If you know me at all, you know how I love to get away for a writing retreat. Alone or with someone else; far away or close to home; couple of days or couple of weeks. Longer. I’ve traveled the world with my notebook in my suitcase; and taken my camp chair, a bottle of water, and an apple down the block to Balboa Park. I’ve retreated at spas, resorts, and cheap motels; on ships, trains, and in RVs; in tents, borrowed apartments, and others’ houses in home exchanges. I’ve packed up notebook and intention and gone to tropical islands, a cabin in the woods, and rented flats in riotous cities. I’ve gone to fishing camps, on a rafting trip, and more than a few jazz festivals where the music was my Muse. I’ve retreated in my living room, my bedroom, and my own back yard.