t allow our Retreat Chair to go giftless and feel unappreciated. We decided to shop for the gift during the scheduled block of free time in the afternoon.

From that point on, our karma began to go south.

Margo went to the front desk and got a map from the desk clerk of the local area with store locations. The clerk told her the Family Dollar store around the corner from the local McDonald’s was the closest, about nine miles away. It was marked on the map the clerk gave Margo.

It probably comes as no surprise to anyone that we forgot the map in our room.

Unfortunately, we were already well on our way down the road when Margo realized we didn’t have the map with us. We remembered where the McDonald’s was—we bought lunch there—so we figured we could find the store without a map. We got to the McDonald’s intersection but didn’t see a dollar store of any kind from the intersection, so we kept on going. Just like the men we always chide, we didn’t stop to ask for directions. So embarrassing.

We didn’t remember the store’s name was Family Dollar. For some inexplicable reason we thought we were looking for a Dollar General store. Margo searched for the closest Dollar General on her iPhone and found one in the nearby town of Wayland.

Not so nearby, as it turned out. We followed endless twist and turn directions forever to Wayland and finally found the Dollar General.

It was about 4:45 p.m. when we took our treasures out to Majel and loaded them inside. We climbed in and fastened our seatbelts, ready to get back on the road to the retreat. I stepped on the brake and pressed the ignition button.

A curious and unexpected silence followed. Uh-Oh.

I tried it again. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

The readout on the dash chilled me to the bone. No key detected. Majel, please don’t fail me now.

I told myself there was no need to panic. This happened once before when the fob’s battery died and I knew exactly what to do. There is an alternative procedure to start the motor when the fob fails. I slid the fob into an aperture inside the center console. Confidently, I stepped on the brake and pushed the start button.

Again, a curious and unexpected silence followed. This isn’t funny, Majel.

I tried starting Majel again, and again, and again. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Don’t do this to me, Majel! Not here. Not now.

The chilling readout continued to reappear on the dash. No key detected.

Majel’s interior was unbearably hot from being parked out in the sun. We couldn’t lower the windows to let air in, and every time we opened the doors, the car alarm went off. Fortunately the alarm cancel button on the fob still worked. Whew!

I called MG, my go to car guy, who told me to do all the things I did already. Then he said the car would have to be towed. O joy. MG was out of town too and couldn’t come for me until morning. He said to leave my car in the parking lot and get a ride back to the inn.

It was then officially time to panic. Unbeknownst to Margo, she was to receive a special award on Saturday evening. Majel’s unwillingness to start put the presentation in jeopardy and my life in danger. If I couldn’t get Margo back to the retreat in time for her to be presented with the MMRWA Angel Award for Service, I was a dead woman. The girls in the chapter would undoubtedly kill me and probably torch Majel. I loathe Murphy’s Law.

While I was on the phone with MG, Margo had gone back into the Dollar General and asked if there was a Ford dealership in the area. She learned that the Ed Koehn dealership was less than a block away but that it closed at 3:00 p.m. on Saturday. It was already 5:00 p.m. but she got the number and called anyway. Good thing she did. Someone was still there!

Margo handed me her phone and I spoke to a young man named Jonathan. I explained our situation to him. We were a little over ninety minutes from home. The Edge didn’t detect my key fob and wouldn’t start. We were stranded in a parking lot when we should be at a writer’s retreat in Shelbyville. Help?

Jonathan said he was the only one still at the dealership. He told me he wasn’t a mechanic but would try to help. He came to the parking lot and took the fob back to the dealership to put a new battery in it. When he returned with it, I tried starting Majel again.

No joy.

I asked Jonathan if he would try. Maybe it would start for him. Men just seem to have a way with cars. It’s not fair, but there it is. Well, Majel didn’t start for him—not at first. Jonathan thought it might be a computer glitch. He pressed buttons on the fob in different sequences, and at last Majel started up! Her engine roared to life and her dash and touch screen lit up like Christmas lights. Yes!!!

Margo and I were overjoyed to say the least, and I was relieved to know that the girls in the chapter would probably let me live. We thanked Jonathan profusely and offered to pay him for his help but he refused. As luck would have it, he was a writer too, and he felt he had to help other writers in trouble. He did let each of us give him a big hug. He was our Knight in Shining Armor, no doubt. I asked for his card so I could write to his boss to let him know how helpful his special finance manager Jonathan Rodriguez was to us in our time of need.

On the drive back to the inn, Margo pondered over our misadventure and our salvation. It was fate, or maybe somebody up there was looking out for us. According to Margo, we were meant to forget to take the map with us. If we found the Family Dollar store to begin with, there would have been no dealership close by with someone to help us when the Edge failed to start. She was certain we were meant not to find the Family Dollar store in Shelbyville. We were meant to go all the way to the Dollar General in Wayland where there was a Ford Dealership a block away, where an employee who was also a writer stayed after hours, where said employee chose to answer the phone after hours and was willing to help us when my Ford Edge wouldn’t start. Hmmm…

Maybe Jonathan was actually our Knight in Shining Karma.

If you had to depart to read the 2014 Retreat post, welcome back and join this blog post in progress. Just kidding. I waited for you.

2015 marked Retreat’s 30th Anniversary, and we celebrated in style at the gorgeous Bay Pointe Inn on Gun Lake in Shelbyville, Michigan. For this milestone anniversary we needed a milestone guest author and speaker, and we got one. Our very special guest for 2015 was none other than Rita Clay Estrada, Romance Writers of America’s^® founding mother! The Rita, who started RWA^® under her own roof! The Rita that The Rita Award^® is named for! W00t to the nth degree!!!

At the Friday night Meet and Greet in the Inn’s Boathouse we got together with old friends and made new ones—including Rita—while we feasted on delectable hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, soft drinks, adult beverages, and mini-sized desserts. And we talked, and talked, and talked about everything. Children. Grandchildren. Husbands. Significant others. Day jobs. Writing. Mostly about writing. We wisely steered clear of politics.

On Saturday morning, we devoured the contents of a hearty and delicious buffet breakfast, and then it was on to the Fireside Room for the main event—the talk given by Rita Clay Estrada. Did I mention that she is RWA’s^® founding mother?

Rita did not disappoint. She held us in thrall with her fascinating story of how Romance Writers of America^® came to be. She recounted the early struggles she and a small group of romance writers endured with publishers, editors, and literary agents who were rude to them and too shortsighted to appreciate the appeal and profitability of romance novels, and she told of both past and recent legal battles with publishing houses. When publishing houses finally saw the light, they dictated a strict formula for the extent of sensuality in romance novels: two kisses and a grope. ::snicker, snort:: We all had a hearty laugh over that. She described RWA’s^® first conference, held in her home with the attending writers sleeping on the floor in their own sleeping bags on the floors of every room in her house.

Rita attributes RWA’s^® success to women’s long history of helping one another and working together in communities. As a professional writers’ association, RWA^® is unique in this respect. At our national conference and in our local chapters, RWA^® members support one another and cheer each other on. Published authors help unpublished authors to improve their writing and mentor them on the road to publishing success. No other writers’ organization does this, and no other writers’ organization has as many members—over 10,000 strong at last count—and RWA^® also has members in foreign countries.

She broke our hearts when she revealed that many early romance writers didn’t have a happily ever after of their own. Not all the husbands of married writers were pleased by their wives’ publishing success. In some cases, marriages ended in divorce. In other cases, writers suffered abuse at the hands of their husbands, and some writers paid the ultimate price for pursuing their dreams despite their husbands’ disapproval—their husbands murdered them.

Rita chronicled the progress made by romance writers through the years. She also described how romance is the only literary genre that can merge with other genres to create new subgenres, such as romantic suspense, science fiction and paranormal romance, historical romance, western romance, and so on.

Rita’s talk was poignant, amusing, encouraging and inspiring. She energized us all.

On Saturday night in the Boathouse, the champagne (and sparkling grape juice) flowed and helped to wash down the delectable anniversary cake. The slice I inhaled immediately attached itself to my hips and thighs. Undaunted, a little later on I shamelessly scored a plate of hors d’oeuvres that were leftover from Friday night’s Meet and Greet. I had lots of company doing so. Thank goodness for the Lazarus Connection. I may have burned up some of those calories laughing while they performed their hilarious song parodies. They had Rita in stitches too. They wrote a song parody just for her. She took videos of their performance.

We also celebrated a first sale, a Rita Award^® nomination, and a Golden Heart^® nomination, and bestowed the 2014 Angel Award for Service to fellow MMRWA Member and Retreat Chairwoman, Annie O’Rourke. It was a big and glorious night all around.

As I began writing this post, it was Sunday morning, and Retreat was winding down. After another huge buffet breakfast that will undoubtedly compromise our bathroom scales when we return home, we took our commemorative group photo with our special guest. Afterward, several of us lined up to have our pictures taken with Rita. Belatedly, I suggested charging five dollars a pop for a photo with Rita to raise money for our local chapter. Too belatedly. Drat. A potentially lucrative opportunity lost.

After the photo shoot, we gathered in small groups in the Inn’s Fireside Room socializing and networking. A few, like me, were seated in corners in smaller groups, silent and writing. We were participating in the Retreat’s first write-in.

What, you may ask, is a write-in? In some ways a write-in is sort of like a sit-in, except you write instead of protest and you sit on chairs instead of the floor. It lasts for two hours instead of until the police come and drag you off to jail, and you score a considerable word count instead of a criminal record.

After a brief chapter business meeting—at seven minutes it was one of the shortest on record—we said our goodbyes. I was having such a wonderful time I didn’t want to leave, but Retreat 2015 was over, and there was always next year. ;;sigh:: If only a year was shorter than 365 days.

To put our Retreat into perspective for the male of the species, Retreat is the romance writer’s equivalent of Deer Camp, except that we have the use of indoor plumbing and we bathe and change our underwear daily.

Like Deer Camp, Retreat has a very relaxed dress code. Jeans and sweatshirts are fine. In fact, we don’t even have to wear makeup or style our hair if we don’t feel like it—so long as we are okay with starring as the Bride of Frankenstein in a YouTube video surreptitiously recorded on someone’s smart phone.

And like Deer Camp, we drink at Retreat. The weekend starts with a cocktail reception in the resort and conference center pub on Friday evening and then moves to the meeting room the resort assigns to us in the evenings for the duration of Retreat. It is there that we stash the snacks and goodies we take from home to share. It’s also where we keep the adult beverages of various kinds—but not for very long. We are writers, after all.

Again, like Deer Camp, writers love to talk about hunting—for an agent to represent us or for an editor willing to buy and publish our manuscripts. We always invite a successful guest expert to speak to us about the wide range of techniques we can use to improve our writing skills, which in turn enhances our ability to stalk and bag our prey. Some in our group have been known to entertain us with riveting tales of the big New York City editors they almost bagged but who somehow got away. So sad. After hearing those sorrowful tales, we all feel the need to break out and consume the adult beverages.

See, what did I tell you? Just like Deer Camp—a kinder, gentler, cleaner Deer Camp.