I like to dream that I’m wealthy enough that I have a personal assistant. I’ve even named her Jane. Don’t ask me how this joke started, but every so often, I’ll walk past my kitchen sink full of dirty dishes and yell “Jane, get on these dishes, they aren’t going to wash themselves!” I’m sure my neighbors think I’m crazy. Either that or they think I live with a very light-footed roommate named Jane, who I apparently order around a lot. Not that I’d really order a real PA around if I had one … much … but I just like to fantasize about how much easier life would be, how much more I’d accomplish if I didn’t have to do the mundane stuff like dishes, laundry, errands, etc.
I like to think this is just part of my healthy fantasy life. I mean, I’m a writer, I’m supposed to have one of those. If that be the case, sometimes I think I should be a world renown writer with a Pulitzer Prize on my shelf, a couple of them.
What do you think??? Do fiction writers require a healthy fantasy life in order to write well?
PS: by the way, I have bad news. Jane is dead. While on vacation up in Connecticut last October, I came across her headstone. Bitch never did the dishes either!