I can pinpoint the exact moment I became afraid of heights. It was in Florence, Italy, and I had climbed to the top of the bell tower of the magnificent Renaissance duomo. The views over the city were amazing. And then I noticed the metal cage that had been erected over the top—to stop people jumping off the tower. Of course, my lurid writer’s imagination provided me with a graphic idea of what it would feel like to climb up onto the edge and throw myself down onto the cobbled piazza below. My legs turned to water. I felt as if the whole building was swaying below me. I gripped the solid stone wall until my knuckles turned white. Hello, vertigio.

I’d never had a problem before that moment. I’d even abseiled down a church spire in France when I was fifteen because it sounded like fun. Ah, the idiocy of youth.

Inexplicably, I only have a problem on things attached to the ground, like tall buildings. Looking out of the window of a plane ten thousand feet up? No problem. I think this is because I have convinced myself that it’s not physics—as my engineer husband insists—but magical golden pixie dust that keeps a huge metal lump so improbably in the air. (That writer’s imagination comes in handy sometimes.)

Since then, however, I’ve forced myself to do things that scare me, because it’s always good to challenge yourself and I refuse to let the fear stop me. So here’s me NOT LOOKING DOWN in a glass cube extending off the side of the Willis Tower in Chicago:

. . . and taking a scared selfie on a chair lift in Park City, Utah.

. . . and edging closer to the massive drop at Yosemite National Park.

Why am I writing about this, you ask? Because I’ve realized I need to take the same fearless approach to my writing.

It’s scary, but you have to write what embarrasses you, what makes you cringe at the thought of another person reading. Bleed onto the page. Write it as if your mother will never read your sex scenes (even though she definitely will!)

It’s hard to do. I sometimes chicken out in my own writing, worrying about what others will think. But I’m trying to write bravely. More honestly. Even if that means scaring myself silly, too.

Happy reading (and writing)!

Love Kate

P.S: QUESTION TO READERS: Tell me about a time you’ve done something brave or something that scared you. . .