I wrote recently about creating One Writer's Place, a spot of solitude I would share with other writers and some visual artists, free of charge.

We'd picked out a house and stormed Craigslist and compassionate friends for furniture; and we were all ready to go when my husband -- a builder and carpenter -- went to the inspection and learned that the things wrong with the house were not cosmetic but orthopedic.

Of course, I was excited about the wide-planked boards from Maine. I didn't see the roof leaks or the plumbing that really wasn't ... or the gaps in the skylights. Through those skylights, I saw only the blue-denim sky. That tends to be my way. I have my feet firmly planted, but my head in the clouds.

It wasn't the fault of the owner. They are lovely people. They didn't know that so many things were wrong; and they felt just terrible. So did we. But it wasn't meant to be.

Oh well.

This whole idea started when a friend who really does have the money for this, and who had wanted to do it for years, decided times were too dicey for such a gesture.

I don't really have the money to burn.

But I have the need.

Things have been tough lately; and I've probably stopped taking as many risks as I once did. My motto in life has always been, When the going gets tough, take more risks.

So being frightened and conservative is probably not a terrific thing for me. I have trouble even being prudent! It's only when you take risks that blessings come into your hands. It's only when you run into the breeze with your eyes closed and your arms flung wide that someone takes your hand.

Someone took my hand many years ago when I was a young widow with four children and no money. Many people did. Laurie took my children to her house to play. Jean Marie included them in family picnics at her family farm. Georgia read my pages.

And bit by bit, I wrote my first novel, 'The Deep End of the Ocean.'

So many of those friendships have changed over the years, through time and space and lack of care and grace -- some of it probably mine. But I've never forgotten the deep gratitude I felt for the gift of every golden hour, every shoulder I showered with my tears, every ear I filled with my fears.

I can't give that level of care to other writers. It won't be a real "colony."

And it won't happen right this summer, as we hoped.

When our house fell through (almost literally), one of my sons said that maybe this was a sign that this was a foolish dream. I said it was, undoubtedly.

I like those kind; and this one will come true.

Jackie M.