Chapter One - The Beginning-ish
Someone’s in a hurry—picking a story up and just flipping to the middle, right off? Ah, that's okay. I've got another friend who loves spoilers, too. She does the same thing. So, let’s skip thirty years, give or take a few (I’m not telling my age in the first chapter, are you crazy?) and bring you up to last year.
To set the scene, it’s 2019, and we haven’t quite reached the Roaring 20’s. It’s peeking around the corner, all shiny with promise, and bringing with it a whole new brand of anxiety.
Brand anxiety, to be exact. (See what I did there?)
Katie H. Weill. That sounds like a pretty good author name, doesn’t it?
Yeah, I thought so, too. I stole both my husband’s middle and last names and adopted them as my own. To honor him, to connect us, that sort of sappy romantic thing I’m not normally capable of. It was a new, bright reminder that I have been trying to make something of myself with the time I’ve been given.
After all, life’s hard.
I’m mysteriously thirty-something, and my name is definitely not up in lights. It’s not even on a college degree. (It is on a high school diploma though, but who hangs those up?)
School wasn’t for me. But that’s a story for another day.
This day is for BF. Bone Feeling. The feeling that a person gets when something is right, or not right, and it’s settled into their bones.
My BF came one fateful day as I shopped the shelves of Barnes and Noble, looking for something striking. There’s something to say about the atmosphere there. Brewing coffee, the smell of the pages instantly making me feel at home. Little else compares to the feeling of a new book, and there is never a lack of good reads. I am proud to say I don’t exactly shop by title, author, or cover...but those things combined help to lead my greedy book fingers in the right direction. On occasion, ego takes hold and I imagine my book sitting amongst the fray of ten-dollar, dime-store romances and forgettable sci-fi stories (I dream big.) And that day? Well…
I didn’t like the name I saw scrawled across the bottom. It wasn’t me. It didn’t feel like me.
Now, anyone that knows me knows that I do not go by my full name. Hell, I’ve not even gone by “Katie” since high school. It’s Kate. Straight, plain Kate.
Four letters, not hard to spell, doesn’t get messed up when read aloud. Simple.
So why on this beautiful, big blue Earth, did I have the need to see “Katharen Martin” stamped on the cover of my stories?
It’s just right.
And now here we are. One, shiny, (not new), not-exactly-pen-name later. Where I will undoubtedly flinch every time someone says “Katharen” (Thanks for that childhood trauma, Mom ♥).
This is right.
This is the way.
I have spoken.