An Island with a Hammock

I have a dream.  Really, I’m not that politically inclined.  It’s more of a fantasy.  Here, now.  Just because I’m a romance writer, you don’t need to go there either.  This dreamy fantasy of mine involves a beautiful tropical island, me, two shady trees and a comfy hammock suspended between them.  Here is the key part, also washed up on the island is a huge trunk of books.  All kinds of books: classics, history, poetry, literature.  All books I haven’t read but have been meaning to but never have the time to dedicate to such serious literature.  Like Don Quixote and stuff like that.  So I lay in my hammock, swaying gently in the tropical breeze, under the shade of the trees (remember my sunburn issue) and read and read and read.  No work to go to, no revisions to complete, no whining kids, no telephone.  And when the books are all finished, lo but another trunk washes up on the beach and a whole new batch of books. 

And if Johnny Depp should happen along with a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich that would be OK, too.  Maybe I’d let him rub my feet, so long as he didn’t talk because I’m trying to read.  Ya know?