I wanted to get that out of the way first thing.

I feel sorry for MG having to put up with me, with late or no dinners, with unfolded laundry, with me staying up all night writing when I’m on a roll, and with coming home at day’s end to find me writing in my pajamas. Hair not combed. Teeth not brushed. Ugh.

Writers are eccentric. That’s the polite way of saying writers are nuts. We freely admit it because we cannot deny the obvious. We see the world differently than the rest of humanity, and our curiosity is endless. Everything is fodder for our stories, so don’t ever tell us your secrets. Be very careful what you say if one of us is within earshot. We are not above eavesdropping. We even have shirts we wear to warn you about us.

On behalf of all writers, I want to apologize for the faraway look in our eyes when you’re speaking to us. You’re correct to assume we’re not listening to you. We’re listening to voices you cannot hear—the voices in our heads, aka the characters we create. While you’re talking to us, we’re actually writing. When we sit at our computers, we’re merely transcribing what we already wrote mentally while not listening to you. [So sorry, MG.]

I’ve lost count of how many times I agreed to do something I had no interest in doing. I wasn’t paying attention to what my [husband, friend, neighbor—fill in the blank] was saying because my mind was on the manuscript I was writing. While I was in a world of my own making, the rest of me was on autopilot responding with “Uh-Huh” every so often, giving the appearance that I was all there and agreeing to whatever. For that inexcusable behavior, I deserved to suffer—and I did.

It gets worse. My mind also wanders to my work in progress during Sunday mass. I thought I was the only romance-writing reprobate who was going straight to hell when leaving this world. Thankfully, I was mistaken. I won’t be alone. A dear friend who shall remain nameless, and author Jennifer Probst (who confessed to the same sinful behavior in her book Write Naked), will join me in eternal damnation. Hell will never be the same.

Finally, for when I actually do listen to what you’re saying, I apologize for silently correcting your grammar and pronunciation.Yes, writers do that. We can’t help ourselves.

Despite all of the above, we fervently hope you have a forgiving nature and will continue to buy our books. Please?

I felt so sorry for those poor body parts. What have they ever done to invite such vilification? From my perspective, the obsession of so many writers and writing instructors aimed at preventing the use of common idioms and figures of speech is the equivalent of putting a straight jacket on the imagination of writers everywhere.

I blame it all on Philip K. Dick and his whimsical short satire titled The Eyes Have It. My theory is that a very no-nonsense writer or editor, who perhaps had a tenuous grasp of satire, actually took Dick’s send up seriously. Dick tells his tale from the point of view of a reader who takes a story’s idioms literally. He misinterprets commonly used idioms as actually meaning the body parts mentioned are detachable and therefore the story’s characters must belong to an invading alien race capable of disassembling its bodies.

The aforementioned humorless writer/editor must have taken The Eyes Have It so seriously that he/she began to spread the suspect Clarity in Writing Gospel of No Flying Body Parts Ever. Most writers never questioned its validity and followed it off the Clarity in Writing Cliff like literary lemmings, drowning their individual voices in the sea of conformity below.

Case in Point:

In her September 8, 2013 article Most Common Writing Mistakes: Animate Body Parts, in line with prevalent thought, K.M. Weiland introduces the topic thusly:

You might be writing a horror story and not even know it. Picture this: body parts scattered all over the room. We’re talking a regular massacre. But it gets worse. These aren’t just any ol’ body parts. They’re . . . aliiiiive!

Counterpoint:

In her article Breaking the Rules: In Defense of Flying Body Parts, Tami Cowden points out the following:

According to Merriam-Webster, an idiom is “an expression that cannot be understood from the means of its separate words.” There is absolutely nothing wrong with using one. Or even, in moderation, more than one. In fact, writers who write in English ought to have command of the language in all its richness.

I don’t hold with the rigid, inane, suffocating No Flying Body Parts Rule. I believe Tami Cowden has it right. Let me give you an example that should put the ridiculousness of this rule into perspective. Collectively, we are probably more familiar with the same song lyrics and titles rather than the same novels, so I’ll use two song titles to make my point.

“Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” is a 1967 single by Frankie Valli. The song was among Valli’s biggest hits, earning a gold record and reaching No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 for a week, stuck behind “Windy” by The Association.[1] It was co written by Bob Gaudio, a bandmate of Valli’s in The Four Seasons. It was Valli’s biggest solo hit until he hit #1 in 1974 with “My Eyes Adored You”.[2] “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” has had a major cultural impact, with hundreds of cover versions, many of which have been on the charts in different countries. The song is a staple of television and film soundtracks, even being featured as part of the plot of some films, such as when the lead characters sing or arrange their own version of the song. The Valli version was also used by NASA as a wake-up song for a mission of the Space Shuttle, on the anniversary of astronaut Christopher Ferguson.

Here is something for you to ponder. How successful do you believe those two recordings would  have been if they were titled “Can’t Take My Gaze Off You” and “My Gaze Adored You”?

I participated in a getaway with a group of writers this past weekend. Ours was a different kind of weekend getaway—a working weekend getaway. The getaway part involved removing ourselves from the typical household distractions writers—women writers in particular—encounter on a daily basis. We left our homes and their distractions behind beginning on a Friday afternoon, and then our “Write In” began.

There were twelve weekend warrior writers in all. Once we arrived at Lily Hill Farm Bed and Breakfast, our huge yet cozy retreat venue for the weekend, the first order of business involved setting our writing goals for the weekend. Everyone’s goals were posted; there would be accountability. We were there to write and write we did. We helped one another too, doing a bit of brainstorming here and there.

Everyone eschewed the formal and fashionable and adopted the casual and comfortable. Baggy clothes we would never wear in public and sneakers or fuzzy sleep socks and slippers were the order of the day.

Some of us didn’t bother to apply makeup—it was Halloween weekend, so no one was the least bit frightened. Some of us unapologetically sported bed hair in the morning. Some of us didn’t bother to take time out to shower when they could use the time to write instead.

We ate and drank whenever and whatever we wanted. We had no curfew. We wrote as much or as little as we were able, alone in our rooms or in the common areas beside someone else. Not once did we watch television. I doubt anyone missed it. I didn’t.

Our intrepid group got together at mealtime for food, fun, and fellowship. Trust me when I say we ate well. Too well. We all brought way too much food from home to share during the write in, all of it too delicious to pass up. [It’s been three days, and I still haven’t mustered the courage to step onto my bathroom scale.]

Our room assignments varied, as did the unique room layouts. A few had their own private rooms. Others of us had roommates. My roommate and I were in Treehouse 1, aptly named because the room was on the second floor up a long ::gasp:: seemingly endless flight of stairs. That may have been a good thing because going up and down those stairs was the only exercise we got all weekend, a break from sitting on our hind ends for hours while we wrote.

The write in was a huge success, at once energizing and relaxing, productive and fun. I’m delighted and proud to report that the members of our group either met their stated goals [I met mine!] or achieved at least seventy percent worth. All of us were sorry to see the weekend come to an end and wanted to stay longer. We enjoyed it so much that we decided to make it an annual event.

Given the laid back ambiance of our write in weekend, in many respects it strikes me that it could very well be the literary and slightly more refined equivalent of a hunter’s deer camp. Or not.

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.