From Road to Revelation: How Travel Fuels My Fiction

Last week, I wrote about the anticipation of our road trip. The packed bags, the final checklist, Rupert’s tail wagging at the mention of “Crete.” Today, I’m writing from the other side of the journey. We’ve arrived.

Balcony view this afternoon, mountains and sea.

There’s something about crossing borders—literal and emotional—that stirs the creative soil. The long drive, the changing landscapes, the ferry’s hum beneath our feet… each moment felt like a materialisation of new twists, adventures and characters. I found myself narrating notes when walking Rupert, imagining how wasteland behind a hotel in France might be a body dump or how a rickety stair bannister in Italy could lead to a victim falling to their death from a push. Travel doesn’t just inspire me—it immerses me in the sensory details that make fiction feel alive.

Crete greets me like an old friend. The air is different here—saltier, slower, more forgiving. I’ve already started writing the next novel and written notes about various characters we've met along the way. They might just become a witness, murderer or victim in the next story. These real-world encounters are never just background, they’re the heartbeat of my stories.

Arriving isn’t just about geography. It’s about shifting into a new rhythm. Here, I write differently. I plot while I swim. I walk without a destination and let the story find me. The road trip itself was a kind of narrative arc—tension, release, discovery—and now I’m in the resolution phase, ready to edit, to deepen, to write with the clarity that only movement can bring.

If last week’s post was about the promise of travel, today’s is about its payoff. I’m here. I’m inspired. And the next chapter is already whispering.

Have a great week,

Helen xx