Earlier this week, a friend asked me where I see myself in five years. I'm nineteen now, which would make me twenty-four. I gave a short, probable answer but now I've had time to think about it, I'd like to tweak it slightly. Let's picture the scene:
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| Future Terri? |
Future Terri wakes up in her flat, the rent of which is paid for by her long-term, full-time job in a publishing house. She pulls back the curtains and is blinded by the first glimmers of sunlight gracing the east end of London. She stretches, back joints popping, then tiredly pulls on some clothes.
After a light half an hour jog around the local park, Future Terri lets herself back in the flat and is greeted by her pet (beagle? ferret? Not sure - but there is definitely a furry pet). She has a shower , feeds the pet and then checks her emails whilst eating breakfast.
Future Terri pauses. An email from the publishers who recently picked up her novel - it will be in shops next week Monday and they have sent her an image of the cover. Future Terri's heart starts to pitter-patter inside her chest and her chewing slows to a stop. Look at it. My book. Frantically, Future Terri scoffs down her cereal in record time and conference calls her best friends to share the update.
They would be as ecstatic as her if it weren't so early in the morning - they hang up one by one, each grumbling their congratulations. Future Terri laughs, her spirits high. She scratches her furry companion between the ears before wandering into the living room. Her eyes fall on the coffee table and then the bookshelf - it won't be long until her name is featured there among the sea of authors.
Future Terri throws herself on the egg-shaped armchair, a soft smile playing on her lips. She thinks back to that blog post she wrote five years ago, speculating about her life...
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