Spoiler alert: I didn’t go to Morocco to find myself. I went to escape British drizzle, overcooked pasta, and the particular chaos of trying to write a novel while also juggling jobs, life admin, and a vague sense that I should probably own a succulent or something

But as it turns out, Morocco had other plans.

It all started with a lock. Or rather, a lock that didn’t. The door to our hotel room had what can only be described as a decorative latch—charming, yes, but about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, when a stray cat decided to let itself in. Add to that a surprise cameo by a cockroach the size of a small corgi and the curious incident of the man who wandered into our room and said, ‘Your door was open, honest,’ as if that explained everything, and you’ve got the beginnings of a very peculiar short story.

So naturally, I took notes. On a napkin. While eating tagine. Because when life hands you confusion and couscous, you might as well use it for character development.

Somewhere between the souks and the sunburn (yes, I got burnt through SPF 50; my skin insists on going a shade of puce before turning golden brown for all of six minutes), I started to notice my brain doing something odd. It was ticking. Not with anxiety, for once, but with story ideas. Snippets of dialogue. Settings. That old familiar itch to open a document and make something happen.

Back at the riad, I did not, in fact, mentally cast a Moroccan noir thriller. I got a massage that was less ‘relaxation’ and more ‘oily rub from a stranger in a broom cupboard.’ And for the first time in weeks, I wanted to write, not because I had to, but because it felt like a game again.

That said, inspiration for early medieval England is surprisingly thin on the ground in the middle of the medina. I am still working on my sequel (which is technically a prequel, but still a sequel—yes, it’s confusing, no, I don’t have a flowchart). And the sum total of work I achieved on holiday was taking out the first draft, staring at it for a moment, and then choosing a poolside lemon daiquiri and Fourth Wing instead. (Still undecided on that series. Dragons: great. Everything else: jury’s out.)

Of course, the fantasy was short-lived. As soon as we landed back in Manchester (cheaper flights than Newcastle), real life leapt from the shadows like a budget airline surcharge. My inbox was feral. My washing pile had staged a coup. And my new job—fantastic though it is—mostly involves a lot of driving, snack logistics, and wondering if my car now counts as a second home

So naturally, I decided this was the ideal moment to recommit to my one and only writing project with all the dedication of someone who definitely isn’t procrastinating via snacks. Because if you’ve never experienced the thrill of opening a Word doc while your to-do list screams in the background, are you even a writer?

Writing now happens in odd moments. It’s chaotic. It’s sporadic. It occasionally involves shouting at my laptop like it’s an uncooperative spirit. But—somehow—words are appearing.

I’d like to say Morocco gave me deep, writerly revelations. It didn’t. But it did give me perspective. And a sunhat I now wear indoors because I can’t bear to let the vibe die.

Mostly, I came home with a camera roll full of crooked photos, half a tan, and a rekindled sense of why I do this in the first place. Not for the deadlines, or the algorithms, or the crushing pressure to Be A Brand. But for the weird joy of turning life into fiction. Of seeing the world—however chaotic—and thinking, “Yep. That’s going in a book.”

So if you’re feeling stuck, maybe you don’t need to find yourself. Maybe you just need a minor hotel catastrophe, a few mystery insect encounters, and a change of scenery. Or, failing that, just write about mine. I promise it’s weirder than fiction.