It's been an interesting few days. So many of my friends excitedly sending me photos holding a book that has words and my name in it, friends asking me for a link to order it on pay day. Lost within pages are short stories pulled from my own brain, written in my car one early morning on my smart phone, or maybe in the kitchen in between feeding the dogs and petting the cats. In a moment of raw nerve honesty, I've got a lot of self doubt. It's something that no amount of therapy (so far) has been able to touch, and I've tempered it a bit with some successes here and there. This (becoming a published author and legitimizing myself) has been a huge boost, especially in this post pandemic weird landscape that we're calling "normal". This is something my sisters will be able to pass on to her kids or great grandkids and tell them about how their Uncle Kev was a writer back in his day. Something my nieces and nephews will one day read and hopefully get spooke...