I never outgrew my fantasies of running away from home. When I was little, I wanted to leave Queens and live on a tropical island instead. Later as a teen, I imagined the pleasure of ditching my mother and renting an apartment of my very own in Manhattan. These days, I fantasize about living in Italy for a year. You know, eating, writing, drinking, writing, pedaling my bike through the hillside with a loaf of bread in the wire basket. Sweet fantasies one and all. In all these years, though, I’ve never managed to escape the way I hoped. One thing or another (life? money? my lack of nerve?) always seemed to get in the way. But things are finally looking up, if on a modest scale. On the spur of the moment, four friends and I — all writers — are heading to the gorgeous mountains of Virginia. The Porches is a rambling 1854 farmhouse on the James River run by authors Bill and Trudy Hale. It offers gorgeous grounds, a private room, walking trails, WiFi, and a communal kitchen. That, and utter respect for a writer’s work. Our group’s mission: three full days of writing, interrupted only by evening meals and (if one of us has her way) cocktails by the fire. “Pack warm socks,” a friend told me. “And be prepared. You won’t want to leave. Ever.” I don’t know why it’s taken me this long to do something so simple and healthy as going on a writer’s retreat. I…