1818 1906

Message from Kat 

I was born and raised in Southern California, writing my first short story “Paul the Magic Boy” in 4th grade. Don't laugh, I won the contest! I spent most of my teen years on the beach tanning, surfing, and sculpting in the sand.  An English major in High School I was involved with the literary magazine, and even got some of my poems and short stories published. My parents were both teachers. Dad was a history teacher, and Mother taught elementary grades. Both were avid readers, and our house was lined with bookshelves. The written word was and is my favorite escape! 
I left California for New York after the birth of my second son and settled in a small village in upstate New York. My Mother and I kept a lively series of letters going, long newsy missives filled with humor. She likened my writing style to Erma Bombeck's. Humor is my favorite when it comes to reading or writing. In New York I shifted my sand sculpting to snow sculpting, and became pretty well known for my dragon sculptures, in living color! After my daughter was born I was pretty busy raising my three for quite a few years. I worked as a Secretary and Preschool teacher. I went to college a few different times for different things. Finally as the nest began to empty (sometimes only temporarily), I had more time to sit down and write again. I was blessed to meet and get to know a group of very special writers online and nourish my writing skills. As a member of Harmony Pub I hosted Mondays as Kat's Koffee Klutch. My focus was normally on humor, as Mondays do tend to be a little depressing! Eventually some of us emerged as Angels and took on one of the most ambitious projects I've been a part of....The Diary of An Angel.


© All rights reserved to the  poetry and writings by Kat Sullivan aka Katriona of the groves




Copyright  © 5764  / 2004. All Rights reserved to the concepts, writings, poetry, photography and video art by Halkios. All thoughts sealed long ago in a contract with the universe. No recreation of these scrolls, in any shape or means of force, is tolerable without articulate consent of the intrepid architect.