Woke to an email this morning, written in the middlest of the middle of the night by a dear, beloved…how shall I put this delicately?…friend (you know who you are)…in another time zone. Although the flirtation was an innocent one, a ghost of past adventures, it delights me every bit as much now as it did back when.

Memory tickles me breathless. And it reminds me. About—you guessed it—writing.

I’ve finished a book. Its embraces are full in my thoughts. And the next one lay sleeping in my head.

I’ve posted before—although not in some time—about the vague sense of guilty fascination one experiences while entertaining the next written lover while the bed is still warm from the last one.

It’s happening again.

Not that much of a surprise that writing and sensuality are so closely linked in some writers (like this one). You know what they say: Those who can, do; those who can’t, write about it. Imagination enriches both pursuits, if you’re doing it right.

And the emotional constructs are very similar. Waiting for feedback on a current work is a mild form of torture. Contemplating a new book is like waiting for the phone call from a promising new guy; the signal that the interest is there and wants to be taken to the next level.

Just hints, for now. Nothing huge or consuming or confessional. We don’t yet know who this is who has made us feel so tingly. We have not yet gotten to the up-all-night pursuits of soul-baring talks and…other things. How do we feel? How does he? It’s just too early to know.

There is purity in new love. There is hope. And potential. The world looks the littlest bit different. Cynicism and reality have not dropped their calling cards at our emotional doors.

Maybe this is the one will last, we tell ourselves. The one that glows. The one that will love us as much as love can love.

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