The writing dream (there are many but I’ve had this one the longest) is to publish a coffee table book (this does not mean a book about coffee tables).
Rather, a piece of art that hangs around the house, furniture that emotionally compliments the décor. I imagine a solid treasure, gracefully perched atop a not so equally gorgeous piece of furniture (just to really make it shine) waiting to be perused.
I imagine your best friend arrives to pick you up for a long lunch and as she sits on your couch waiting, because of course she is the friend that is always early, and you are the one that is always late (this is what best friends are made of) she would pick up this treasure filled with vignettes. She will flick through the many pages, gliding through images of sketched female forms and she will find herself. If she is in her twenties, maybe she finds herself in a chapter, in her thirties, maybe on every page. She relates to the highs and lows that come with transitioning from an independent to someone with many dependents. She reminisces about her past travels, through the tiny towns and long beaches. Love, she remembers it; she has it; she wants it.
I want to create a piece of art that is mounted in the warmest space in your life, for she: You. Me. Her. To read. Relate. Reminisce.
At some point (anytime about now would be great) I will have to take the plunge, commit to making it happen: Turn the dream into a reality. The vignettes are now overflowing; it is a matter of selecting the best and then writing more if I need to. It is a matter of finding the right artist to illustrate (I’ll await the ever expected flow of offers), to complement my words. It’s about opening myself up to vulnerability and putting something out into the world, not just for money (I’ll take cash and credit), but for the joy of knowing I created something beautiful that even if it’s only my mum that reads it (that would be enough), I still finally did it.
FlyInMyWine 