After a few years of sitting all day at your desk job, you decided to pursue a literary career. You were dead tired all this time. You've been planning a trip to Vietnam, Thailand, and Cambodia, and you wanted to do it on your own. Your friends were quite disappointed because you didn't ask them (to be your travel buddies). You didn't tell them that this could be your chance to write in solitude. If George Orwell did it in the harsh Scottish terrain, then you would be able to do it in a foreign land. You didn't do enough researching, though.
You were in a park in Ho Chi Minh, with the Independence Palace not far away. You tried to enjoy this side of the capital, while thinking of a chapter or two on a story you would write. You were about to come up with your first sentence when the unexpected happened. Ten locals approached you, and they were eager to practice their English with you. You were surprised, unable to say a word. You were in Chiang Mai several weeks later, staring at Wat Phra That Doi Suthep. You were thinking of an adventurer who stumbled into Siam during the 19th century, and he was awed at the gold. But you couldn't think of another line. There were too many backpackers, and they wanted to take pictures. They didn't notice your annoyance. You had your last chance in Siem Reap, while waiting for the sunrise at Bayon Temple. You avoided the throngs of tourists who wanted a shot of Angkor Wat. You were intrigued by the howling of the feral dogs from the distance, but the humidity was becoming unbearable. You struggled to compose a paragraph.
You were back home two months later, and you admitted that writing in solitude was impossible. You thought it might be the location until something dawned on you. The following things came to mind:
A room will do. Henry David Thoreau wrote "Walden" in a small cabin. It was good enough for him. Your room would do, but the rainfall could put you into a mood. You would look out of the window and imagine the French Riviera. You were savoring the warm afternoon until a stranger approached you. She made an offer you couldn't refuse. What happened next would be the next chapter of your mystery novel.
Your trips could be valuable. You might not find the time to concentrate on your story, as there were too many distractions. (And staying in hostels didn't help.) But you could revisit it. And it would give you an idea for a novel. (Alex Garland did it. Not once, but twice.) Not a travel blog, though.
Jack Kerouac was rather special. It dawned on you that you couldn't go to extremes, which Jack Kerouac did. The full moon party might be an exception. You were reluctant to write down the details, though.
