Part of her loved her writing, she called her Ms Twilla. Ms Twilla had ruby red curly ringlets of hair that fell down around her face and just over her shoulders. She had grass green eyes that shot out tiny lightning bolts of warm light from somewhere deep within. With each jolt, you felt her love sink deeper into your soul. She dressed like a butterfly, wearing green shades, oranges a-blazing all highlighted with fuchsia. She also loved to paint her face and body. Sometimes you thought she was fully dressed, but upon second glance you found that she was partly naked. It was always a joy to encounter Ms Twilla. She couldn’t help but lift your spirits. Ms Twilla loved to curl up by the fireplace in the evening on a sheepskin rug with a cuppa Damiana tea and listen to her read her daily pages. Ms Twilla smiled, oooohed and aaaahed during the read back. She would then pipe in with lines, and only lines, word for word that had touched her fancy and brought tears to her eyes and joy to her heart.
On the other hand there was the part of her that hated her writing, that she called Mrs Montgomery. She had long jet black hair with a one-inch highlight of silver that shot across her forehead and down her back like a blatant skunk stripe. She always wore it up in a tight bun when she went out in public so as not to attract so many sideways glances and snickers. Mrs Montgomery always interrupted her every thought and word and criticized her original thinking in an attempt to put her into boxes. She paced the room and mumbled loudly as she was reading back and interrupted even while she was deep in thought, in a flow that was moving her writing so effortlessly, like a stream flows to the river and the river to the ocean.
Sometimes Ms Twilla would appear from behind the chocolate colored velvet curtains and shoot pea-sized pebbles at Mrs Montgomery, attempting to distract her and calm the energy in the room thru her gentle gorilla tactics. Ms Twilla loved her writing and hated to see anything get in her way. Once she slipped some valerian drops into Mrs Montgomerys tea, knocking her out for a few hours of much-needed peace and quiet.
She wrote every day. It was her religion, her way of tapping into her innermost dreams.  It was a type of gauge, a barometer of sorts that her friends could tell how she was doing by listening to her readings or by reading her writings. They could tell which part was alive and well behind the scenes. Was it Ms Twilla inspiring her or was it Mrs Montgomery that was busy meddling in her business, crushing her dreams and sidetracking her on worries, complaints and in the box thinking?
When she loved her life, was on top of the world and being supported, she was walking arm in arm with Ms Twilla, whistling tunes and noticing tiny ladybugs and each flower they encountered and finding familiar shapes in the clouds overhead. She loved it when Ms Twilla was in her glory. Her words just seemed to bubble forth, no thinking, no space between them. Her words came from some aspect of herself that she didn’t even know existed.
Hallelujah! It was high time, Mrs Montgomery took a forced sabbatical, they shipped her off to sea. They signed her up for a trip around the world on a slow boat headed towards China. She thought she had won the trip playing Bingo, but it was all rigged. It was a time to celebrate and toast their bubbly water with fresh lime and lemon wedges. They danced on their toes and twinkled with the stars.