As I sat down to write The WoMan Chronicles #30, I had a change of heart. Now, if you've read any of the last 29 chronicles, you'll realize that this is not an uncommon occurrence in the life of a writer who chooses article topics which seem to flow concurrently with the happenings in her life. But #30, something close to 35,000 words, is something that I have to say I didn't quite believe I'd reach when I started doing this a year ago. So rather than filling this article with fashion faux pas, which perhaps I'll save for 31 or 32, I decided to simply muse about, well -- lest I spoil anything -- I think I'll just leave the answer hinging on a promise that it will all have some sort of particular meaning once I've concluded.

Writers set off on a lofty journey when they set out to take on editorial content. Rather than spewing factoids regurgitated from some notable source, we are encouraged -- no, we MUST -- rely upon our own voice to sway, to encourage, and perhaps even to lose some of you along the way because you have no idea what we're talking about.

I'm not sure that even I realized what an impact I was having on my own life through these past 29 articles. What sort of opinions or pre-conceived notions had been formed about me due to that stuff which I let go onto paper for whomever happens to not fear reading a column entitled The WoMan Chronicles within a men's magazine. Some of the topics I've devoured have, yes, been on the more superficial level, although I'll argue that there was always some underlying meaning found between the lines. There have been others, however, that left me emotionally drained, which I re-read teary eyed after I dotted that last sentence with the period that signified that I had literally poured my heart out all over the screen. Perhaps that's an editorialist's duty, however, to write without fearing criticism, to write more because you feel the intense need to fill a certain void on this earth with your own notions as to how it all comes together, how it all really doesn't make any sense, and most importantly, how one voice is only powerful when linked and held up against a sea of others.

And then there's the relationship matter. Looking back over the last 29, I can see the roller coaster progression. The highs, the lows, those peaks which part of me hoped could last forever, the lows, which looking back now, I realize were simply lessons that I needed to go through. There have been break-ups, match-ups, proposals, friendships, moments of anger, of happiness, and I'll admit it, maybe even a little payback here and there. There have been messages sent to only those people within my life whom I knew would understand them, and there have also been days when I sat gazing at this screen knowing that the longer I stared, the less likely I would be to come up with an article topic. There were also those moments I ended up with feedback that left me flustered, bewildered, and amazed that people could actually find connection through my words. Oh and then there was that soul mate/wedding proposal thing which I'm still trying to figure out.

Sometimes I feel a little like a watercolor mark. I am solid at the core, with the things I choose to expose flourishing into something a little more diluted at times, a little permeable, a bit tattered or inconsistent around the edges maybe. I may on one week say that love is grand, that it all makes sense, that "Wow! The light bulb just went on for the first time ever, and I now realize how it all makes sense". The next week, I'll tell you that love is this battlefield with explosive elements hidden far beneath the deep, rich soil. Treading upon the surface, you're unaware at just what danger lies beneath, and of the possibility that with one ill-fated step, you could be left a little less whole than you are today.

One day I considered writing a piece about all those reasons one should not follow that half-in-jest idiocy about finding a good doctor to settle down with. I think this may be something only women have to contend with. The notion that landing a doctor is equated to finding a good catch, is something I've heard thrown around most of my life through various social settings and Cosmo articles.

So there I was churning this article topic over in my head about all the reasons not to follow that advice, all the reasons not to get involved with the dreaded doctor lot. Reflecting upon the friendships I had with those in the medical profession, I sure as hell knew that if there was any sort of profession which left one at the mercy of the dreaded beep of a pager, and therefore didn't equate to perfect grounds for relationshiphood, that was it.

Back to the inconsistency in my thought process, the tattered edges of the watercolor mark that seems to rise and plunge as if I myself swim atop the tides. I found myself knocking about this article idea over coffee with a guy, who just happened to be a doctor, and as irony would have it, would just happen to become the next catch I myself chose to reel in. So scrap the article idea, right? It's not that I'd changed my idea on the matter, in fact, I may have even more ammunition now to write a piece which holds weight, but because my brain works in an ebb and flow thought process, I'm now back to a point at which I don't really feel the need to work it into an article. Perhaps it's that I'll admit that maybe it depends upon the circumstances. If you happen to find that one person who can regurgitate some inane conundrum you muttered a few 20,000 words back, even if his work-day scrub-filled dress code does have a sort of Gumbyesque quality about it, he may just be worth taking a chance on.

So what is this column all about? First and foremost, it's used for cathartic purposes and you poor readers are thus left soaking in the remnants of whatever folly I happened to get myself into on that particular week prior to deadline, okay, sometimes night, or even one hour before deadline. (Note to editor, I swear I only do the latter when I'm waiting for a critical piece of information to come in from some deep-throat, unnamed source). [editor's note: Uh-huh.] Er, um, I just negated that whole editorial, one voice, one mind-set spiel I referenced in the beginning, didn't I? (Note to editor, please disregard previous mention.) [editor's note: Uh-huh.] So yes, this means that friends, boyfriends, colleagues, mothers, sisters, even that poor guy that stood innocently behind me in the checkout line at Safeway, none of these people are safe from the wrath that might find them walking the interior of my 1200 word content. And that's the beauty of being an editorialist. Some find their voice through bossing others around in some corporate cubicleville atmosphere, or through teaching 6-year-olds their ABC's, or 16-year-olds pre-calculus. I, well, I find my voice through words, through churning out onto paper all that which I wouldn't even conceive of mentioning in daily conversation.

And what about this forum? Would it surprise you to know that I've only physically met one other Rusher, and that he may at one time or another been the fuel which fired some of my article topics? Would it also surprise you to know then that we work as a team, that there is a camaraderie here that I didn't think could come from a group of strangers all working together remotely, trying to get a magazine off the ground? And would it surprise you to hear me say that I am really grateful that one year ago I was given the opportunity to share my viewpoint through the cyber realm from which you read? That when I started as the lone female bait floating haphazardly amongst this sea of testosterone, I was scared to death that it would actually mean having to share my writing with others, something I'd done rarely before then.

Even more so, I was afraid that I'd have to combat machismo attitudes, blunt words from readers who wanted to know why the hell I thought I was any more of an expert in the matter of relationships than anyone else. My answer to that last remark would be this--It's not that I feel my words are truth, and should thus be followed rigorously. That when I say that all men should keep the toilet lid down, refrain from ogling buxom females in front of their girlfriends, and dare not buy their other half an electrical utility appliance as a gift, that I speak the unyielding truth from which there should be no deviation. Believe me though, a vacuum cleaner for Valentine's Day will find you dateless for the next. I am simply one voice, some of my words to be taken with a grain of sand, simply to be chalked up to editorialist liberties, others to perhaps feel connection with. Lastly, I may at times be a voice which finds you someday writing me an e-mail, which starts "Samantha, you have no idea what the hell you're talking about", and that's completely okay.