do doors close and windows really open?

Navy ship yard, Boston

Navy ship yard, Boston

Recently, I applied to, and was accepted by a local arts/writing collaborative to attend a workshop for writers aspiring to get their manuscripts published. Sponsored by a Big Name Publishing House and a Big Name organization, the promises of seminars, networking, lunch (catered by a well-liked local restaurant, no less!) and an evening reception filled me with hope. We were a diverse bunch of attendees: all employing various versions of attire, phrase turning and sly references to our publishing goals to gain the attention of the agent, editor and other publishing gatekeepers who were the out-of-town presenters.

For the most part, though, we were warned of the Struggle, the important role of Luck and the almost lottery-like odds of being in the right place at the right time. It sounded a lot like high school, but worse. Still, I jotted down a brief reference to another literary agency, a potential new sales spot for Jack & The Devil Boats and later, made a new friend in the local literary scene. I returned home overwhelmed, yet, not despairing on this new career path. Then, the flu found me. So much for Luck…

Now, recovered and resolved, I’ve edited another chapter for Foolishly Free for your enjoyment. There is a nice bit of News, too. Lastly, I’ve also decided to experiment with this Diary’s format, to allow for comments. Please share your own struggles to get “those” windows open. Looking forward to hearing from you!

decisions, decisions


The writing life, I am learning, operates best on the action of selecting. Character traits. The color of the rug. To lisp or not to lisp? First names, last names and nicknames. Who is the liar? Counting adverbs. Are you a Good Witch or a Bad Witch? There are days where I just want to stare at all the colors, shapes, flaws and negative space within the writing craft to avoid making a selection. But such an avoidance is, in itself, a selection; a type of hoarding that won’t carry the plot to its conclusion. Chapters 4 & 5 in “Foolishly Free” required an extra dose of selecting. More than I care to remember, but now, they are posted.

What are you selecting?

hi-ho, hi-ho...

(detail) General Laundry Building, NOLA * by K.Kersting

(detail) General Laundry Building, NOLA * by K.Kersting

I may have found more enjoyment during my many years as an Employee, had there been such an exuberant doorway at any of the buildings where I once earned a paycheck! One of my first jobs, after graduating from college, unknowingly set me on my present literary path. I was one of the new hires gathered into a meeting room with the CEO. He was a wealthy man who was golfing buddies with the, then, seated POTUS. He asked us “what is the purpose of this company?”. After listening to several idealistic answers, he said “No. The purpose of this company is to make money. Your job is to help that to happen.”

Alas, the liberal arts program under which I studied focused more on such matters as form follows function and the nuances of societal stratification; debates on the works of Huxley, Plath and Alvin Toffler eclipsed business theory and the psychological impact of certain colors was most distracting. Now, armed with a new, sobering directive, my logical reaction was to enhance the capitalistic focus of my Work Day with a purely creative endeavor. I began keeping journals of all the odd, humorous, intriguing and soul-sucking moments - and fellow employees - which populated those hours. Over the years, employers and cities changed. Large corporations, non-profits, small studios - even a stint working as a bookkeeper in a brewery - all brought a new wealth of character studies, dialog and Details. The alchemy of blending some of those journal entries into a fictional story resulted in the plot of the manuscript posted in “Foolishly Free”.

While you enjoy Chapters 2 & 3, I’m curious if anyone else has found an unexpected “perk” from their employee endeavors (criminal activities do NOT count). Send me a note and I’ll share those tales, soon.

My Beloved Holiday Memory

As promised, the following is the complete version of the entry sent to The Advocate. While I have no delusions this equals Philip Van Doren Stern’s work, the quiet message from my own “Greatest Gift” moment, is one of my most treasured life experiences. Happiest of Holidays to everyone!

My most treasured toy arrived when my childhood expectations for Christmas gifts were many years in the past, and when a particular holiday season only filled me with dread. At that time, I was raising my young son – mostly- alone. It was a busy, content household.  Yet, I was hoping that it would soon be even busier. Would the man I had been dating for a few years, perhaps this year, ask The Question? Instead, he informed me the week before Thanksgiving that I was no one he wanted to marry. Though mortified and heartbroken, I hid those emotions from my son; determined to give my child a happy holiday season. We baked cookies, opened the little doors on the Advent calendar and drove through neighborhoods to look at the holiday lights. My son was having a great time, and I was pleased he was unaware of my sadness.


One day, while shopping for holiday gifts, I decided to buy something time-consuming and distracting for me: a small, unassembled dollhouse. It seemed the perfect project for all the future evenings I would be spending at home. The box was wrapped and stowed away with all the other gifts. And most importantly, I decided it would be a gift “from Santa” – for at my house, Santa’s gifts were wrapped in distinctive paper and the gift tag was signed (in gold ink, no less) from Santa himself. Santa Claus had not given me a gift in years. It was an amusing thought to consider how my son would react to seeing that box under the tree.


But for the moment, my son was excited with a different holiday milestone: this year, he was old enough to purchase Christmas gifts. He was earning an allowance for completing small tasks, and he now had a few dollars to spend. We went to a dollar store, so he could easily find items and gift bags within his budget. I was instructed NOT to follow him about the store, but to wait by the entrance.  Soon enough, he proudly walked through the checkout lane with his small bag of purchases. Once home, he insisted on wrapping the gifts himself, then placed the small bundles under our tree.


On Christmas morning, his small bundles had been joined by a large collection of wrapped presents, Christmas stockings and packages still sporting mailing labels. I had placed my gift “from Santa” beneath all the other presents, hoping it would be a memorable surprise for a child already questioning Santa’s existence. But before any of the other presents were opened, my son wanted me to, first, open the gift he had purchased for me. Tucked inside the small gift bag was a little chair – the perfect size for my soon-to-be-unwrapped dollhouse. “Why this is lovely!” I said. “What gave you this idea?”


“Oh, I thought it would be something you might like,” he replied.


Placing the little chair on the mantle, I watched my son eagerly dive into the pile of gifts. My mind was dizzy from this amazing coincidence and desperate to compose a response when the doll house would, eventually, be unwrapped. When he pulled that last box out from under the tree and read the tag, his eyes widened. “It’s for you…from Santa.”


I was determined to act surprised. “For me?” I said, taking the package onto my lap. “Why would Santa bring me something this year?”


As the wrapping paper was removed, and the contents revealed, my son gasped. “Oh, my gosh,” he whispered. “Santa must have been in the store when I bought your chair!” His expression, a mixture of awe and glee, confirmed that the legend of Santa had at least one more year of credulity in our household. And in that moment, I embraced a warm sense of peace and healing; grateful for the unusual blending of events to create this sweet holiday story.


The little chair now resides inside that dollhouse. Though more than two decades have past, this special toy is my constant reminder of the unexpected, magical and sometimes mysterious joys of the Christmas season.


trash, recycling or delusion?

scrap yard.jpg

While formatting this website, I thought would be “fun” to offer a chapter-by-chapter posting of one of my unpublished manuscripts. There is even a tab for this endeavor, titled “Foolishly Free”. How difficult could it be? If Dickens could handle it, shouldn’t I -without the stress of a looming deadline by some newspaper publisher- be able to review/edit/polish some earlier bit of writing?

Alas, the cold reality of such a task is best illustrated by my photo of a scrap yard. I discovered there are many such yards along the Amtrak’s Crescent line. Initially, the shapes and textures within this jumble of objects intrigued the right side of this traveler’s brain. But what would one DO with this stuff? The gears would be too corroded to mesh properly; many of the lengths of pipe appeared to be just trimmed-off remnants and the items that might be 4-cylinder engine blocks would need a remarkable amount of work to be serviceable. So it has been with my efforts to bring my earlier work to the website. Heaps of adjectives, a tangle of backstory details which threaten to strangle the plot, and bits of, what I can now see as, weak dialog coated each page as the rust covers those hunks of metal. I have been horrified by the amount of time expended in sifting through and tossing away pages-worth of drivel; cringing at phrases of my own making while wallowing in self-loathing for my earlier pride in this manuscript. Work In Progress, indeed!

Never-the-less, a promise is a promise. And I am pleased with the results. The first chapter is now edited and up for your entertainment. With luck, I will have a new chapter up each week- or so.

...I cannot tarry longer


What may be possible beyond a known framework? The start of a great adventure or a journey towards something far less? Is the decision to start a second career - while still enjoying the design projects fueling my decades-long first career - my craziest idea yet? Perhaps. But the opportunity to, now, pursue a Writing Life appeals to the earliest memories of my creative heart and resolves the disquiet carried from several odd turns of Fate.

With a small amount of trepidation, this entry is my first official step upon the literary path.

(Many thanks to Ren Atkins for guiding me through the maze of website design and formatting.)