I have always craved solitude—those delicious writerly moments when ideas can rise up freely from the dark pool of consciousness. But since I partnered up with a man five years ago and then married him last year, my moments alone are fewer. Solitude is staked out and scheduled. "I need an hour to write. Don't talk to me until afterward," I say as if defending territory. My husband is an occasional poet, but doesn't long for silences the way I do. On our first date, we wrote poetry not in confined silence, but together in the noisy backroom of a coffee shop. So when I request writer's privacy, my husband is sometimes understanding, sometimes not. And it was with great surprise that I found him rejoicing in my acceptance to Hedgebrook, a solitary writer's retreat for women on Whidbey Island.

I never expected to come to Hedgebrook. I applied almost whimsically the previous October. Knowing the competition was steep—hundreds apply each year—I assumed nothing, simply wrote the application, and tossed it in the mail. I was visiting my brother in Boston when my husband called with the announcement. He teased me like a child with a surprise gift. "I've got ne-ews," he sang. While I struggled with my own conflicted reaction (a series of what ifs, such as what if I stare at my computer for a month without writing anything), my husband proudly broadcast the news to my friends and family. "Maddy's so smart and talented!" he told them. I didn't know whether I agreed.

Hedgebrook, I discovered, is like a romantic getaway for one—elegant cottages nestled in the woods and weeks of undistracted time to seduce the writer from oneself, woo the proverbial muse, and write deeply. As with lovers, one learns startling things through such intimacy. My first moments are filled with terror. With all the excuses to avoid writing dispelled, if I fail, there can only be one reason—my own ineptness. "I don't know if I can do this," I tell my husband on the phone.

But as I immerse in the luxury of my surroundings, I unwind from my own expectations. The writing becomes nonlinear, the topics sometimes unexpected and profound. Days follow erratic rhythms, some filled prolifically with pages, others stagnant, spent meditating on the beach, soaking in the tub, nosing into a book, or conversing with the five writers who hide in the woods there with me. And I fall in love with the quiet, the space alone, and myself.

The writers dine together in a central farmhouse every evening, plumping our stomachs with rich organic food, drawing in long breaths and deep conversations, and watching the eagles nest across the road. We talk about our writing days and about books, politics, our crushes on popular actors, and our love lives.

One asks how my husband took the idea of my departure. "He was more excited than I was when I got the news," I tell her. She nods approvingly.

Another night a writer tells me of a couple who split up because she wouldn't respect his writing time. "You know, like she didn't get it that when he got up to get a cup of coffee he didn't want to talk to her; he was still writing," she says.

I gulp and mutter that I sometimes have this disagreement with my husband.

"Well... I mean, I'm sure that's not the only reason they broke up," she says.

My husband visits after the second week of my stay. Campus rules require me to seek the permission of the other writers. They all shrug. Doesn't bother them. Whatever. One says, "Yeah, it's about time."

When he arrives, I usher him through the property to my cabin, my space. Suddenly, he is the boyfriend again; I am the host. I fix him tea and sandwiches. We drive through the afternoon to a delicious sunset hike and a Chinese dinner. He stays late in my cabin, but the rules forbid overnight guests. At midnight, he sneaks out. Tired and giddy, we have long goodbyes. The moon watches us like a chaperone.

The next morning a writer comments that I glow. "One night with your husband. That's all it took," she laughs.

For my two remaining weeks, I become more conscious of his absence and my presence. My husband's energy lingers about the cabin. I miss him most just before sleep, the warmth and safety of his body. But I remember how much I like being alone. I like listening to the voice that pours onto my pages, responding to her every whim without question, argument, or judgment. I like my space. Part of me is exhausted from writing daily into my darkest mental places. Part of me hungers for a more diverse plate of activities. But part wants to live here forever, plunging ever deeper into myself and lovingly answering each of my neglected needs.

When I return, I try again to delineate the writing time. "About eight o'clock," I say. "Please don't interrupt me." My husband creeps up to my desk anyway to tell me he got a small raise at work and looks hurt when I ask him to leave. I write him a long letter about it, which he reads with a look of mild disgust. "I get it," he says, "but I don't understand why you have to be alone to write. Why do you have to isolate yourself from everyone?"

I don't have an answer to this question. It's like asking why trees don't talk. Most writers I know seek a place of silence. And when we speak, we often speak alone. Hedgebrook lets us create this place without question or judgment. Hedgebrook loves us no matter how mystifying the needs of our creative souls.

I realize my husband also loves my creativity, despite its hermitic tendencies. Now that I am home, I must learn to build another writerly space for myself, and decide when to invite him in, and when to send him back out again.