When I sit down to write, I tell myself I am only writing for myself, therefore I am able to be quite candid and blatantly honest.

By telling myself no one reads my work, I have felt censor-free for seven glorious years.

Even when I read mail from readers, signed my book contract and held said book in my hands, I was able to remain in my denial bubble that I only write for myself.

Well, that bubble burst when I was preparing to read from my memoir at Village Books in Bellingham.

You would think reading aloud to a live audience would have been enough to burst that denial bubble, but it wasn’t.

My view of the audience was merely a mass of blank yet friendly faces, until I remembered my ex-father-in-law lives near Bellingham.

Even worse, I was stupid enough to tell him about my reading. Imagining his face as one of those audience members snapped me out of my imaginary audience dream and they became quite real.

Even worse, I used to be related to them.

Now, reading aloud to ex-in laws would be quite conceivable, maybe even fun, if I didn’t have to read about my inner most personal feelings.

But, the thing about memoirs is they are personal. Very personal. And once again, I failed to censor myself as I wrote mine so the reader learns more than they probably ever cared to know about my journey to motherhood and becoming a writer, not to mention my “girlie parts.”

“What the hell was I thinking?” I said aloud as I poured through my book for some light and cavalier sections.

But, all I could find were vivid details about the two years I spent being maniacal about sex because I was trying to conceive a baby, my miscarriage, blood and all, and of course the birth, which has 20 pages devoted to every grunt and groan, not to mention bodily fluid.

Again, I could probably pull this off with little to no self-consciousness if I were speaking to a group of women, or a room full of midwives, but to my ex-father-in-law? Someone I rarely shared my personal life with, and never, ever discussed sex with. No way!

“I can not find one section that doesn’t have the word vagina or sex in it. What the hell am I going to do?” I asked a friend.

Fortunately for me, my friends are quite rational and sane, especially when I am not.

“I read your book and it’s not all about your vagina. There are a lot of funny, light-hearted sections you can read. You just need to calm down and read it again with fresh eyes,” the friend advised.

I went for a long walk and came home to look at my book again. Sure enough, I was able to find several vagina free sections.

Sex was still mentioned or alluded to, and the profanities were abundant, but I told myself an adult audience could handle that. Even my ex-father-in-law.

Then a new fear creept in. “What if there are children present?”

Sure, I swear like a trucker around my kids, but they seem to be immune to it. Other people may be offended by my potty mouth.

I could attempt to replace the profanities with less crude words, but along with the “Speak loudly, speak slowly, hold eye contact, stand tall, breathe, don’t talk about sex, don’t talk about your vagina, don’t freak out and run away,” messages I was already chanting to myself, I could not bear to add “Don’t swear” to the mix.

“Don’t swear” for me is akin to saying “Don’t breathe” to a normal person. I decided the swearing could stay, because if there happened to be any kids in tow, I convinced myself that they wouldn’t be listening anyway.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is the founder of Reality Mom (www.realitymomzine.blogspot.com), author of "Creating a Life" (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the sexy mommy-lit book "Swings" (out for submission). She lives in Ballard with her two children.