Paris (or anywhere, really)

This week I went to Paris.

Paris has been such a great inspiration for so many artists and writers and film-makers. It’s an artistic, vibrant city. I thought for sure I would be inspired there. I took a pad and paper, and planned to spend the evenings writing.

Not a thing. Not even a spark. I tried, I really tried,but nothing popped into my head.

Paris is lovely. I can see how it would be inspirational. I have some wonderful memories, which will no doubt find their way into my work. But whilst I was there, I couldn’t write at all. I spent my evenings sitting in corner cafes reading, then going back to the hotel to watch Castle in french.

As soon as I came home, inspiration hit (in quite a delightful way, too!)

This has happened. I went to Haworth, New York, Vienna and Barcelona expecting to be inspired, and it never happened.

I’m not going to say home is the best place to write, because for so many people, leaving home was the beginning of writing. I think what I’m saying – it’s no good going somewhere expecting to be inspired. Not even Paris.

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