Some Dreams

One of the things I want to do whilst in Toronto is write stories.
Or just one long story that could become a published novel.
I want to begin it here and complete it here, thats my goal.

I've been thinking of what I am going to write, where its going to be set and who the characters will be. So far I'm thinking it will be set in New Orleans, mayyyyyyybe in the 1930's or 1940's.
I want my women to wear fab-gorgeous corsets and I want it to have an erotic undercurrent.

Ideally I would write this book whilst living in New Orleans, soaking up its mysterious, romantic atmosphere, its colourful past and present. Listen to the beating hearts and souls of the people who once walked and slept, loved and had their heart broken within it.
Delve into Cajun and Creole worlds.
Follow the ghosts of Voodoo queens.
Its an old dream but a dream which still has oxygen, where a flame still flickers.

I have a sister-dream of doing the same in Tuscany, in some old picturesque villa nestled amongst its rolling hills or reclining on its coastline.
I want to sit at a table with locals and drink wine and eat mouth-melting, sumptuous Italian food with them and listen to their stories.
I want to take my camera, pen and paper and sit in the middle of a field and see and feel for myself why artists are so in love with Tuscany's sunlight, soak up the magical quality in this sunlight they so raved about.

Are these dreams realistic? Dreams are born in the womb of your soul where reality will never touch but where these dreams can eventually emerge dancing into reality.
Only when these dreams are nurtured and cultivated until they're strong enough to see the light of day and withstand the world you move in.

I have to stop this human habit of thinking in the box of 'feasible' and remember that life is to be moulded any damn shape I want it to take. Stop mulling on what is expected of me and go by the compass of my heart.