The short story: She is me. Here is the longer version:

In elementary school, when I first learned that Samuel Clemons was Mark Twain, I started thinking about pen names. I thought I should dream one up in case I needed it someday. I didn’t actually settle on one until a couple of years ago, though. I’d written a rather personal story about marriage, and my editor offered me the option of a pen name to protect my identity. Or, rather to protect the identities of our adult children who might not enjoy being linked to a story about their parents’ (ahem) private life.

I’d been twirling the name around in my head for a while. One of the men I admire most in life was my grandfather, J. Bryan Adair. He had been not only my grandpa, but my pastor. The man who baptized me when I was thirteen years old and never said a word about the neon-striped mini-skirt I wore into the frigid pond that November day.

He also called me Kate. My real name isn’t some longer version of itself such as Katherine or Kathleen. It is Kathy. Straight up and simple. Yet, he managed to shorten it even more as a term of endearment. (And partly because the only television show he ever enjoyed was The Real McCoys. Thus, my brother and I became Luke and Kate.)

I didn’t actually use Kate Adair on that story after all. The editor convinced me that publishing under my own name would be better for my career. “And besides,” she told me, “Your children know how they got here by now.” (Unfortunately, I forgot to change my husband’s name back in the final draft. Our grandchildren may wonder someday when I was married to a guy named Allen.)

The name stuck, though, and I have used it occasionally. So, dear reader, if you come across an article or a book or a brilliant screenplay someday by the little-known author, Kate Adair, you will know who she is. Just a girl who loved her grandfather and was honored to use his name.