Dreamer 

"Dream lofty dreams and as you dream, so shall you become…"

In honour of our new section on the forum "Wishing and Hoping", I want to talk about dream’s. Not the mature cheddar fuelled wild dvd’s I watch in my sleep every evening, but the ones I think about when I am up to my elbows in soap suds. The dreams that keep me awake at night. The hope and ambition that drives me, kind of all around the world, towards my authentic self…

I am not talking about my hopes for Finn (May you be healthy an happy.), or my hopes for Mark and I (May we always have each other.). Or even all that I wish for world peace and harmony. I am talking about me. What I want to do. Be. Become….

I have said before that BrocanteHome is the culmination of all my ambition. And it is true. It really is. God knows it’s taking a whole lot longer to become what I intend it to be, but I have laid out a flower strewn path and I am willing to follow it, to achieve professionally, something I consider to be somewhat of a vocation. Yep, a quick mooch through my archives will prove it hasn’t been an easy ride. I have made a whole lot of mistakes and hell, I am willing to put my hand up and say, yes, that was a bit rubbish, and this was over ambitious, and no, I shouldn’t make too many promises until I can be certain I can deliver them, but the fact is that I am quick to realise when things aren’t right, and I truly believe that is because the details may not have worked themselves out yet, but I am 100% behind the bigger picture, mostly because for the very first time in my life, I painted it, and whatever it may become, it is truly, authentically mine…

But BrocanteHome isn’t a dream. It is my life. The culmination of professional ambition. My job. And I don’t think that that is a bad thing, because as BrocanteHome has established itself more firmly in my mind, I find myself with more head space to concentrate on my other dream.

I haven’t got hundreds of dreams. I don’t want or need much. I don’t dream of great riches (good job really!), big houses or flashy cars. I don’t even want to change the world. I want what I have always wanted: to write and to be published and yes I know that is wholly un-original, but it is all I really want, and if in thirty years time I find myself sitting in this house, this chair, holding a book with my name on it- it will be enough.

I’m not going to tell you I have always written. I wasn’t penning literary works of art at the age of eight or stunning my teachers with my way with words. I wasn’t. I was busy wishing and hoping to be a fashion designer.  I was busy drawing ladies with pointy heads wearing jackets with shoulder pads. I was busy planning a lifetime of seeing my beautiful dreams flounce down a runway. I was busy battling my way through the first year of an art course which has no comparisons in terms of sheer hard graft and disappointment. And when it was over, when I had secured my place on a revered knitwear design degree course (OH, THE IRONY!), I saw a competition in Elle magazine,  for young writers, entered and found myself a runner up.  So I took up a career in interior design, because I suffer from a very peculiar form of  arrogance that makes winning the only thing that matters, and once I am halfway to achieving it, move on to the next challenge. Just to see how bright my star will shine in that arena. 

I painted walls in the day and scribbled down my dreams in the evening and I pretended it didn’t matter. I attended and abandoned rubbishy "Learn to Write" courses, one after the other and learnt nothing, and still I wrote and wrote, until a character became so real in my head I mixed her up with who I am and nearly let her ruin my life.  And then I got a letter from an open university course I had attended telling me that my coursework had recieved the highest grade they had ever offered and had I thought about seeking a publisher, and I laughed and put dear little Beatrice, and all the "Thing’s We Are Not Allowed To Feel" (the name of my novel), into the back of a drawer and entered a poetry competition, judged by the Poet Laureate Andrew Motion, and bizarrely I won, and I collected my prize money and resolved never to write another word, and then I started this blog, and before I knew it I was writing daily and the fact that I am not actually writing what I truly, authentically, should be, doesn’t matter a jot. Or does it?

You see it bothers me. My dream keeps me awake at night. Contrary to popular belief I don’t lie in bed thinking about the magical bleaching qualities of organic lemons (Ok, just occasionally!), I lie in bed muddling through my main characters turbulent relationship with her Mother. And then the next day I get up and write about lemons.

A few days ago, I was in Borders, when I spotted a notice about a writers group they are starting on a Monday night. The first assignment is to write 1500 words about a journey. And as I sat with my grand latte and a slice of victoria sponge, already the charcters were forming in my mind. But I won’t write it. And I won’t go. I want to, but I won’t. Not unless someone straps me into their car and drives me there…

Oh I know I am here to show you the way to living a life abundant with dreams. But I am human and I need a hand to hold too. So let’s do it together. BrocanteHome is proof that with a little work and a whole lot of dedication, dreams do come true (hell, who would have thought I’d be on TV because I followed my dream?) so I am offering you my dreams on a plate, and I am offering you the opportunity to tell me yours

Let’s make them real together. You hold my hand and I will hold yours…