My week away from civilisation, in which I sought inspiration and found only a long, deep silence

This August I set off alone to the house in the mountains of south-west France that my husband and I visit intermittently. I was hoping to write copiously and come up with reams of ideas for novel 4 (novel 2 is now finished and novel 3 is awaiting a final edit).

A week without a dog to walk or a hungry chap to feed, unplugged from the wider world… I imagined a sun-infused creative outpouring, ideas flowing while I yielded to the slower rhythms of a remote region that’s peaceful even in the height of summer, with way more cows and goats around than inhabitants. As we have no TV in the house, there’d be few distractions…

What actually happened was nothing like my imaginings, of course. I began writing a journal of sorts to cope with my sense of isolation, the darkness, a dead mouse and so on. This turned into a piece for TripFiction about my experience, which you can read here My Week Alone in a Remote French Village: 10 things I learned

Some photos from the week:



Inspiration is clearly not something that can be scheduled. Happily, I’m now deep into the short story I mentioned in an earlier post.

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