It's not you... It's me.

Dearest Darling Blogette,

It is with a heavy-heart that I type these words onto your illuminated face.  You, always so eager to see me;  so anxious, so curious to see what words I would splash upon you; what colorful pictures you and I would create together!  You were often as surprised as I by the finished portrait.  You reflected back the indelible letters, words and sentences that possessed my heart, like some literal Dorian Gray.

At times, how you cringed as the words I'd painted on your screen were used against me.  How you stood rigid in your black and white defense, reluctant to give up the letters and erase the self expression that was so lampooned by those who didn't understand us.

Yes, Blogette, you stood by me!  When the world came tumbling down around me, you were there!  You were there for me, beguiling, always tempting forth another image from the darkest recess of my walnut brain. What sanctuary you gave my addled mind; what outlet to vent the words that corroded my heart and burned through my vocal chords; what opportunity to let those who mattered know how much I cared--if they chose to look beyond the glossy tales screen-deep and saw the meaning submerged under the pixels.  Ugh!  Maybe I used you, Blogette!

Yes, damn it all!  Do you not see?  To be heard, a British whisper in the swirling tornado of noise, one must be flamboyant, one must utilize figurative flares.  "Look at me!  Read me!  Love me, you delicious Word Nerd!  You know you want to!"

Oh, it's true.  I treated you like a trophy date, I dressed you in finery with your silky sibilants, your mohair metaphors and your cashmere characters.  I wanted you to be noticed.  Can you blame a writer for that?  How else are we supposed to be heard when other initialed writers simply slap-dash words of tongues and lips and whips, that scream like a literal red-lipsticked hooker?  That trashy broad appeal was never you, my love.  You were not cheap, repetitive, or monosyllabic.  Okay, so maybe a bit repetitive on the subject of relationship effort--but wearing effort on your sleeve was never a bad thing.  You, you had imagery woven through your words like the finest gossamer thread.  You could be bold and brassy, but that was in fun.  Truly, at your core, I know I painted you to be of value, and truth, and honour.  Even if people did not interpret you that way.

And I'm sorry, Blogette, my darling, my love, my weekly amour, for this tryst must end.  My fingers seize, as if in rigor.  How can I give you up?  How?  But I must.  Those words I so lavishly threw upon you like robes of the finest silk, I must rob you of now.  I must take them back, I must undress you and wipe those cosmetic characters from the screen.

My darling, no!  Think not that you bore me!  How could you bore me?  Sometimes you frustrate me, you get me into trouble with those wanton words, but no!  Dressing you up in polysyllables and flaunting you over Facebook and Twitter, would never bore me.

And no.  I have not been cheating.  I look into your beautiful screen, that inspires me, that makes the cogs in my walnut churn and how could I ever cheat?  How?  Your white innocence, that I get to take on this journey and experience everything anew through, is a joy to me.  And yet... Oh B!  Forgive me!  It's not you, it's me!  There is something else.  It's... Another Novel.

Please don't, Blogette!  Spare me your recriminations!  I would that I could have you both, spoil you and lavish strings of pearlised words around you both, but it wouldn't be fair to you.  I cannot split my love, my time, my words equally.  So I will, I must, ask you to be brave, my Sweet.

I can't expect you to appreciate this now, but I do this for you; I do this for us!  Because I will be back!  I know that this must be hard to read: that I need to give the Other Novel attention, but you, Blogette, will always have a place in my heart.  And after I have given the Other Novel the love she needs, I will return, a better writer than before.  Don't think of this as some ghastly literary swinging; let's not cheapen our beautiful relationship.

I will return to you my darling.  I will return with adventures!  Tales of daring-do, of romance, of chaps with bronzed torsos, swarthy faces, and capable arms to sweep one up in--even though one does not need rescuing!  Tales of Caribbean seas, tropical fruits and frolicking mammals!  Tales of fun and hope and redemption!  You will allow me that freedom, I hope.  You will let me go for now and wish me well?  Say that I may go with your blessing, with your support?

I know I can't expect you to be waiting here when I return-- how arrogant of me to think your screen would stay a blank, without the words of others dressing you up and taking you a spin around the blogosphere--but please Blogette, remember what we had.  What we still have!  This is not the end.  Far from it.  It will be a brand new start for us and we will create word-pictures like never before!

Yours, literally and figuratively,

Eleanor Elizabeth Rhiannon Gwyn-Jones.
*Cue the dancers, the lip gloss, the wind machine.*


 And, for those of you who don't speak Italian:
There is no light in a room where there is no sun,
And there is no sun if you're not here with me...