I dream of having a wonderful, small but perfectly formed writer's shack (with bathroom) by the sea in my favourite county, Dorset. Unfortunately, I'm a poor writer, and cannot afford it.
As much as I love London and the cultural opportunities it offers, I find myself more and more attracted by the quietness, the emptiness, the beauty and mystery of the countryside and repulsed by the shallowness of life in urban areas (and of what passes of "urban culture" nowadays). I am not a sociable person at all.
Then I hear that my parents have gone mad and purchased a small holiday house in the mountains. Guess where I'll be writing next year? (shame it's in France and not Dorset, though).
Cute, isn't it?
I think therefore I write.
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