In Bishop’s Itchington, a quaint village tucked in the rolling green pastures of England, I sit and write the book of my dreams. I drink chai latte tea with a generous breakfast, prop myself in a window with a full view of the dreary weather. I take my time indulging in all life’s little pleasures: a book or two, a sample of chocolates, peace and quiet to last me for centuries, and a blank page inhabited only by a flashing cursor; waiting for words.
I’m sitting at 11,000 words – the equivalent of 40 pages or 3 chapters.
It sounds like a dream, but there is part of me that cannot – will not – submit to the peacefulness. I write scenes of murder, lust, betrayal. I snap photographs of sheep I’ll never catch and organize a poetry book that will never see more than maybe 100 sales. I spend hours upon hours on character aesthetics:
On a sunny afternoon, I received an email that my non-contract freelance gig has ended and I spent a few minutes here or there reminding myself not to think about school. Oddly, all of this makes me happy.
I’m on vacation, after all, and I should be enjoying myself. I am enjoying myself, but not in the way I think most would expect. I spend my days writing, reading, and plotting my blog. I spend them dreaming of where I hope my life will go and kicking myself when I procrastinate. I think I spent too much on shopping, but I haven’t seen the bill, so I sit here and I wonder where my book will go.
And admired my new hair:
So, March was a dream. It was the month of reading whatever the hell I wanted, writing whenever I could, throwing caution to the wind, trying something new, and a thrilling welcome to the second episode of CraftQuest Maria and I’s webinar series for writers.
If you haven’t seen me for a while, that’s where I’ve been ♥ I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long.