I want to write a book. I want to have the discipline and drive necessary to write 75,000 words, to create a world out of nothing, to stick with something all the way to the end. I want to know the people in my story so well that I can hold conversations between them. I want to be able to pull people into my novel with a few sentences, have them wanting never to leave, always to return. I want to create something the likes of the Chronicles of Narnia, or the Inheritance Cycle, or even the works of Nora Roberts. Maybe all of them. Maybe I’ll have a different pen name for every genre. Maybe I’ll be the kind of author who never reveals a picture, who keeps herself hidden away in a cabin in the woods, who embellishes the mystery of her identity in order to keep people intrigued, about whom the media invents stories and myths, about whom rumours float around the internet.
I want to buy my own home and decorate it exactly how I want. I want to have a cat to cuddle with on cold fall afternoons, while drinking tea and writing. I want to have a study, with shelves full of books on three walls and French doors leading to the balcony behind my desk, overlooking the mountains in my backyard.
I want a blue couch and white lacy throw pillows, and a fluffy grey throw to curl up in on Sunday afternoons. I want a fireplace and wing chairs to sit in on cold, snowy December nights, when I’m isolated in my cabin. I want a shelf in my pantry dedicated only to tea, and another to coffee. I want a wrought iron bed so that my lover can wrap my hands around the bars while he wraps his around me. I want a collection of coloured glass bottles, of different shapes and sizes, lined up on my dresser. I want a sunroom filled with plants and flowers, African violets and spider plants and morning glories and succulents galore. I want three or four or more extra bedrooms so I can have my friends over for New Years’, and they can stay for the entire weekend. I want a wine cellar filled with all kinds of wine; the cheap, ten dollar bottles that are fun to drink and talk around will be stacked next to the expensive, wonderful bottles of wine straight from French vineyards and beautiful magnums of French champagne.
I want to have a garden in the back yard, and I want to have to chase the deer out of my carrots in the morning, my housecoat flapping behind me. I want a trellis filled with climbing wisteria covering the outdoor eating area, dappling the setting sun as we sit and laugh on warm summer nights.
I want all of this.