When I think of the perfect place to live if money were no object, it’s not a palace or a mansion. It’s not even in Paris, or France. It’s a simple little white wood framed house. Small. Windows open with a breeze blowing wispy cafe curtains.
When I try to imagine the most perfect scenario to write, that’s a different thing. I imagine a stone house with a blue slate roof. Three months, just me and the kids, the whole summer in the country. Amazingly, this imaginary place is in Wales. Strange because I don’t particularly like the UK. But this place, outside, there is a trickle of spring water from the ground and it joins up with two other little bubbling springs which form a little stream that leads downhill to a pond. Almost every single day for about 10 years now I see myself there taking a break from my writing, wearing rubber boots at the grassy edge of the pond. Standing in the mud. My novel manuscript is in the cottage. Funny because I write screenplays now. But that’s the fantasy.