**Breathe, one, two, three, wait before jumping over the edge.**
Mine is a cursed heart and was the moment I told the tall, lanky man that I wanted to kiss him. Who knew he’d kiss me back, or that kiss would send me spiraling out of control? Since that moment, I took to writing love letters. I write letters of love, of anger, or loss, of ache, or pain, and from almost the same instance, we started our love affair, I wrote ‘love me no more’ letters, and please ‘ release me letters’. I beg him to be strong and not contact me—since I am the weaker one—but apparently he is weaker than I since he has never truly let me get too far away or go too long without pulling me back in. He goes silent for a while, which hurts at first but I gradually resume normal breathing until he pops up in my instant message window, and we tango, spare, and begin again.
Some people blog to tell a story, to confess, to become famous, and then there are those of us who come out of the closet with their heartache with the wild notion of self-curing. I don’t know if that will happen here or not, but there isn’t anything to be lost.
Over the edge, and damn the rules….
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Dear Lover~
I enjoy the overstuffed Laura Ashley chinch cushions scattered carelessly around my cerebral office, like a cup of Joe on the go, so is my office. An anywhere room to retreat to, make notes in, to take comfort in, to sip Coppla’s Claret from cut crystal wine glasses, as needed. I purposely decorated the virtual Room of my Own to resemble the real one—it reduced my bank balance by eighty thousand dollars and the single biggest purchase in my vast, and color-tainted life—because the physical room is the gateway to me. It’s where my girl and boy collect. ‘Mommy, can I? Where are my…? Do you know..? I need twenty dollars. Do we have the book called Wuthering Heights?’ I wonder if the eighty thousand was wasted. 
To the left of me is solid and lanky dead asleep. To my right in the corner under the watercolor is my computer. Inside of me is my muse pushing me out of my bed away from a solid known quantity to the right hand corner of my room where the blank white word document and blinking curser are waiting impatiently. She woke me from a peaceful and physically sated deep sleep, solid and lanky is responsible for this. My nasty muse saw a woman today in red boots, they were not the sexy sort with pointy toes, high heels, nor were they sporting the words Tony Lama. 
Disconnected.
I use my blog as a writer’s journal. We writers are supposed to keep track of our thoughts and observations; the annotations in our journal are the fodder for our stories and missives. If you adhere to the credo on writing, a writer should have at least one journal, but more is better because a writer’s thoughts are diverse, and having more than one allows the writer to catalog and keep track of those diverse thoughts. Not able to grasp the concept of multiple journals I only kept one, but I ended up writing ‘Dear Diary’ entries, ‘ he loves me, he loves me not’ and after the first month or so would leave my journal at the bottom on my bag collecting purse crumbs. Determined to conquer journaling because of the innate benefits the writer yields from the daily practice I started quizzing other writers about their respective writing processes. 
Tall and lanky, ethereal and elusive, is mine.
On the eve of the New Year, not the one that just passed couple of days ago, the previous one, I had an idea for a short story. I wrote passionately for several days and quickly realized it was a book length tale, and not short fiction. I didn’t think of my story as a book because doing so would require a commitment, and since I have issues with committing to a weekly television show I didn’t think I could say aloud to myself that I was writing a book. I continued referring to it as a ‘story’.
