Okay, I know it. I’m an unabashed Wanderlust-afflicted-dreamer. I can’t help it.
When I travel, I always find myself wondering what it would be like to live in the place I’m visiting. I enthuse about charming little cottages, ivy-covered buildings, white-washed homes along the sea.
Mostly, I seek out – in the tradition of E.M. Forster – a room with a view.
As my fantasy takes shape in my mind and I have moved into my little cottage with its breathtaking window onto the world that surrounds it for an indeterminate number of days, weeks, months, I always see myself sitting at that window and writing.
My full-time job is not writing – at least, not creatively – and when I am on holiday I am generally doing very little of it, but that’s what I’m always dreaming of.
The ability to pack up and return to that same destination to spend my days writing and my late afternoons exploring my new world sitting out and watching the world pass by on its little square to soak in the local colors and sounds, exploring its twisting alleyways, shopping in its outdoor markets, diving into the waves of its clear blue waters.
In this parallel writer’s life, I always return to my little abode in the evening to review my work and write some more. In these fantasies there is always silence, blessed silence.
Real life is never like that. I do sometimes write on weekend-getaways from our little house in the mountains of Abruzzo, where I do enjoy the lovely views as I write… alongside the melodious sounds of my children’s yells.
But, like many working moms always fighting to carve out family time in their busy schedules, holidays are sacred. It’s the precious time we have together as a family, free from interruptions. My laptop generally stays home.
But a girl can dream. One day I’ll be off to write from my little room with a view. And in the meantime, I’m gathering lots of ideas of just where that might be…