My walks to work are filled with fantasies of the way my life might pan out, ranging from the theoretically possible to the frankly fantastical.
I’ve always been a daydreamer. When I was kid, I used to fantasise about developing an ability to communicate with animals; about being a professional dancer; about becoming some kind of charity hero; about being a writer. One of my regular fantasies involved my bedroom opening into a private writing room, a small neat little place with bookshelves and a desk and a treasure trove of stationery. Quite why I felt I needed this at the age of ten I’m not sure – I had a bedroom to myself and a desk that I barely used.
The other day, I looked around my work room and realised that this was my first ludicrous fantasy to come true. I’ve been very lucky to end up with this space, a space that is entirely mine and mostly devoted to writing, and I’m fully aware that I’m not likely to have it forever. But for now, I have that room I dreamed of as a child. Not a necessity, no, but the kind of luxury that enables productivity and a deep sense of satisfaction.
My fantasies have changed a lot since the ones I had as a child, but writing success is still central. I find it grounding in some way, like this must definitely be who I am. Just as well... I don’t think I’d find it anywhere near as satisfying to talk to animals.