We were on holiday last week, at a nice little place on the south coast overlooking the English Channel.


I always anticipate that whenever we go on our hols I will have time to do a decent amount of writing. Seems a reasonable expectation to me. But that’s never how it turns out. For one thing, it’s oddly difficult to get time alone to focus on some writing. Not quite sure how that works out but it always does.

Perhaps more unexpectedly, I always seem to lose the urge to write. Or, at least I do for the first few days. It’s like my brain has decided it’s going to chill out and do diddly squat for a while. My note pads and pens sit there, all forlorn.

But usually there comes a point towards the end of the holiday where the underlying urge to write pushes itself back to the surface and I scribble away here and there, grabbing what time I can. This holiday was no different and I managed to end up with a couple of short stories drafted. They need work, but it was a satisfying haul to bring back home.

Here’s a a photo of the stormy welcome we got on arrival.









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