Writing in a cave, I am. The drip drip drip of the excessive moisture seeps from the soaked cement roof. Puddles accumulate around my feet. Dampness hits bone.
Healthy environment? Probably not. But this is a timely conversation to have.
Time management in my writing has been the topic of ongoing internal debate. So much so that I'm sure it is just another piece of my procrastinating the revision of my book. While I am pondering how to manage my time, I am not revising.
I believe the exercise of having my writer's desk in this funky artist commune-of-sorts has ironically illustrated that I do not and should not have to pay money to do my art when all it takes is sitting at a desk or table. No easels, no paints, no fumes.
Since entering this art/writing space, I have also become more integrated into our little community- Ngunguru, New Zealand. Suddenly, like-minded women are at every turn, outgoing and kind.
I have a lovely meditation group I go to with lovely people. I've met the co-editor of our little local newsie print The Coastie, and have had my photo placed in it and have written a piece for them. I've met a lovely raku pottery artist who I keep running into, my neighbor and horse-riding buddy, as well as, another neighbor extraordinaire who is also an exquisite massage therapist, (How did we get so lucky?), other parents . . . the list grows weekly.
So even though I share space with a kindred soul, we aren't there working simultaneously, and I know we are going to be friends no matter. With gas costing over eight USD gallon, it seems a bit silly to be driving away from my nest to write and paying even a small amount of rent.
I shall further ponder my dilemma to the rhythm of the drip drip drip. And get to the writing.