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I would wake up early, 8 or 9, in a warm bed, with an overcast day outside. I'd get up to a clean, warm house, and I'd go for a jog through a lovely, crisp, autumnal little neighborhood.
Returning home, I'd meet up with the woman I've chosen to marry and have coffee, a bagel with the works, and a blueberry muffin for breakfast; then I'd kiss her goodbye and sit down to write. Writing would go smoothly and perfectly, all the words synching up, the plot challenging me but being overcome, the characters all sparking to life; then after writing, I'd get to take a walk through a winter-frosted forest complete with a strange abandoned house and a frozen lake.
From there, I'd go to a job in radio or voice-acting--just part-time, enough to have fun and to help pay the bills.
I'd meet my mom and dad for lunch at a little cafe: something middling-light like the sausage sandwich at the cafe by the Menlo Park Caltrain.
After the late lunch, it's back to work to finish everything up at the "day job".
In the evening, I'd read and watch whatever DVD I'm working my way through at the time, finishing in time for my wife to arrive home and for me to start preparing dinner (assuming we aren't going out for tapas to celebrate something). Then we'd curl up on the couch (because in my perfect day my living room can support a couch) and watch a movie before heading out to live music or a spoken-word event up in San Francisco.
At night, well, at night there'd be sex. Duh. And then we'd snuggle and get enthralled in some deep conversation until we were both to browned and muzzy to try to talk anymore.
That, right there, is my perfect day. Minus the treasure hunt that threads its way through the whole day and at least one opportunity to wear a pirate hat. -
That's a tough one, so, good on you; but I'm going to have to say the deepest thought I ever had was the realization that I could believe in an afterlife without having to believe in a specific construct thereto; my awakening to pantheism was one of the most powerful things to ever happen to me, short of the first time I put pen to paper and wrote a story.
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That's easy: writing professionally and being given full health benefits for it, along with enough money to live medium-well on, travel once or twice a year, and support any kids I may have through college and the start of their own careers.
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I know for a fact I have trouble giving up chicken tenders; something about the soft meat and the breading sticks with me like nothing else, and no matter how hard I try to keep myself away from them, they keep calling to me.
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Tyler Hayes’s Bio
Maker-upper, dream-dreamer, word-smith, semi-sybarite.
