Sometimes you like to dream a little of the perfect writing life.
Sometimes you feel the need to decorate an imaginary wooden house by the sea and its book-lined study overlooking the long pale morning beach. You have your comfy day bed sprawled with cushions and your windows open to let the gentle salt air in. You create a whole world of useful and frivolous objects that would fit.
Sometimes you do this in idle moments when you should be writing (none of these photos are mine, you can find a link to the source by clicking on them) –
First the desk, right by the shuttered window:
A grand solid thing with room for legs underneath, clutter up the top.
In one of the drawers (next to reams of paper and spare pens for chewing on):
A pile of pre-stamped cards. Because in this writing life, you meet people who might want to know your details and who don’t care much for tapping things down on their phones. Who might appreciate rounded corners and a mid century aesthetic. Put it right there in their copy of your book and say, hope to be in touch soon.
Back to the cabin, back to the desk. On it, well, notebooks. Everyone has their favourite notebooks, but I like them plain and plentiful. A mug of tea and a few big shells. An anglepoise lamp. A tiny aquarium:
Your laptop of choice. Mine would be small and sleek, dark green. With none of the keys missing and not at all prone to crashing, like this one I write on now. On the other side of the desk, a friend to watch over you:
And downstairs your loved ones are calling you to breakfast. You’ve bashed out five hundred words and it’s only ten o’clock. Later you can go walk on the beach and skip stones. Or stay and watch the rain fall against the gorse in your garden. And more writing, and the murmur of music. And more than objects, this particular controlled, scenic happiness.
Though life as it is right now has more happiness than I can just about stand, without cabin, without sea. The only thing is not enough papier mache owls, perhaps.