It’s mid-January and, in the UK, very cold. Today, the sun is valiantly trying to push through the cloud, but in general everything is quite winterish. There is a certain appeal to brisk walks through crispy frosted streets, but the smart money is largely on staying indoors, in close proximity to blankets, radiators, fires, kettles, etc.

I am sitting in a cosy little nook, on a sofa, in a hotel. A trip away with a friend fell through for a second time, and I thought: well, instead of cancelling, I shall go by myself, and have a nice little writing break with occasional outbursts of sightseeing.

Since the daily requirements of #drabbletober came to an end, I have done almost no writing. Some life-stuff got in the way, Christmas happened, my day-job kept me quite busy… I have done some odds and bits of editing, and I have sent some stories out into the world (and received a few rejections). But somehow it is more than two months since I have done anything to bring a new story into being.

That, I decided, would not do. And so this is why - despite being in an unfamiliar town - I am sitting on the sofa and not exploring. Or not exploring much. I have been for a prowl around its quirky streets, and admired its river and (from a distance) its castle. Yesterday, I restocked my supply of general-purpose greetings cards in an interesting-looking shop, and had a slightly odd conversation with the cashier about how the local vicar is an excellent barista.

This morning I gave myself a break to visit the town museum, which was a pleasantly bite-sized affair of two rooms, and I had a fun conversation with the museum’s human about pomegranates. I have definitely let myself out for meals. Breakfast this morning was yoghurt, fruit and granola with toast and marmite, and a latte. And several conversations with different members of the waiting staff about damsons, about how it’s not obvious which of yoghurt and toast-and-marmite one should eat first at breakfast, and about a walk I could do to get some good views of the town. Honestly, I’m not sure whether this place is well-set up for luring in tourists or whether everyone is just nice and inclined to chat.

Thus far, I have reviewed some submissions calls, and decided I don’t have any good ideas for them (yet). I started planning for a story I had outlined in my head, and realised that the entire premise doesn’t really work in the slightest. I played with a few other angles for the story, and decided to set it to one side for now. I’ve re-visited the half-story I recently found in my notebook, and decided that I still have no bloody idea where it was going. (Note to past-me: outlines are useful for more than one thing, you know!)

However, I have also actually cajoled some words into lining up into sentences. I don’t know how many words, because I am writing in a notebook with a pencil, and thus counting words is a massive faff. Probably not enough words, not yet, but it’s only mid-afternoon.

And I have, as you know, written a blog post.

Words are happening.

Is it necessary to take oneself away to a hotel in a strange town to make writing happen? Of course not (which is just as well, really). Would I have got more written had I stayed at home? Possibly not - I wouldn’t have had museums to visit, but I would have found a whole bunch of odd jobs that needed doing. Plus I would have been grumpy about the trip I’d been looking forward to having been cancelled. As it is, I’m having a nice time, and words are happening. I’ll take that!

Finally, for those who enjoy a follow-up: after I sent my rewritten story to Charlie, it was indeed rejected for a second time. Although, again, with a generous amount of feedback. However, the story has just received a hold notice from another very exciting market (meaning that the first-round readers liked it, and have sent it a step up the chain towards the big decision-making editor at the top). So perhaps all is not lost!