We are in our second day of writing retreat and we think we deserve great thumps of “good job, girls” on our backs. Because we have written, yes, and also because between the two of us, we’ve only bought one pound of fudge and two bottles of wine. No clothes. No sweatshirts proclaiming our whereabouts. We’ve eaten well—we always eat well—talked about everything from character development to eye shadow colors (neutrals work—who knew?), and slept well on the beds in the boutique hotel where we ended up staying. I am homesick, of course. It happens every time. Nan rolls her eyes when I admit it, but then she calls Jim,…