Hi-

This might seem like kind of a personal thing to tell you, but I'm going to anyway…like Dan used to say, that's just "the Laura way of dealing with things".

Oh, who's Dan? Please, allow me to explain. About two years ago I met and fell in love with a Prince - a young man by the name of Dan Lindsay. That is not a pseudonym. That is his actual stupid name. Two years ago Dan swept me off of my feet and into a whirlwind romance unrivaled by any experience I had ever known. One year later he dumped my ass. Out of the blue. Cold. And I'm still talking about it.

Immediately following the break up, I found myself in a downward spiral I can now identify as the healing process, but through tear-stricken eyes it resembled a one-way ticket to Spinstertown, aka Aloneville, aka Blockbuster on a Saturday night. You know what I'm talking about: hand poised over the last copy of Dirty Dancing. Sleazy hotelier Robbie starting to seem like more sensible beau than emotionally unavailable Johnny - you get the picture. Anyway, I had already sunk pretty low when my friend, Rachel clued me in on how she got over her last relationship. I assumed she had just stumbled upon the right balance of Oxycontin and Chianti, but it turns out Ol' Rachel had an even more potent trick up her sleeve: "Write him a letter." Frankly, that was a little pacifistic for my taste. I mean, they say the pen is mightier than the sword, but is it mightier than my dad's Louisville slugger french kissing the hood of Dan's Jetta? I doubt it. Luckily, Rachel expanded: "Write him a letter and say absolutely every single thing you never got to say to his face". GENIUS! So simple - a letter from my poison pen will make him feel like a schmuck for letting me go and forever echo in his head while he's pulling the wool over some other poor girl's eyes. But Rachel wasn't done. "You write this letter, you say everything you never got to say to his face…and then…you don't send it".

My first thought was that Rachel's Chianti/ Oxycontin fueled rage had rendered her retarded. I mean, it made no sense. And yet, there she was…standing in front of me… fifteen minutes away from meeting her new boyfriend for frozen yogurt - who was I to call her crazy? After all, I was the one who hadn't changed my "Jesus is My Homeboy" t-shirt in six days - a trinket Dan had picked up for me during our glory days. So, I took the advice. I sat down and I wrote. Surprisingly, it only took about twenty minutes. The moment those gates of emotion, those dams of rage, those portals of disappointment lifted up, the letter poured out of my very soul. By the time I was done I was convinced that the world hadn't produced a truer piece of writing since Ann Frank's diary. There was a new problem now: this letter was so good I couldn't bear to let it waste away in my top drawer. However, I also understood that sending it to Dan wouldn't grant me the closure I so badly needed. I had to think bigger. And then it came to me - publish it. It's natural progression, you see: I know Dan hurt me, and Dan knows Dan hurt me. Why not let perfect strangers know Dan hurt me? Dan Lindsay hurt me. Dan Lindsay swept me off my feet, made me fall in love with him, bought me this "Jesus is my homeboy" t-shirt, said we'd be together forever, and then HE HURT ME. And I lived through it.

Since deciding to make this public display of my feelings, it has come to my attention that I'm not the only girl who's had a bottomless glass of wine in her hand, a letter in her top drawer and her heart shattered to pieces. Many of my friends have come forward with their own letters. Some were sad, others angry. A few had found peace, but most were still littered with question marks. They were all very passionate and yet some were remarkably honest and analytical in professing why things ended up the way they ended. Some of my friends just wanted to reach out to me, for solidarity - but others wanted to reach beyond me, and be included in this bittersweet new book project. It is tentatively titled "Paper Cuts: An Anthology of Closure" although "Dan, You're a Big, Fat, Stupid Loser" is my first choice should the publishing company give me complete creative control. Fingers crossed!

If you are reading this, you are being invited to email me a letter that you may have written (or have yet to write) to someone you feel owes you a conversation. Someone to whom you didn't get to say everything you wanted or needed to say to. It doesn't have to involve real names, or even real situations. Chances are the way it really happened doesn't even resemble the way you remember it happening. There really isn't any criteria except that it be truthful to you. It worked that way for me.

Please email your letter to: PaperCutsBook@gmail.com

(written by Laura Valdivia & April Macie)