I have spent an entire unproductive morning combing the pages of estate agents and letting agents for affordable little cottages or flats with pretty vistas in Cornwall and no such thing exists. [Although letting–renting for you Yanks–is much more approachable than buying.]
Why am I doing this?
I. Don’t. Know!
And since I am not going to move to Cornwall or even spend an extended period there, meaning, I don’t have to actually be able to afford anything I see, thus could find a gorgeous manor with sea vistas and hopping distance from the coastal path, you’d think this would be a pleasant morning’s diversion.
But no, oh no, not for me.
I may have to write a book about a woman who lives my imaginary life in Cornwall.
Which leaves me wondering, do I plot sex or murder?
Will this be romance or thriller?
I do not have time for this book that I am not going to write just so I can live in an imaginary flat with a gorgeous sea view in Cornwall which I cannot afford which means I will probably have a view of the garden [if I am lucky] or step straight out the door into the street [if I choose a place in the village so I’m walking distance to pub, chippie and shopping].
[bookmarking all pages so can return to
daydreaming research work this afternoon]
Where does your imaginary you live?
“Before you can inspire with emotion, you must be swamped with it yourself.
Before you can move their tears, your own must flow.
To convince them, you must yourself believe.”