So I went on holiday to Ibiza. The timing was impeccable. First Draft of my novel complete, no real holiday in about 18 months and it’s always nice to get out of London.
It’s always nice to get away from anywhere eventually.
And despite the craving I had to write something…anything…I kept my fingers away from the keyboard and let the juices in my brain ferment.
Some parts of Ibiza are incredibly run down. Half-finished buildings, burnt-out, abandoned cars. Being there before the club season started gave it this ghost town aura. Outdated billboards, fenced off, bleak amusement parks. And barely a fucker around.
Upon realising this, I felt something shift in my skull. Until that point, I had resented going away. Leaving my book, leaving London. What could be gained from going to Ibiza? But the shuttered shop windows and the endless, rocky stony beaches then turned into a source of inspiration rather than a cause of depression.
I won’t give too much away, but my novel is vaguely dystopian and I started to see my characters set in this place. These buildings, these shops, the relentlessly violent sea. I took many pictures and even set up and Instagram and a Pinterest account to log them (and also so I could follow Taylor Swift…ah, Taylor!).
On the 10am flight back to Stanstead, I was pretty sure I was the only one who hadn’t come straight from a club. The gurning guy next to me with the snapback cap and FUCK tattooed across the toes of his left foot went to see Fat Boy Slim last night. ‘It was at Pascha,’ he saidm and not 1998 as I had presumed.
A drunk Scotsman was talking loudly about how he had once killed someone and was kicking the back of my chair throughout the flight. Every now and then he would burst into a torrent of slurred song. He was bald and sunburnt. Fucker looked like a baked bean with eyes.
As the Scotsman began a new verse of some unintelligible song or other with a whack to my chair, I thought right then that swimming back home might have been a less stressful option than taking the Easy Jet flight. But then I scribbled away in my notes and two new characters where born.
FUCK Toes and the Sunburnt Scotsman.
Inspiration strikes from the unlikeliest of places.