I've heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but the windows are finicky. All communication is done through words, and this one is no different. My heart bleeds ink. Words come pouring out of it onto the plain white page, splattering it with my imagination. My "works of fiction" are not fiction. They are the bleeding heart of my life, my imagination that cannot be contained in my head, but must come out through my fingers. Stories come to life on a page. Characters scramble before my eyes trying to find their way onto the page in front of me. While it all may seem insane, trust me, it is all quite rational. This is my sanity, the words of my bleeding heart of ink. If what follows seems to drift off with no conclusion, characters stuck in the limbo of mid-action, it is not for lack of love or ink, but for the wanderings of my mind going elsewhere. This is a chance to share what has been hidden, to show deep contrast between the black ink and the white paper.
I am a writer who cannot help herself. The ink must be shared with others, and now here it shall. Enjoy my heart, dear reader. Savor what comes out, gulp it down, or turn up your nose. It matters not to me, for the heart bleeds what it must in order to live. I may never be published elsewhere, but here, in the ink, I shall live.
