When I was a child, and first started writing, I had this vision of my adult self sitting in a garret, in a castle, wearing a fancy robe, and writing hundreds of books.
I still daydream about that, but with a little bit of sarcasm thrown in. Like an inner satire monologue with a Wes Anderson vibe montage. “Hah, hah,” I say to myself. “How chic, yet unrealistic.” Then I concentrate on what color robe I’m wearing and whether the relationship with my dreamy, rich husband is good or on the rocks (for the drama, of course).
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glimpses here and there 