What’s your dream?
Right at the end of Pretty Woman, when Julia Roberts is (ahem) rescued from the skanky down-town bedsit by her Knight in Shining Armour as he pansies his way up the fire escape, red rose gripped between his chattering teeth, the voice of a local vagrant can be heard, saying ‘Welcome to Hollywood. What’s your dream?’
Well, fortunately for me, I don’t need saving from a life of prostitution, and Gav’s really not good with horses, so I eliminated the need for him to gallop anywhere on his trusty white steed some while back.
Let’s also get the obvious Miss World responses out of the way for the sake of completeness:
- World Peace;
- Obama to remain as US president for an eternity, in the absence of any viable alternatives;
- Anything at all relating to my daughter and her having a joyous, prosperous and pain-free future (including not ending up falling for an arsehole, avoiding a legal career, and generally deferring adulthood for as long as humanly possible);
- A permanent end to the persistent problem of ‘roots’ for a pseudo-blonde (I actually gave this as a ‘serious’ answer during one Training Contract assessment day at a high profile City law firm in my mid-20s. I was unsuccessful.)
One Monday morning in May 2015, I walked into Waterstone’s bookshop on Princes St in Edinburgh. I gazed around at the thousands of titles lining the shelves, and felt mild panic at ever having to leave. ‘This is it,’ I remember thinking to myself. ‘This is my dream.’ I knew in that moment that one day, I would have my very own pristine, hard copy book for sale in that bookshop. Not in any bookshop: in THAT one.
Things have moved on in terms of bookshop layout and design, and boy, do these guys know their craft: Tables piled high with silky, smooth hard copies; crisp paperbacks stacked up like Jenga next to chalk boards displaying handwritten notes about The Author. A peace transcends the floors as bookworms and other general moochers peruse back covers, whilst the more focused muse over the self-helps (* the obvious exception to this being the Children’s Book section. I quick-stepped through this one, and hurdled at least two semi-abandoned toddlers.)
The day before, I’d completed the Edinburgh half marathon in a dream time of 1:30 (…and 45 seconds). I inched my way up the stairs (there are shit loads of them – especially on dead legs) thinking I couldn’t fall any more deeply in love with a bookshop.
And then I did.
I saw the coffee shop. Now, this really isn’t an advert for Waterstones, in Edinburgh. I am unashamedly a bookshop fanatic. I cried real, heartfelt tears when Borders closed through insolvency some years ago. ‘But how could it go bust? I spent a FORTUNE in there!’ my logical brain grappled to comprehend, but found no answer.
There was something special about that day, back in May 2015. I lined up and ordered my Extra Hot Skinny Mocha, and then took my seat at the one remaining table. It just so happened to be the two-seater with a perfectly unspoilt view of the castle.
I sat down, and began to write. I was writing the book that would sit stacked up – like perfect, polished Jenga blocks – on a table near the top of the stairs, enticing passing mocha-drinkers and rocky-road eaters on their way to the Café with a View. My chalk board would stand next to the table, with a short biography of The Author, Rachel Cullen. I saw it all: My Dream.
A year went by and I continued to write. Races came and went; chapters were written and rewritten; successes intermingled with disappointments, and life – as tends to happen – moved on.
August 2016 came around, and I somehow piggybacked a low cost return trip to Edinburgh by virtue of Gav’s business trip (he’d be lonely without me – for all of one night – I reasoned.)
As Gav left for the Edinburgh Office early next morning, I set off walking in search of my bookshop. I ignored silver-sprayed street entertainers mid-performance, and barely glanced at the kilted man giving his bagpipes CPR on the street corner; I weaved through bemused tourists and their oversized luggage, and hop-scotched small children in prams. I blanked dazzling SALE displays in otherwise debt-inducing dress shops, and I even walked straight past the latest running gear on show in a funky sports shop window. All to get to my literary spiritual home. Will MY table be free? The two-seater with a castle view? I wondered. What if someone else is sitting there? Do I politely ask them to leave? You can see this getting a little out of hand.
I saw the ‘W’ sign approaching in the distance and increased my pace. My bags felt heavy, weighted down with laptops and other apparently necessary plug-in devices, but once there, I didn’t plan on moving for quite some time.
Once up the stairs, I turned right. My table was taken, but I had a plan.
“Large Extra hot skinny mocha, please,” I said to the kind looking assistant who looked at me and smiled, as though she’d seen me before. Telepathically, she knew I was in for the long haul.
I sat down to write. Only this time, I wasn’t writing my book. I was packaging it up to send out into the universe, to see if someone, somewhere would also share my vision – the hardback Jenga table display in Waterstones, Edinburgh with accompanying chalk board. I wrote for hours. I broke down my synopses to cover all of the possible why’s and how’s necessary to convince some invisible, unknown publisher that my book should be spared from the Slush Pile. I knew it wasn’t perfect; I knew it still needed work, but I believed it deserved the chance to stand shiny, polished and proud on that table.
The universe listened.
It’s now early November, 2016. And as things stand, my dream looks like it may well become a reality in January 2018.
*and again, for the purpose of concluding matters, my imminent and pending dream list also includes:
- a sub-3:15 time at Virgin London Marathon 2017;
- to run Boston marathon 2018 for my 40th birthday (I already have a qualifying time);
- A vision relating to my work, which would be unfair to share at this moment in time;
- A permanent end to the persistent problem of ‘roots’ for a pseudo-blond (Or even a semi-permanent one will do.)