Thrillers & Suspense
![Julia Bartz - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BSNS8146.jpg)
The Writing Retreat: A Novel
"Darkly satirical and action-packed....An absolutely splendid debut!" -Wendy Walker, nationally bestselling author of Don't Look for Me
The Plot meets Please Join Us in this psychological suspense debut about a young author at an exclusive writer's retreat that descends into a nightmare.
Alex has all but given up on her dreams of becoming a published author when she receives a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: attend an exclusive, month-long writing retreat at the estate of feminist horror writer Roza Vallo. Even the knowledge that Wren, her former best friend and current rival, is attending doesn't dampen her excitement.
But when the attendees arrive, Roza drops a bombshell-they must all complete an entire novel from scratch during the next month, and the author of the best one will receive a life-changing seven-figure publishing deal. Determined to win this seemingly impossible contest, Alex buckles down and tries to ignore the strange happenings at the estate, including Roza's erratic behavior, Wren's cruel mind games, and the alleged haunting of the mansion itself. But when one of the writers vanishes during a snowstorm, Alex realizes that something very sinister is afoot. With the clock running out, she must discover the truth-or suffer the same fate.
A claustrophobic and propulsive thriller exploring the dark side of female relationships and fame, The Writing Retreat is the unputdownable debut novel from a compelling new talent.
The Plot meets Please Join Us in this psychological suspense debut about a young author at an exclusive writer's retreat that descends into a nightmare.
Alex has all but given up on her dreams of becoming a published author when she receives a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: attend an exclusive, month-long writing retreat at the estate of feminist horror writer Roza Vallo. Even the knowledge that Wren, her former best friend and current rival, is attending doesn't dampen her excitement.
But when the attendees arrive, Roza drops a bombshell-they must all complete an entire novel from scratch during the next month, and the author of the best one will receive a life-changing seven-figure publishing deal. Determined to win this seemingly impossible contest, Alex buckles down and tries to ignore the strange happenings at the estate, including Roza's erratic behavior, Wren's cruel mind games, and the alleged haunting of the mansion itself. But when one of the writers vanishes during a snowstorm, Alex realizes that something very sinister is afoot. With the clock running out, she must discover the truth-or suffer the same fate.
A claustrophobic and propulsive thriller exploring the dark side of female relationships and fame, The Writing Retreat is the unputdownable debut novel from a compelling new talent.
Editorial Reviews
Chapter 1 Chapter 1
Fuck her.
These were the words that got me down the subway steps. I was going to Ursula's book party, and if Wren was there, too, well, she could just go fuck herself.
But my fingers were shaking in the moment before I gripped the subway pole. So much for bravado. And I had to admit: this wild, frenetic energy coursing through me wasn't rage, exactly. It was more like abject terror.
Friday night commuters filled the sweaty subway car. I stood over two seated girls who were maybe in high school, their mascara-laden eyes darting, hands pulling nervously at hair. One leaned in and said something into the other's ear. She nodded sagely, and they regarded each other with smirks.
The interaction jabbed like a penknife in the ribs. Their shared world. Their undeniable certainty that they were a team. It reminded me of early days with Wren, holding hands as we rode out to Bushwick, wearing cheap pleather leggings, swigging from a shared plastic bottle of vodka and soda.
Stop. I curled my fist in my pocket, digging my fingernails into my palm. I couldn't show up like this, with soft, pathetic yearning in my eyes. Wren and I were no longer best friends. Or friends at all. And that was fine. I was thirty years old. It didn't make sense that I was still so broken up about a goddamn friendship.
The doors slid open. I followed a small stream of people out, throwing a final glance back at the teen girls. One stared directly at me, her gaze both curious and hostile.
Pete was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, a mishmash of leather couches, gleaming wood surfaces, and golden chandeliers.
"Alex, hello!" He jumped up, then stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm definitely not cool enough to be here."
I'd been more relieved than I'd let on that Pete, my one work friend, had agreed to come to the book party. Seeing him in his smudged glasses, loose jeans, and non-ironic running shoes caused my heart rate to slow.
"Careful." I smiled, shrugging off my heavy coat. "They can smell your fear."
He chattered as we walked towards the basement steps and I tried to focus on his words. Pete and I had only started hanging out outside work recently, and while part of me enjoyed his unselfconsciously affable personality, another part was bereft. I could almost hear Wren's amused voice: Really? This nerd is your new bestie?
At the top of the stairs, two women blew past us, waves of flowery perfume streaming off their fur-trimmed coats. I felt like I was in a dream as...
Fuck her.
These were the words that got me down the subway steps. I was going to Ursula's book party, and if Wren was there, too, well, she could just go fuck herself.
But my fingers were shaking in the moment before I gripped the subway pole. So much for bravado. And I had to admit: this wild, frenetic energy coursing through me wasn't rage, exactly. It was more like abject terror.
Friday night commuters filled the sweaty subway car. I stood over two seated girls who were maybe in high school, their mascara-laden eyes darting, hands pulling nervously at hair. One leaned in and said something into the other's ear. She nodded sagely, and they regarded each other with smirks.
The interaction jabbed like a penknife in the ribs. Their shared world. Their undeniable certainty that they were a team. It reminded me of early days with Wren, holding hands as we rode out to Bushwick, wearing cheap pleather leggings, swigging from a shared plastic bottle of vodka and soda.
Stop. I curled my fist in my pocket, digging my fingernails into my palm. I couldn't show up like this, with soft, pathetic yearning in my eyes. Wren and I were no longer best friends. Or friends at all. And that was fine. I was thirty years old. It didn't make sense that I was still so broken up about a goddamn friendship.
The doors slid open. I followed a small stream of people out, throwing a final glance back at the teen girls. One stared directly at me, her gaze both curious and hostile.
Pete was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, a mishmash of leather couches, gleaming wood surfaces, and golden chandeliers.
"Alex, hello!" He jumped up, then stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm definitely not cool enough to be here."
I'd been more relieved than I'd let on that Pete, my one work friend, had agreed to come to the book party. Seeing him in his smudged glasses, loose jeans, and non-ironic running shoes caused my heart rate to slow.
"Careful." I smiled, shrugging off my heavy coat. "They can smell your fear."
He chattered as we walked towards the basement steps and I tried to focus on his words. Pete and I had only started hanging out outside work recently, and while part of me enjoyed his unselfconsciously affable personality, another part was bereft. I could almost hear Wren's amused voice: Really? This nerd is your new bestie?
At the top of the stairs, two women blew past us, waves of flowery perfume streaming off their fur-trimmed coats. I felt like I was in a dream as...
Readers Top Reviews
D. Cronercfwoodwa
Classic stranded-in-haunted-house-during-snow-storm-tale only this time with a bunch of sexed-up, drugged-out writers. Mayhem ensues, entertainingly.
Karen EdgecombeD.
This certainly was a different kind of retreat! Nothing was obvious, which kept me reading all day! It was a very entertaining story!
Lori Bastien Vick
I could not put this one down! I was guessing and guessing the whole way through and always surprised at each turn.
Jill S. BrownLori
I’m writing this blurry eyed as this story demanded me to keep reading. Diabolical plotting and exquisite writing. It just blew me away.
J. MunnoP. J. Edw
This was a mixed genre story. It could have been a great mystery. The frequent digressions to horror really dragged it down.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 Chapter 1
Fuck her.
These were the words that got me down the subway steps. I was going to Ursula's book party, and if Wren was there, too, well, she could just go fuck herself.
But my fingers were shaking in the moment before I gripped the subway pole. So much for bravado. And I had to admit: this wild, frenetic energy coursing through me wasn't rage, exactly. It was more like abject terror.
Friday night commuters filled the sweaty subway car. I stood over two seated girls who were maybe in high school, their mascara-laden eyes darting, hands pulling nervously at hair. One leaned in and said something into the other's ear. She nodded sagely, and they regarded each other with smirks.
The interaction jabbed like a penknife in the ribs. Their shared world. Their undeniable certainty that they were a team. It reminded me of early days with Wren, holding hands as we rode out to Bushwick, wearing cheap pleather leggings, swigging from a shared plastic bottle of vodka and soda.
Stop. I curled my fist in my pocket, digging my fingernails into my palm. I couldn't show up like this, with soft, pathetic yearning in my eyes. Wren and I were no longer best friends. Or friends at all. And that was fine. I was thirty years old. It didn't make sense that I was still so broken up about a goddamn friendship.
The doors slid open. I followed a small stream of people out, throwing a final glance back at the teen girls. One stared directly at me, her gaze both curious and hostile.
Pete was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, a mishmash of leather couches, gleaming wood surfaces, and golden chandeliers.
"Alex, hello!" He jumped up, then stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm definitely not cool enough to be here."
I'd been more relieved than I'd let on that Pete, my one work friend, had agreed to come to the book party. Seeing him in his smudged glasses, loose jeans, and non-ironic running shoes caused my heart rate to slow.
"Careful." I smiled, shrugging off my heavy coat. "They can smell your fear."
He chattered as we walked towards the basement steps and I tried to focus on his words. Pete and I had only started hanging out outside work recently, and while part of me enjoyed his unselfconsciously affable personality, another part was bereft. I could almost hear Wren's amused voice: Really? This nerd is your new bestie?
At the top of the stairs, two women blew past us, waves of flowery perfume streaming off their fur-trimmed coats. I felt like I was in a dream as I followed Pete down the steps, studying the back of his head as he kept half turning to explain something ridiculous his boss had done that day.
At the bottom a hallway stretched in both directions. From the right came the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, undercut by some kind of buzzing electronic music. A mirror ran down the hallway, a thin strip cutting us off below the shoulders. I looked like a disembodied ghoul: pale skin marked with red blotches from the cold, eyes teary from the wind, dark hair staticky from my hat. I tried to bend my mouth into a smile. I'd redone my makeup before leaving work, adding extra eyeliner and lipstick, but I worried it only made me look false and weird.
We strode towards the music. A marquis sign with pressed-in letters greeted us at the open doorway: URSULA'S BOOK RELEASE!! WELCOME BITCHES!!!!!
Beyond was a wall of people. It looked like a living thing, blinking and shimmering and pushing various tentacles towards the bar. My stomach plummeted. I'd never been afraid of crowds before. In fact, I'd always thrown myself in-at dance parties, sweaty basement shows, art galleries so packed that you knew someone was going to knock over a sculpture.
But now I was afraid. More than that: on the verge of a panic attack.
"Yikes." Pete considered. "I can literally feel my social anxiety rising."
The words made me smile. "Me too."
"What do you think?" Pete studied me. I knew that if for whatever reason I wanted to leave, he'd take it in stride. He'd probably offer an alternative: a beer, a snack nearby.
But I had to do this. True, I hadn't seen Wren since that awful day-her birthday, nearly a year ago now. Sure, I'd stalked her social media, watching as her beauty editor job had earned her a blue check mark. I'd seen her style change, her dark bangs go blunt instead of choppy, her growing proclivity for designer jackets. I couldn't comprehend seeing her in person; it'd...
Fuck her.
These were the words that got me down the subway steps. I was going to Ursula's book party, and if Wren was there, too, well, she could just go fuck herself.
But my fingers were shaking in the moment before I gripped the subway pole. So much for bravado. And I had to admit: this wild, frenetic energy coursing through me wasn't rage, exactly. It was more like abject terror.
Friday night commuters filled the sweaty subway car. I stood over two seated girls who were maybe in high school, their mascara-laden eyes darting, hands pulling nervously at hair. One leaned in and said something into the other's ear. She nodded sagely, and they regarded each other with smirks.
The interaction jabbed like a penknife in the ribs. Their shared world. Their undeniable certainty that they were a team. It reminded me of early days with Wren, holding hands as we rode out to Bushwick, wearing cheap pleather leggings, swigging from a shared plastic bottle of vodka and soda.
Stop. I curled my fist in my pocket, digging my fingernails into my palm. I couldn't show up like this, with soft, pathetic yearning in my eyes. Wren and I were no longer best friends. Or friends at all. And that was fine. I was thirty years old. It didn't make sense that I was still so broken up about a goddamn friendship.
The doors slid open. I followed a small stream of people out, throwing a final glance back at the teen girls. One stared directly at me, her gaze both curious and hostile.
Pete was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, a mishmash of leather couches, gleaming wood surfaces, and golden chandeliers.
"Alex, hello!" He jumped up, then stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm definitely not cool enough to be here."
I'd been more relieved than I'd let on that Pete, my one work friend, had agreed to come to the book party. Seeing him in his smudged glasses, loose jeans, and non-ironic running shoes caused my heart rate to slow.
"Careful." I smiled, shrugging off my heavy coat. "They can smell your fear."
He chattered as we walked towards the basement steps and I tried to focus on his words. Pete and I had only started hanging out outside work recently, and while part of me enjoyed his unselfconsciously affable personality, another part was bereft. I could almost hear Wren's amused voice: Really? This nerd is your new bestie?
At the top of the stairs, two women blew past us, waves of flowery perfume streaming off their fur-trimmed coats. I felt like I was in a dream as I followed Pete down the steps, studying the back of his head as he kept half turning to explain something ridiculous his boss had done that day.
At the bottom a hallway stretched in both directions. From the right came the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, undercut by some kind of buzzing electronic music. A mirror ran down the hallway, a thin strip cutting us off below the shoulders. I looked like a disembodied ghoul: pale skin marked with red blotches from the cold, eyes teary from the wind, dark hair staticky from my hat. I tried to bend my mouth into a smile. I'd redone my makeup before leaving work, adding extra eyeliner and lipstick, but I worried it only made me look false and weird.
We strode towards the music. A marquis sign with pressed-in letters greeted us at the open doorway: URSULA'S BOOK RELEASE!! WELCOME BITCHES!!!!!
Beyond was a wall of people. It looked like a living thing, blinking and shimmering and pushing various tentacles towards the bar. My stomach plummeted. I'd never been afraid of crowds before. In fact, I'd always thrown myself in-at dance parties, sweaty basement shows, art galleries so packed that you knew someone was going to knock over a sculpture.
But now I was afraid. More than that: on the verge of a panic attack.
"Yikes." Pete considered. "I can literally feel my social anxiety rising."
The words made me smile. "Me too."
"What do you think?" Pete studied me. I knew that if for whatever reason I wanted to leave, he'd take it in stride. He'd probably offer an alternative: a beer, a snack nearby.
But I had to do this. True, I hadn't seen Wren since that awful day-her birthday, nearly a year ago now. Sure, I'd stalked her social media, watching as her beauty editor job had earned her a blue check mark. I'd seen her style change, her dark bangs go blunt instead of choppy, her growing proclivity for designer jackets. I couldn't comprehend seeing her in person; it'd...
