There was a giant centipede on the front step. Its body was slowly being eaten by ants. Welcome home.
Inside everything was sticky from the humidity - the walls, the dishes, the countertops, chairs, tables, even somehow the bed linens. The bathroom was in a permanent state of funk, the shower curtain long ago ceasing to be of the realm of the living. A gentle, hot breeze wafted through the open window. Sweat greased the edges of the writer's hairline and pooled on her lower back, stinging her fresh tattoo. She reached into the fridge for some yogurt-ish dairy-like snack. The container was covered in a layer of slippery moisture. She was grateful it was plastic and not paper.
The apartment was shared space. Last night while she was reclusive in her upstairs bedroom (the bed smelled of mould) the dining area of the apartment had been overtaken by a fellow from New Zealand, a mate of his from the island, and someone from South America he'd met somewhere who claimed to be a shaman. She'd declined an offer to join them with wine, attempting to stay the course of being faithful to her writing instead of the so-called sins of the flesh. (Or was that pleasures of the flesh?) When she awoke hours later from her nap to discover it wasn't midnight and the party downstairs was full of obnoxious stories being told, she wished to reconsider her decision. In the end she decided that she was feeling far too self-conscious to possibly pull of the dramatic entrance required of such an incredibly late arrival to the party. Also, she had no gifts, and was under the impression that it was uncool to arrive at a party with a shaman and not bring gifts, even if she thoroughly doubted his shamanic abilities. Whatever the case, party demonstrated that he did have the ability to tell a story and captivate an audience, which is at least half the gift.
The island was paradise, but for the purpose of her mission it was not nearly run-down and dirty enough. Mission? To work on a book started in what felt like a prior life, so very long ago. This mission was about to be interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, who, she was quite certain, had only decided to follow her to such a remote place in the south Pacific with the intention of repairing their relationship. She was adamant that this would not happen. The fact that he'd planned to stay for nearly the whole month put a severe damper on her plans to write. The island was too small to hide from each other, especially given they had so much in common in terms of interests.
The space she'd been hoping to find for writing, the ideal space, would have been much more run down, dirty, more hovel-like. The kind of space where she wouldn't feel bad cracking a cold Cook's Lager at 8 a.m., or not showering every day, or wearing out the same pair of island shorts and white shirt, now just a little too dirty from being worn every day. The book demands that kind of atmosphere.

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My profile picture on this blog was taken by said ex boyfriend on the island of Rarotonga. My book is still largely unfinished, but if it ever does get finished, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I invite comments as to why I feel the need for dank little hovels as the best creative space...