By Nick Barnicle

One more deadline, one more blank page, one more dusk turned to dark as I sat listening to The Band waltz away the hours. I was on a 21st century treasure hunt for a story. Buzzing around the internet looking for something that hadn’t been done, the exotic, the untamed, or at least something that could passably be describe as “groundbreaking.” Sometime after midnight, in the dark recesses of the internet, I found my story: the Washington Romance Writers’ annual retreat to be held at the historic Hilltop House Hotel in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia.
          Romance Writers of America (RWA), of which the Washington Romance Writers (WRW) are a chapter, consists of 9,500 people who consider themselves writers of a genre that makes over one billion dollars per year in sales. As one of the 144 affiliate chapters of RWA, the roughly 240-member Washington, DC area group is but a spit in the ocean of romantic fiction. A genre that makes up 39.3% of all fiction sold. But with the possibility of meeting authors of titles such as A Passionate Endeavor, Manhandling, and How to Seduce a Duke the 60-some-odd mile journey seemed more than worth it. Finally, I could confront the authors of books that portrayed brawny men and swollen breasts so prominently on their covers and had stared out at me from grocery store checkout lines and the magazine racks of doctors’ offices and emergency rooms.
     The RWA claims on its website “ Two basic elements comprise every romance novel: a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.” And so it was, having researched the retreat and the area, purchased a tape-recorder, and taken the truck to be serviced, I was off to the land of John Brown’s raid in search of my own emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.
     With the iPod on shuffle I made my way from the Nation’s Capital north and west on roads that meandered through the fields of Maryland, crossed the Potomac River into Virginia, and then crossed back, over the Shenandoah into West Virginia and finally into the small town of Harpers Ferry. Along the way I had formulated my plan: I would show up, report my findings, possibly become entangled in ”research” for the next seduction plot, and be home before it was too dark to play catch.
     My google map directions spit me out on Washington Street just across from the single building that holds the police station, town hall, post office, and, of course, a liquor store. Besides a missed exit that cost me 17 miles in turn around time, I considered my trip west a success and continued with this feeling presently as I quickly and effortlessly came upon a sign announcing the Hilltop’s presence. I took the left so indicated and soon came upon the accommodations that the WRW’s retreat has called home for the past 23 years.
     The Hilltop House Hotel sits at 400 East Ridge Street looking out over the town of Harpers Ferry. To the left of the hotel the ridge falls down a few hundred feet to meet the silt-filled waters of the Potomac River as it makes the last preparations before merging with and suffocating the smaller Shenandoah River.
     The town itself, made famous in 1859 When John Brown staged a raid on the federal arsenal in an attempt to incite a slave riot, commands the last patch of land that separates the two rivers- the waters meet just below the town in a clash of white water and begin their dwindling to the sea. With the commencement of the Civil in 1861, the town became a strategic football, changing between Union and Confederate hands 8 times.
     The Hotel, established in 1888, contains 62 guest rooms and according to Carroll Easton, sales manager at the Hilltop, has only burned down twice. Along with the great views and quaint bedrooms, Carroll claims the place to be haunted by spirits other than those of romantic fiction fame. Although “you can’t see ‘em with your naked eye,” Carroll says the place is inhabited by ghosts.
      But I didn’t know any of this as I turned from admiring the rustic beauty of a railroad bridge down river and made for the comfort of a meal provided by the hotel’s buffet. I ate in the silence of the all but vacant Lounge Dinning Room enjoying the view from my window table and attempting to collect my thoughts. But, by this time there weren’t many, as I had, while surveying the buffet options, discovered the Main Dinning Room to be filled with members of the WRW. Upon further inspection, under the guise of retrieving a piece of cherry pie, I came to the conclusion that the group was somewhere upwards of 95% women.
     I was able to steady my hand and sign the check but I needed air. I exited the mostly stone and mortar edifice that in places gives way to wood paneling or stucco or, like in the back, cinder blocks painted white, and headed to the truck. Before I could reach its safety, however, my anxieties were exacerbated as I noticed first one, then two, three, four vanity plates on the various sedans and mini-vans, slogans like “ NOVEL1ST.”
     Once in the safety of my own auto, I made preparations for confrontations with members of the opposite sex: popped in a piece of gum, played with my hair, turned on the charm. I stilled my fears, summoned my fortitude, and marched back into the hotel to begin the interviews.
     As I re-entered, I noticed that the crowd had dispersed in the dinning room and spread out across the property in small cliques. I approached one such two-some and introduced myself as a reporter. Before I could finish the last syllable of my name their disgust was apparent. Questions began flying at me like so many high heels being thrown across a room: Where was I from? How had I found out about the retreat? Didn’t I know this was a closed event? I fielded the queries with equal parts charm and fear and eventually was able to set up a sort of interview. We adjourned to the porch.
     Once out in the spring air my two subjects reiterated their disdain and informed me that the event was closed to press and claimed they had turned away a few camera crews. 
     Eventually, I was able to obtain the names of my two blonde-haired subjects: the taller, more talkative, chair of the weekend’s retreat, Jeanne Pickering Adams, and the shorter, diet-coke drinking Kathryn Anderson. As far as facts go, that was about all I was able to muster from the two women. My attempts at charm were swallowed up and spit back in my face. I asked Jeanne what her motivations for becoming a romantic fiction writer were; “ Everything I wrote had a dead body and a love story.” I couldn’t help but think I would soon be the former.
      The interview was over quickly; I flew the white flag of surrender and headed back to my vehicle (but not before I talked to the fiery haired, pleasant mannered Carroll about the history of the joint). I took Washington Street down to the village, saw what there was to see, passed on the frozen custard, hauled back up Washington, took a left on Union, waved goodbye to the Post-office/liquor store/town hall/police department and re-joined my path down the Potomac river toward the District of Columbia.
     A drizzle began to fall as I retreated from Harpers Ferry and the sounds from the iPod were replaced by those of my thoughts: Why had those women been so reluctant to talk? Even if the event was “closed,” why not grab some free press? It just didn’t make sense: they were writers, seemingly proud of their profession - were they ashamed of the genre? I decided I’d never know and left it at that. I had dove into the sea of possibility and come up with a story – just not the one I thought I would.
     Thomas Jefferson once wrote that witnessing the convergence of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers “…is worth a voyage across the Atlantic.” I don’t know if I would go that far, but it was certainly worth a few gallons of gas.