The story goes that I first had the idea for "The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy" while lying drunk in a field in Innsbruck.
Now, this may well be true.
It sounds plausable. It certainly has a certain familar ring to it. Unfortunately, I've only got my own word for it now, because the constant need to repeat the story has now completely obliterated my memory of the actual event.
However, I wouldn't like to create the impression that all a writer has to do is sit in a field cramming himself with a couple of Stella Artoises where upon a passing idea will instantly pounce on him, and then it's all over bar the typing. An idea is only an idea.
An actual script, on the other hand, is hundreds of ideas bashed around, screwed up, thrown into the trash can, fished out of the trash can an hour later and folded up into thick wads and put under the leg of a table to stop it from wobbling. And then the same again for the next line, and the next and so on, until you have a whole page or the table finally keels over.
The problem is that you can't just go off and rave it up in a field every time you need an idea, so you just have to sit there and think of the little bastards. And if you can't think of them you just have to sit there. Or think of an excuse for doing something else. That's quite easy. I'm very good at thinking of reasons for suddenly having a quick hot bath or a sandwich. Which is why truthful explanations of how writers get ideas tend to be rather dull:
I sat and stared out the window for a while, trying to think of a good name for a character. I told myself that, as a reward, I would let myself have a sandwich once I thought of it.
I stared out the window some more and thought that probably what I really needed to help get the creative juices hoinh was to have a sandwich now, which presented me with a problem that I could only successfully resolve by thinking it over in the bath.
One hour, a bath, three sandwiches, another bath and a cup of coffee later, I realised that I still hadn't thought of a good name for a character, and decided that I would try calling him Zaphod Beeblebrox and see if that worked.
I sat and stared out the window for a while, trying to think of something for him to say...
Zaphod was a three sandwich idea. Arthur Dent came quite easily after a couple of cookies and a cup of tea. Vogon poetry I remember being a tough one, which came after several miles of rampaging around the country lanes of Stallbridge, Dorset in a track suit while trying to work off the effects of thinking up the Babel Fish; six slices of toast and peanut butter, a bag of chips and a quick shower.
Reading through what I've written so far, I feel I must correct the impression that writing is all done with sandwiches, because there is a lot of playing the guitar very loudly as well.
This used only mildly to irritate the neighbors when I just had an acoustic guitar which I would practice intricate fingerpicking styles on when suffering from writer's block. However, since I bought a Fender Stratocaster a couple of years ago, even a mild case of searching for le mot juste can now cause pain and anger along most of Upper Street.
I also suffer from the fallacy of thinking that playing music will help you work. It doesn't. You end up listening to the music and then you have to start work all over again...