Kathe M. Campbell

Born a city girl, Kathe still lives her ranch dream amongst her beloved tame and wilderness creatures in her beloved western Montana mountains. She and her husband of 53 years have raised one son and two daughters. Eleven grands and three greats round out the herd. Her Montana adventures create oil paintings and never-ending stories and essays for ezines, newspapers, magazines, a variety of anthologies and even medical journals.

But for my late husband's seat on our university faculty in the dark ages, I'd have bit literary dust. Poor old Professor Henry would turn over in her grave if she knew her 'D' wonder was romancing publications with zeal and abandon - all with some degree of success, for I flourish in my dotage. The truth is, I was a late bloomer and any writing talent I enjoy came in my fifties - out of the blue. My folksy fodder spurs pure bliss from living on the edge and perceiving life through bold, and often quirky views. I've become a non-fiction short story writing fool and I like being a rebel. Nonetheless, when I'm moved, I can rope in enough pity and passion to leave you agonizing, but always ending with a smile. These trademarks just happen while I journal 73 years of memories.

I have a good memory, amazing energy and grit, and when they stop publishing me, I'll hang up my story spurs and play scrabble. It pleasures me to sit in my den overlooking my little Hall of Fame donkey herd, belting out my life with one old tired and crippled left hand. This essay stuff is like a burr 'neath my saddle. It keeps me alive and kicking.

How I made the most of writing is possibly a fluke. After the loss of my mother to wretched Alzheimer's in the early 80's, I sat at my typewriter to lend myself a dose of closure. This was my first serious effort at writing much of anything, lest a grocery list. The life and times of her disease was snapped up by our newspaper in three full Sunday "Big Sky Life" pages. A remarkable ode to literate excellence? No, just a candid and touching story about a mysterious disorder yet rarely discussed. The following week my daughter called to say that the Seattle Post Intelligencer had run the story under the Associated Press banner. Physicians and loving caretakers called and wrote from far and wide to applaud my incentive and daring. Then, the pièce de résistance, a national ladies magazine spilled the story over ten pages to the tune of a very nice check. Good Lord, had some Lit.101 osmosis finally penetrated my brain?

It seemed my literary prowess had been satisfied, for I wrote nothing again for ten years or better. A ghastly incident had taken my dominant right arm and I still struggle with rheumatoid arthritis. My son brought me a computer and patiently taught me the basics. Friends and family urged me to tell the world about the unusual accident, so again I sat before my keyboard for more closure. It worked.

But was I in the same league as my much envied Chicken Soupers? We've all been turned down time and again as we play the waiting game while they either love us, or leave us. Gratefully, Chicken Soup For The Soul has loved me thrice and I'm still 'writing' off into their beautiful sunsets.

Hammering out a piece of non-fiction still comes hard for me. I concede that study groups and courses may help my frailties, but sophisticated I'm not. So I outline and begin again with a clever hook and then edit the daylights out of my work. When the piece reads smooth and easy in my own mind, I'm happy. I often send my work off to writers I admire for their overview because I'm still insecure. Silly, I know, but invariably I'm told to mind my commas and tighten up here and there. Will I ever learn?

Story ID:	299
Written by:	OurEcho Admin (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	In The Spotlight
Location:	Butte Montana United States
Year:	2006
Person:	Kathe M. Campbell