For several weeks now, I've been getting up 5 in the morning- I prefer to call it the crack o' dawn- and writing outside, at our patio table, for about an hour and a half. One of my resolutions this year was to write more, and I write best in solitude. I knew the best time for this would be before all the distractions of the day got to me, before the flurry of household life begun.

What I didn't realize was how much it would change my life. I don't just write when I'm out there, see, I also read and meditate and plan my day. Out there, when the sky is still dark, the air fresh and cool on my face, with only Jonah our basset hound as my companion, I prepare myself for a wonderful day ahead.

And you know what? When I plan to have a glorious day, I always do. Things fall into place. Projects get completed. People seem to smile more. I smile more.

I've always been a "night person", and proud of it. For years, I described myself as a "tireless insomniac" and thought it was even a little cute. But I'm so much happier as an early riser- so much so that I've been waking up at a quarter to five these past few days and jumping out of bed in glee.

Today I woke up, started getting dressed, then looked at the clock and realized it was only 3:46 a.m. How excited am I?

If you want to be an early riser, I recommend reading Steve Pavlina's How to Become an Early Riser, Part II, and How to Get Up Right Away when Your Alarm Goes Off. All good stuff.

I used to be a lot more daring. Not by any means a daredevil- impossible given my fear of even the most mild of rollercoasters- but given the choice I usually chose to go the less-traveled road.

Growing up, I went out of my way to be different from everyone else. This explains why I was known for dressing a little, um, out there, in high school, streaking my hair purple and gold and (my favorite) bright green, brushing my eyelashes with yellow mascara. I took three dates to the prom, painted "Anarchy" on the back of my jean jacket, and- perhaps most telling of all- staunchly refused to tease my bangs. In a room full of Filipino teenagers in the late 80's, you couldn't miss me.

When did this change? When did I start to try to blend in with other women my own age? When did I decide I would trade in my flouncy colorful poets blouses for little black dresses, my loud fancy jewelry for smaller, understated pieces?

It's 2007, and it's time to let my daring self out of hiding. Different doesn't have to mean tacky, colourful doesn't have to mean obnoxious… and daring can be absolutely darling.