Here is my dream space – my fantasy writing room. Take a
look around… A note-pad, opened to reveal frantic, exited scribbles – scribbles
that will develop into a world-wide best-seller that whose movie rights will be
instantly snapped up (the film will star Salma Hayek, Aneurin Barnard and
Penelope Keith…) A vase of fresh sweet peas infuse the room with the fragrance
of Summers Past; of hidden gardens with secrets to keep. The table is
uncluttered – free from bills, and unopened letters about potential building
works next door. I have the space for a couple of wonderful books beside me –
books that I will flip open and gain great surges of inspiration from whenever
I need it. There is no system for listening to music, for the only music I need
is in my head and it is the soundtrack to my novel – a fusion of Rogers and
Hammerstein and Donna Summer. There is a mint green cup and saucer, awaiting
the pale splash of Jasmine tea at four o’clock, to be poured by a maid called
Edith in Victorian uniform. There is no mobile phone. No computer. Just quiet. This is of course not real.
In truth, my writing room is
awash with disorder, with panic. There is disruption every few minutes –
distraction every twenty seconds. The doorbell rings, the phone beeps,
somewhere downstairs I hear the sound of the television being switched on and a
voice declaiming the wondrous properties of Cillit Bang drifts up the stairs to
me. One square of Lindt Extra Creamy rests guiltily behind a copy of Heat
magazine, next to unpaid parking fines and old ink cartridges for a printer that
refuses to work. Daphne Du Maurier, Nancy Mitford and Sue Townsend works are
absolutely banned – I can’t possibly start reading stuff that good or I will
fall into a pit of despair and never write again. The desk is trembling on the
brink of chaos.
But who needs a photograph of that? Let’s stick to the
dream, the aspiration…
If we can’t have that, then what can we have?
The Misinterpretation of Tara Jupp by Eva Rice is out now!