Writing teachers often advise us to write from our healed places, not our wounds. My poems, essays and fiction do sometimes come from shiny, beautiful scars sending out rays of light as from saints in sacred paintings.
But I also write from the lava of a volcano, one that is active and capable of launching molten-hot rivers that destroy worlds—even if it has spent years just spitting out tendrilled smoke signals.
My hope: If I’m honest and loving and brave with my stories, the glowing red rivers and the healed places will resonate with the parts of you that are healed and in need of healing.
My prayer: Once we shed light on our wounds, they will cool and smooth and shine.
My knowing: Somehow, through the miracle of the Creator or the unified field or beautiful dumb luck, you will share this journey with me, and we will emerge together, both more whole than when we began.
This is an intersectional space. While I am always, always learning, I go forward imperfectly to create writing that can be safely explored by people of all races, genders, sexualities, belief systems and abilities; work that is informed by teachers I respect and represents the growth that needs to happen in myself and in the world at-large.
“Kim can write the %*&$ out of anything. But she doesn’t write about just anything. Her words are unflinching in the face of the hard stuff and hit me so deep in my gut that I often stop to re-read them.”
I frequently throw caution to the wind and confess my secrets, just for the fun of it. So, there will be some sex and laughter and other ridiculousness.
Mucho Gusto!
Writing is like breathing for me. Before I could form letters on a page, I was dictating poems to my parents. I write into the beauty, ugliness and tipping points that hide in everyday life—especially if that life is viewed through somewhat magical, mystical eyes.
I’m a descendant of Celts, a settler and apprentice community builder, here online and in Chicago where I live on the unceded homelands of the Council of the Three Fires: the Ojibwe, Odawa, and Potawatomi Nations and many other tribes who have their traditional homes on this land. As a mom, I’m doing my best to raise three good humans.
I walk concrete and forest paths, swim into great lakes and oceans that gracefully accept me into their infinities. I travel down the hall, across the street and around the world to make connections with people.
I’m both a homebody and a traveler, often working on my circa 1917 brick bungalow and hopping a flight whenever I can. Kids made that harder, and COVID made it impossible, but I’ve done a bit of traipsing in North America, Europe, Asia and South America. I’ve earned a living as an 18-wheel truck driver, bike courier, massage therapist, personal branding expert, B2B software salesperson—and many more. I fuck up quite a bit. I write about all of it and sometimes tell my stories on stage.
