I recently got back from a holiday to Kangaroo Island, and I have to say there is nothing like a holiday in a quiet place with fantastic scenery to get the mind back on track for writing.
A couple of short stories finished, another started for an anthology, two longer works started. (One of these involves a corrupt cop, the girls who do his dirty work, and the innocent victim of it all… names have been a challenge.) And one of the best aspects is that I did all of this long hand – no typing until I had finished, though the first long story about a Crazy Cat Lady and her daughter has now been transferred to the computer as its length has clocked in at more than 11k words and I haven’t even really introduced the bad guys yet.
But the best thing about going away was the 200+ photos I took (thank the powers that be for digital photography!) and looking back at them, the inspirations for a few more stories staring me right in the face.
Just the whole change of scenery and atmosphere was wonderful. Being able to tell my son about constellations because we could actually see the night sky. Being able to look at wildlife an arm’s length away (monitors, echidnas, New Zealand fur seals et al). Learning about industries I knew nothing about. Everything was just perfect.
I guess if we could afford it, we’d move there. And my writing would surely benefit from everything new and wonderful.
But, still, it wasn’t out first trip – far from it – and we shall return. But what’s really odd is that none of the things I wrote was actually set in Kangaroo Island. It was just everything about it renewed me.