Writing is a passion that drives me to the brink, and sometimes over. I hate it, love it, covet it, dream it, and cry over it. I found a voice, maybe three, sometimes four, by writing. It's all true what the established writers say to those of us up and coming, just write and do it often, as much as you can even when you don't want to, can't or won't.

I found writing during the worst time of my life. I was in my very own personal perfect storm with me in the middle of it…

A friend said that to me a over a glass of Sonoma Cutrer, Chardonnay. We were catching up on the years between her marriage and migration to the East Coast, and my marriage and subsequent migration to London. Life was the broader topic of our conversation, but by glass three we had drilled down to our personal frustrations with our own selves, such as our life, shoe size, the breadth of derriere, the loose skin and tighter…

 I keep a journal in my black messenger bag that I lug back and forth with me to the office.  I am not a journal-er, but I write every day in e-mode.  I want desperately to write in a journal using my sexy hunter green Mont Blanc or my vamp-red Cross Fountain Pen that is heavenly to hold.  It's a commitment that is difficult to keep.  My handwriting is all loops and dips, it angles left and right, and is a combo of printing and cursive.  I'm sure an expert's report after a cursory analysis…