I started a memoir-style blog and I’m terrified. It's a strange feeling. The stories that were once tucked away in the safety of my mind are now on the Interweb in all its fascinating, kind, humorous, judgy and mean-spirited glory. I say this on my blog: “To say I'm sensitive and emotional is like declaring Bashar al-Assad has slight anger issues. It's as much a part of my being as the color of my eyes. There's no off button. 70% of the time the volume is an eleven. The other 30% I'm sleeping.”

My skin has thickened since I was an upper case awkward twelve year old but when I click “publish blog” I have a panic attack. I think, “Well, this your life, Kathy. Your truth. You’re baring your soul. So what if it’s embarrassing?” Then I think, “Who give a rat’s ass about my life? It’s like the time I overshared with the owner of a small convenience store in the middle of nowhere on the remote Isle of Mull in Scotland. I’m checking out. I say, “Hoo boy, the windy, narrow one lane roads sure are a challenge but I learned to drive on a ’68 VW Bug so I can handle most anything. My father taught me to drive in a big ol’ parking lot. We must have been at least fifty feet away from a light pole and he yells, ‘look out for the pole’ in a panic...” 
My family is waiting at the door. “Good grief could we get to hiking already?” As I’m leaving I say, “By the way I didn’t hit the light pole.”

I love reading human tales. I think it’s the tie that binds us. I respect authentic, honest writing. Unless it’s mine. Then I want to click “hide”. But I didn’t. Yet.

Mechanicsville, Virginia. I live in Mechanicsville where I love to write in my backyard among the trees and the birdsong.