Say you're Hemmingway.
Money. Fame. Published Author.
Bully. Dictator. King or Queen of all you survey.
Got it?
Whatcha gonna do with it? Make your family keep their traps shut until noon so you can write like Earnest did?
My fantasy? A huge field of green. A hut in the center. One road through the field down which my family comes thrice a day to bring me food, cheer, and their good tidings. A couple of kisses for the kids, a grope from the hubster, and the dustless departure of a group of humans whose happiness I made possible.
Then I take a dose of chocolate, a sip of an icy beverage in which the ice has not dared to sweat, let alone melt. I turn back to my desk to find my creation waiting patiently, prepared to jump back into the sky and take wing as soon as our eyes meet.
Oh, the power and joy in my arm when it pounces from me, into space! Into the world! And it will never be nothing again!
This.
This is what my distractions steal from me.
And you? Whatcha got hiding in that back corner of your mind? Make a wish...or three. We'll all keep your secret.
9 comments:
My paradise is a quiet, well lit room in a castle in front of a fire, where
vibrant story spills onto the page with ease. I smile, as my publisher calls to tell me another check is on it's way. My hunky hubby takes me in his arms, draped in nothing but a kilt, and together, we work out my next love scene.
My writer's paradise is in my head. The place where I've figured out character, plot and an HEA that has the reader clamoring for the next book.
I have my space, more than one if I want. I even have time from the day job when used wisely. My paradise for my mind.
Sandy stole mine! Okay, fireplace, large bay window with bright colored pillows. My desk faces the window where the scene beyond is either pine trees and quaking aspen rimming a deep green lake, or a gentle foamy surf hissing over warm sand. Depends on if my hero is an oiled, tan surfer, with a six pack I can rake my finger over, or a hunk of paranormal delight with great dental work and cool hands to torture me. Gotta go!
My writer's paradise: a beach house on the coast (doesn't matter where). My desk would be on a deck overlooking the ocean. With only the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. A tall Mint Mojito next to my computer.
I would have no day job, and I'd have the entire weekend to myself to write whatever I wanted.
My paradise is somewhere with no electricity except for my laptop. And no two-year-old jumping on the bed next to me, as there is right now, but then there wouldn't be a little girl to give me butterfly kisses. So I guess my paradise is right here, I would just like it quieter. :)
Fantastic everyone!
My fantasy continues until every last story is flushed from my head.
That's the end goal. Can you imagine dying with those stories LEFT in there?!
I wonder what epmty would feel like...
Mark Twain actually had your fantasy come to life. He had a small gazebo in the back of his beloved home where he wrote. His family would bring him food and drink as you imagine. And he would write his laughter into prose.
See? You walk in the footsteps of giants. Roland
I'd like to walk in the financial accounts of giants now.
And I seem to remember Hemmingway or someone having a little hut that could be moved throughout the day (by the help, obviously) to follow the sun.
I'd like to say I don't have anything hiding back there, but I probably do. Maybe those hidden items give us aspiring authors our ideas. :)
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