In addition to my dream of writing a book that people can’t wait to read, I have this recurring fantasy:

We own a bookstore downtown, a few blocks from our house.  We walk to work.  Our gem of a store is a small-ish space with high ceilings and dark wood walls and well-worn rugs.  We have a collection of rare books, but also an entire section of our own books, which people can browse or borrow or read right there in our shop.  We have story hour for kids every afternoon.  A French tutor has her own corner where she works with kids after school.  We have author readings twice a month, some famous, most not.  There are high-backed, leather library chairs, lamps that put off just the right amount of light, and a huge stone fireplace that blazes even in summertime.  We serve wine and coffee.  There’s a house dog and a house cat, and neighbors and friends and strangers wander in and out, just to say hello or to sit for spell and talk about books.