Hello, World!  Five years ago when I first heard the word “blog,” I had no clue what it meant.  And though I’ve read a couple of blogs, I still can’t honestly say that I have a clear idea what’s expected of me in my own blog.  Mostly in the blogs I’ve read, people talk about a whole bunch of nothing.  Since I’m a writer by profession and blather on all day on my computer, I guess I can do that–talk about a whole bunch of nothing, I mean. First of all, let me explain how I got here.  My publisher, one of the big five in the US, merged with another publisher in the big five, and about two weeks ago, maybe less, I got a letter.  Well, actually it was an analysis of my online presence and effectiveness, and my online presence wasn’t big enough to suit the social media experts.  I needed to be more visible, whatever that means.  Well, I thought I was pretty visible.  I’m active on Facebook.  I joined Pinterest and then couldn’t figure out how the heck to use it.  Then my nephew convinced me that I absolutely had to have an Instagram account, so I signed up.  I can’t recall taking a picture and sending it out, but maybe I did.  All I know is that I began getting messages that people were following me on Instagram.  All I could do was wonder what they were following because I never sent anything.  Picture me studying my old iPhone, wondering if every picture I took was going out into the public world somewhere without my knowing it. Well, that was a horrifying thought.  I am a melanoma survivor (so far, anyway) and my surgeon told me that if I noticed any peculiar looking spots (my melanoma was atypical and looked like broken capillaries) I should put a metric ruler by it for visible measurement and take a picture of it once a month.  Well, hello?  Peculiar spots never show up on polite places like your face!  At least mine don’t.  My melanoma was on my chest, right above–well, to coin a historical term that was absurdly prudish–right above my upper feminine protrusions.  So every once in a while, I’d undo my blouse and take a selfie of them.  I kept my bra on, of course.  But what if I’d been sending boob shots all over the place?  This was an unsettling thought, especially since I get peculiar looking spots in lots of different areas of my body.  Click.  Snap.  Uh, oh, how can I twist enough to get a picture of that one while also holding a metric ruler beside it?  I only have two hands. You can imagine my thought processes.  I joined this thing-dee-bob that sends out pictures instantaneously, and I keep getting notices of new followers.  Why?  What am I sending that’s so blooming interesting?  Two words bounced around in my head.  Boob shots.  And a few rump or thigh shots.  And then there was that red blotch between my–well, never mind, I don’t want to go there, and I sure as heck didn’t want people on Instagram to go there.  And we can’t forget the ruler, folks.  Are a bunch of guys following me to see if any of my body parts grow or shrink? That would cure most women of ever dabbling with any form of social media again.  But I’m a brave soul, and my publisher has asked me to connect, connect, connect.  So that is how I got here.  I’m connecting with you. Aren’t you blessed?  Now you can wait with bated breath for my next installment. Bye for now.  If you do Instagram and have seen me sexting people, please send me an email with URGENT in the subject line. Catherine