If you push a pen for a living, you are probably as surprised as I was to hear that anyone, anywhere, devotes themselves to writers. But then you haven't heard about the Ladies of Weymouth. A volunteer group, these dear and tender souls maintain the lushly manicured gardens and the antique-filled rooms of Weymouth. They host events and fundraisers to supply the writers' quarters of this southern mansion with fresh flowers, shelves full of books, and a bountifully equipped kitchen, study and library.

While I hadn't died and gone to heaven, as a Writer in Residence at Weymouth, I had certainly found a place designed to inspire and clear the decks -- I was certain the blocks I'd encountered with my new novel were about to melt away. Even fate and nature were in on the scheme: a fluke in the old house's electrical system meant that wireless was available only downstairs, in the ball room, so my addiction to checking email hourly was effectively nipped in the bud. And while the nearby lake and the quaint town of Southern Pines were both within walking distance, it was chilly and rainy -- perfect weather for staying in and working, right?

Perfect for some. But not, apparently, for my on-again, off-again muse (whom long ago, in the throes of angst and deep irony, I christened Constance). I found myself sitting determinedly at my laptop, waiting. And waiting. After the first day, I broke out the white chocolate; after two, I stopped showering and started sweating. On the third, I heard time's winged chariot revving its engine behind me. (I had signed on for only five days.) Desperate measures for desperate times: perhaps, I thought, Constance was an old fashioned girl and would prefer to be wooed by hand rather than computer. I was, after all, a guest in a house Thomas Wolfe himself had visited. In fact, the plaque on my door announced that I was staying in the Thomas Wolfe room. I didn't own a typewriter like Wolfe's, of course, but I had brought a tablet with me. Dutifully, I took it out and waited, pencil in hand, for free-written descriptions and dialogue to flow. I waited. And waited. By the fourth day, I was biting my nails, over-snacking, and completely demoralized. I went to check my email in the ball room.

That's where I met another, newly arrived Writer in  Residence (there are four bedrooms at Weymouth, with space for four lucky authors). She asked me which room I was in, and when I told her, she replied with delight, "Oh, you got the haunted room!"

"Haunted?" I inquired, not altogether as thrilled as she seemed to be. She told me that she had been coming to Weymouth for years, and that I was fortunate, indeed. Thomas Wolfe's ghost, she explained, was mischievous only to writers who didn't cotton to restless spirits. "He's always wonderful to people who aren't afraid of him," she assured me.

And I'm still at work. Now that I'm home, of course, there are other things competing for my attention: friends and phone calls and family -- all the luscious, messy business of life. But it doesn't matter, because the foundation's been laid, and I know I'm on the right track. Someone , you see, grabbed Constance by the scruff and shook poetry into her. She's on fire! In the wake of my first writer's retreat, then, I'm filled with relief and swamped with gratitude -- to a ghost. Thank you, Tom!!!