The Badass Bestselling Bitches
On October 2, 2026, forty women and two very brave men descended into the beautiful beach town of Gulf Shores, Alabama. This was my first-ever writing retreat, led by the incomparable USA TODAY bestselling author Lee Ann Ward, for Writing Away Refuge. The next four days were filled with amazement, education, amusement, unexpected friendships, lots of wine, plenty of hugging, and at least one accidental home invasion.
But more on that later.
I had never been to Alabama and didn’t know what to expect. What I did know was Lee Ann Ward and Joyce Scarbrough, another amazing writer, both live there and are the epitome of kindness and generosity.
For the past year, Lee Ann has been teaching me how to become a better writer. Somewhere along the way, she became my friend, mentor, cheerleader, occasional ass-kicker, and one of the people who pushed me far beyond what I thought my writing abilities could ever be.
You see, I am a recovering founder, entrepreneur, and CEO.
Writing is new for me.
I’m accustomed to business plans, boardrooms, and getting shit done. Apparently, none of those skills automatically teaches you how to write a book.
Who knew? But I had made a promise to my mother on her deathbed in July 2009: to would write the book that eventually became Before the Last Heartbeat. I finally started in May 2025.
Two hundred and sixty-one drafts later and no that is not a typo, I was agented on May 1, 2026, by the handsome and talented, Connor Smith of Hesperides Literary ( I almost put immensely talented and then had to delete that terrible adverb. See, Lee Ann I listen.) Without Lee Ann, I don’t believe I would have gotten there.
Now, back to Gulf Shores.
For nearly a year, I’d been taking writing courses and workshops with many of the same people. We’d become friends in that strange Covid way. A little like Hollywood Squares. Of course it was all on Zoom, talking about characters, plot, trauma, murder, love, sex, death, and whether a semicolon is ever really necessary. Then we met in real life.
Sarah Beth picked Eliza and me up at the airport, and the three of us immediately started screaming and hugging like we’d been separated at birth. They were beautiful. Have you gotten the hint I can be shallow?
Complete strangers began photobombing us because apparently three grown women jumping up and down in an airport is a public attraction but we didn’t care. It felt like we’d known each other forever. And in a way, we had.
We met up with another writer, Christine, and over wine and margaritas proceeded to never shut up. It was less like a gathering of accomplished adults and more like high school girls whose parents had gone out of town.
Eventually, we headed to the retreat house.
We marched through the door and announced, loudly and confidently:
“We’re here!” There was just one problem. We weren’t.
We looked around and discovered a group of men playing pool, staring at us with the expressions of people who were fairly certain they had no clue who were the four middle-aged women with luggage that showed up.
“Oops.” We fled. Our actual house was two doors down.
By the time we arrived, we were doubled over laughing, our stomachs hurt, and any hope of making a sophisticated first impression was long gone. It became a hug fest.
By the next afternoon, more than the forty of us had bonded over writing, our lives, our loves, and ridiculously good meals prepared by the amazing staff.
Super-agents Cathie Heidrick Armstrong, Katie Reid, Stephanie Katz, Rebecca Loomer, and, of course, Lee Ann Ward led classes and discussions.
We learned, wrote, ate, drank, sang karaoke, and danced.
On our last night, we ran onto the beach screaming, “FUCK YOU!” into the darkness at whoever deserved to hear it in solidarity with another talented writer Amber.
Forty writers standing beside the Gulf of Mexico collectively telling their demons, exes, critics, disappointments, grief, and God knows who else to fuck off is something I highly recommend.
Then we held a salon, where almost everyone stood and read their work aloud.
One by one, these women, and our two surviving men, shared their words. Every voice was unique, authentic, funny, painful, strange, vulnerable, and beautiful.
Since I’m now working on a speculative thriller, I also needed some help with a couple of particularly gruesome murder scenes. So I approached fellow writer Liz McKinnon and asked if I could get her contact information. She thought for a moment.
“I think I have a business card,” she said. “None of my clients ever ask for my contact information.”
I stared at her.
Liz is a forensic pathologist.
All her clients are dead.
This is what happens at writing retreats. You arrive looking for inspiration and leave with forty new sisters and a forensic pathologist on speed dial.
Then Max Frazier taught a class on flash fiction. I had never even heard of flash fiction. We were given prompts and had six minutes to write something spectacular. And because apparently 261 drafts of one book hadn’t taught me anything about restraint, I decided to share with the group.
“I thought back to the times I watched him fly through the air with the ball cradled in the stick as he made the winning goal. And to the summer he came out to visit me in California and decided to give surfing a try.
He was such a strong, beautiful athlete, and I remember laughing at him fall each time the waves threw him off. I heard him curse and called out to him, “OK, Mom. Keep losing your temper.”
He gave me the finger, and I rolled over in the sand, laughing.
Then there was the night we celebrated his 20th birthday and got so drunk we had to leave our car at the bar and walk a couple miles home in the dark.
These memories are embedded in my mind.
This was the last summer my brother was alive.”
I hadn’t cried for months, but I cried there, because I felt safe.
I came to Gulf Shores thinking I was going to a writing retreat. I left understanding that something much bigger had happened.
I lost both of my siblings. That loss will always be part of me. But over four extraordinary days in Alabama, I somehow found myself surrounded by sisters, who cheer for one another, who celebrate the wins and sit beside you through the losses.
Sisters who understand that sometimes writing is about commas and character arcs, and sometimes it’s about standing barefoot on a beach in the dark, screaming “FUCK YOU!” at the universe until you can breathe again.
Some of us will see each other soon. A few live in Los Angeles. Many of us are continuing together in Lee Ann’s six-month writing class, which every aspiring writer should take.
Others I may not see again until next year in Gulf Shores.
But we’ve already given ourselves a name:
The Badass Bestselling Bitches
Are we all bestsellers yet? No but that’s a minor technicality. Just give us time.
Until then, I’m sending enormous love to Eliza Antonio, Sarah Beth, Christine Jax, Lauren Neely, Jillian Alderman, Lee Ann Ward, Mary Richards, and every other wonderful Badass, I couldn’t fit onto this page.
You fit in my heart.
And next year, ladies, let’s try to get the right house on the first attempt. Although, frankly, where’s the fun in that?
Love,
Nancy