A writer’s fantasy
When I was about twenty I got a subscription to a writer’s magazine, which I would read cover to cover. And when I mean cover to cover, I mean that I read even the classifieds at the back. There was one ad that set my heart aflutter… I don’t remember the details, but the bold-faced words read: Irish Island Cottage. It went on to advertise a perfect writing retreat.
I remember staring at that ad as if the text would transport me to that magical place. I had fantasies of strolling along a cliff over the ocean, pondering my stories. I imagined myself having a pensive cup of tea, when I actually don’t like tea at all. (I know, I’m weird that way.) My husband would be in the fantasy to keep the nights warm and cozy (I was just barely married then). And I had red hair, though I’ve naturally got light brown. And it blew in the wind, just enough to look romantic, but not enough to get in my eyes…which were busy with the aforementioned pensive expression. I have no recollection of fantasizing about actually writing at the writing retreat. Back then I had a lot of trouble making it past the first few chapters. It was very frustrating, and frustration had no place in my daydreams.
To this day, many years later, I still fantasize about the damn cottage. School and more school and kids have filled up the days, and now I imagine the cottage with my kids around too. Because how can I go to an Irish Island Cottage and not bring the zoo with me? That’s proof that I’ve become a little bit more of a realist—I’ll probably attempt to write, but in my pajamas shut inside the bedroom to escape family chaos. And I won’t get too close to the edge of any cliff, because my kids will follow and they have not yet learned that they can’t fly. But my hair will very likely be reddish, because that’s what I’m coloring it these days.
My husband and I talk about making the trip (four plane tickets from Arizona makes me gasp), but I hope we’ll do it. Maybe next year?