K.J. Stevens's Blog, page 4

clogged

May 24, 2025 – 8:08 am

Something’s causing a clog. A stop. But it’s not enough to cut the thoughts. Make fingers falter. The words—they always come. Get out no matter what. There’s always a workaround. So, this clog is bothersome because I had plans to work on Rabbit Den, the next batch of short stories. Old ones revived. New ones too. But there’s this thing in my brain demanding me to get sidetracked and poke around until whatever it is has passed.

I want to get DEVOTION out there. That takes work. A different kind of work than writing. Marrying those two things—the creative and the business—is not easy. Especially when you’re trying to get people to like something you have created. It’s easier to pimp someone else. To share the work of another. Doing it for yourself? That’s tougher. But people are doing it every day. Depends on how much I want to share, I suppose. This morning, my goal is to get books into envelopes and mailed. At least a few. To people that supported me or played a part in my creative path. To bookstores. Newspapers.

So, that’s the clog. The transition from creating to marketing. And it’s about more than DEVOTION. It’s about trying to get more eyes on all of my work—stories I’ve written over the years. The effort around it is pure. There are also two other books that I’d like to breathe life into that aren’t all my own—Just Flowers and The Crooked Steeple. Poems by Marcus Wahlbring and stories by a handful of other writers–Bastow, Heraghty, Ryan, Schikora, and Shaw. In my head, I see an event at Thunder Bay Winery or similar venue and people coming to see the books. Feel them. Touch them. Fan through the pages. Read them. I just want the message to get out.

It’s okay to be dark, to not know, to be fearful and hurt. But while you’re in all of that, you need to look for the light. Recognize and fight. And you need to take that first step to digging yourself out of the hole. This life is good. But it’s good because we’re aware of the bad. Because we feel fright, lose our way, and experience pain. If we stay devoted to ourselves—to our path—we’ll be okay. There’s beauty in all of this—the whole of IT—and that is what keeps us at this keeping on.

And there it goes. Broken up. Dissolved. Down the drain. We’ve got good flow now. It’s time to move on.

Let’s get to work on that sharing.

~ KJ

On “maple hills”…a story from the book, DEVOTION

May 20, 2025

It’s odd—letting people behind the curtain like this—but I think it’s good for us to see where stories come from. And sometimes, I need the reminder too.

The second story in DEVOTION is maple hills, and it’s a quiet nod to Dave Shaw’s Here Comes the Roar. That book—especially the story Holding Pattern at D.C. National—has stuck with me for years. The imagery, the heartbreak, the undercurrent of loss and miscommunication, the longing to be loved through understanding—it all seeped in and stayed.

In maple hills, the narrator and his wife are in their own kind of holding pattern. They aren’t flying. They aren’t landing. There’s still love between them, but they can’t communicate well enough to move forward. The narrator thinks about how much he loves her—wants to make it work—but he doesn’t say it. He’s afraid. She’s still wearing her ring, but something’s changed. And he doesn’t know how to fight for something he hasn’t quite lost yet.

He doesn’t want her to leave. He doesn’t want their faltering relationship to hurt their daughter. But he’s stuck—searching the sky for answers. He sees the planes coming in and out of Detroit Metro and wonders how strangers, people with messier lives and bigger problems, can put their trust in a pilot to carry them safely through turbulence and back to earth. Why can’t he and his wife do the same?

That’s where maple hills came from. I took that image—a man on the porch, watching planes, seeking meaning—and layered it with the heartbreak I’d witnessed in others: friends, family, marriages falling apart. People giving up on love. People afraid to hold on.

Check out “Here Comes the Roar” by Dave Shaw. And give “DEVOTION” a shot, as well.

Best,

~ K.J.

on “lasting”–from DEVOTION

The first story in DEVOTION is called lasting. I usually don’t share much when it comes to what a story means, where it came from, or what it’s about. But I thought maybe it would be good to let the reader in. And to remind myself what it is that makes me do this.

Like many stories, lasting came from a scene. An image. An elderly woman at the checkout in a grocery store. The place was buzzing with activity. I was in a hurry for whatever reason, and this lady was taking her good old sweet time. She wore a long, heavy coat. A hat. Had a big purse slung over her shoulder. And when it was time to pay—after coupons, of course—she set the purse on the conveyor belt, got out her checkbook, couldn’t find her pen, then asked for a pen, then asked for the date, and finally went to write the check.

That’s when I noticed the shaking. The trembling. And I felt like a real shit. Here she was, out in the world, taking care of herself. And I was getting miffed because she was taking her time.
It got me thinking—that might be me one day. Just trying to last.

The weather—that’s usually a character in my writing. Always will be. It sets the mood. It’s often symbolic. I’ve always been in tune with the weather, nature, the outdoors. I think that’s where most stories ought to be grounded. Anchored.

The opening of the story—the daily cubicle grind—is familiar to many, I’m sure. It’s based on a guy I used to work with in St. Paul, MN. He was a typesetter and used to go absolutely bat-shit crazy, at least once a week, over something as simple as illegible markup from a proofreader. I always thought it had something to do with how much time he spent boxed in, away from everyone.

Drinking—that’s a big one here. The narrator’s anxiety about being in the Galilee Lake Grocery Store is sharpened by his craving for a drink. But I also wanted to show that he’s anxious in general. Maybe from overthinking. The old chicken-and-egg discussion, I suppose.

Back to the Galilee… there’s a reference here to a place tied to miracles. Jesus walked the shores of the Sea of Galilee doing good stuff. But in this story, Galilee is a grocery store. Artificial light. Endcap noodles. A liquor cubby beaming like an altar. It’s not holy ground—it’s survival ground. A place where people try to fill up. Get by. Last.

There’s judgment in this story. A lot of it internal. A lot directed outward, then quickly turned back in. I think we do that more often than we admit. Judge people for what they put in their carts. For how they smell. For how long they take. But it’s usually not about them. It’s usually about us.

Matthew shows up. Not just the janitor summoned by the loudspeaker—but the apostle, bursting through the pearly gates—swinging doors, in this case. He mops up a busted jar of gravy smashed by a couple of stoned, giggling fools. He whistles Somewhere Over the Rainbow like it’s all he needs to keep going. Maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe he’s transcendent. Hard to say.

Then the story slows. Just like the line. Just like the old man writing his check. He’s got his list. He’s got his coupons. He buys the same bottle of Burnett’s vodka. He notices the narrator. He grins. And he takes his time. He’s not just buying groceries—he’s marking another day. He’s still here. Still ticking. Still trembling. Still writing. Making all of this last.

That’s where the story ends. But also where it begins—for the reader, anyway. In that quiet moment when something nearly holy happens between strangers. No halo. No light shining down. Just a nod. A recognition. A small, human ache.

lasting is about survival, yes. But also about paying attention.
What we miss when we’re in a hurry.
What we hold onto when we don’t know what else to do.
What it means to be there, waiting.
Standing in line.

~KJ

DEVOTION by K.J. STEVENS

A collection of quiet, cutting stories about love, loss, and the weight of what lingers. A father watches an owl from the swingset, trying not to think about the urn on the mantel. A man touring a house sees three sick raccoons in the trees, knowing, deep down, they won’t make it through the winter. A child buries her pet while carrying a grief too big for her age.

Each story stands alone, yet together they form something deeper—a meditation on what we hold onto, what we let slip away, and the spaces that remain between. Stark but full of feeling, this is a book for those who understand that absence is never empty.

KJ Stevens is the author of Black and has published work in Great Lakes Review, The Adirondack Review, Temenos, Fluid Magazine, Circle Magazine, and BloodLotus. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University and has spent years honing his craft—paring language down to its essence, leaving only what matters. His writing explores the weight of loss, survival, and the quiet moments that define us.

DEVOTION is coming soon…copies are available for review. Contact KJ.Stevens@gmail.com

DEVOTION by K.J. STEVENS

A collection of quiet, cutting stories about love, loss, and the weight of what lingers. A father watches an owl from the swingset, trying not to think about the urn on the mantel. A man touring a house sees three sick raccoons in the trees, knowing, deep down, they won’t make it through the winter. A child buries her pet while carrying a grief too big for her age.

Each story stands alone, yet together they form something deeper—a meditation on what we hold onto, what we let slip away, and the spaces that remain between. Stark but full of feeling, this is a book for those who understand that absence is never empty.

KJ Stevens is the author of Black and has published work in Great Lakes Review, The Adirondack Review, Temenos, Fluid Magazine, Circle Magazine, and BloodLotus. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University and has spent years honing his craft—paring language down to its essence, leaving only what matters. His writing explores the weight of loss, survival, and the quiet moments that define us.

DEVOTION is coming soon…copies are available for review. Contact KJ.Stevens@gmail.com

DEVOTION by K.J. STEVENS

A collection of quiet, cutting stories about love, loss, and the weight of what lingers. A father watches an owl from the swingset, trying not to think about the urn on the mantel. A man touring a house sees three sick raccoons in the trees, knowing, deep down, they won’t make it through the winter. A child buries her pet while carrying a grief too big for her age.

Each story stands alone, yet together they form something deeper—a meditation on what we hold onto, what we let slip away, and the spaces that remain between. Stark but full of feeling, this is a book for those who understand that absence is never empty.

KJ Stevens is the author of Black and has published work in Great Lakes Review, The Adirondack Review, Temenos, Fluid Magazine, Circle Magazine, and BloodLotus. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University and has spent years honing his craft—paring language down to its essence, leaving only what matters. His writing explores the weight of loss, survival, and the quiet moments that define us.

letting go of gravity

A shift in thought. The thinking. Ideas. Not slight. But big change. Undercurrents. Undertow. Carving out direction with knowledge never had before. About motion. Inertia. Cold hard facts intertwined with magic. Awareness. Little blips of light in the sky. Voices in the dark. Energy thrumming veins.

There’s undeniable excitement in this push toward an end.

Getting our footing here makes us stronger for work we’ll do there. So we can come back, move on, be a runner in the middle. Doorway to doorway. Dimension to dimension.

Thinking we have it all figured out by believing what they’ve told us imprisons us. It’s hard discovering your reality when you’ve been taught to accept and adhere to the reality of others. What is physics? Is it code? Law? A system of beliefs? Am I stuck to the ground because of gravity or because I don’t truly believe I can fly? Where’s physics in my dreams? How can I imagine a world that does not exist if it hasn’t existed before?

Icy cold today. But it didn’t bother the dogs. They ran out happy, energized, toes in the snow. Cold Lake Huron air in their lungs. They stretched and played, shook off the tireds, did their deeds, then ran back inside with me for treats. Back scratches and belly rubs. Then went right back to sleep. One on the couch next to me. The other on a beanbag at my feet. While I read about how magic and hope and creativity essentially make us weak. That we all think alike, are prone to the same mistakes, and aren’t as smart as we believe. A book based on science. Whatever that is.

We’re better than all of this. I know it. My gut and heart tell me so.

All the imagination and hope becomes real once we release ourselves from gravity’s hold.

Life lights up. Senses wake. And by seeing what’s not present, hearing in the silence, we feel our way home.

~ KJ

grind it out

Coffee isn’t going to touch it. Food doesn’t. But activity does. And writing can—if I bore below the surface, get beyond the same old rabbit hole. I’ve traveled that too much.

Morning came the same as it always does. Already, I’m a wreck. Exhausted. Confined. Head swimming with plans, to-dos, and what-ifs. I sit here, Deep Smoothed Brown Noise accompanying the ringing in my ears, and as much as I want human touch, sleep, and silence, I will fill the day with distraction.

Studio furnace needs fixing. Pilot light. Thermal couple.

Bay window wood is rotting. We do not need leaks.

Hole near back door needs filling. We have enough domestic critters inside. We don’t need wild ones.

Basketball hoop needs to be put away, so it can be taken out in the Spring to remain unused for another series of seasons.

Minuscule, meaningless motion while people die from everything. Slowly and in pain. Quickly without realization. All the while more babies are born to continue the cycle. Very few of them ever rising above all this long enough to see and hear, recognize and feel other dimensions.

There’s so much more than this, but we choose to focus on little things. Grind it out. Make unimportant progress. Not accomplishing anything that keeps us wise and strong enough to care for ourselves so we can find the keys that unlock the mysteries that matter most.

~ KJ

the climb

October 2, 2024 – 5:56 am

Not gonna stop 47-degree mornings. That cold dark slide from summer to fall. Temperatures affect me more deeply at 51 than they did at 25. I can’t remember 25. I’m sure I stopped and stared at the stars like I did today. Same lights seen with different eyes. I wanted then what I have now. Family. Connectedness. Some stuff. We always want some stuff. We don’t always have family or connections. Strive your whole life for stuff, for causes, for winning fights that can’t be won—laser focused on becoming somebody that makes a difference—and you don’t make a difference at all. Sure, your name and actions as related to things that don’t matter will live on, but when it comes to the impact you’ve really made outside of your great accomplishments, what will it be? Were you present? Involved? Supportive and listening? Did you learn enough to keep quiet, listen, and love? Or were you busy showing the world how important you are?

It’s fun—this climb. The game. The becoming. But it doesn’t mean much. None of it does. We should be more lighthearted. More forgiving. Less frustrated. Happier. Hopeful. That’s when the big wins take place. That’s how we make a difference.

It’s Wednesday. I have before me another opportunity to make good decisions, do good for others. Embrace each moment head-on, crack it open, and see what’s inside. Or let time fall into my hands then slip through my fingers because I’m caught up in what doesn’t matter. It’s hard to say which way I’ll go. It’s early. Only three-quarters of a cup of coffee into me. Awake since 5:30. Feeling like going back to bed. Not looking forward to going out there into the chilled air. Going to work. But there’s plenty along the way to be aware of and enjoy. My wife up—fresh-faced and ready for her day. The ride with my daughter to school. Saying hello to co-workers. Recognizing that they too may not be feeling this day. Could be they just want to go back to bed. Hit reset. Try again tomorrow.

It all adds up and is what it is—which is exactly whatever you make it. With or without intention. So, my best advice to my 51-year-old self this fine October morning is simply this—pay attention.

~ KJ

differences in the morning

I closed my eyes last night. Opened them this morning. There were restless moments—too hot, too cold, repositioning of the pillow, and dreams—but now I’m up. At it. Into another day.

Dread has fixed itself to this morning. Life is unraveling quickly. Instead of a series of days and nights, each with beginnings and ends, it is a stretch of open-ended existence. I brewed coffee and waited as the black cat did figure 8s through my legs. Flipped the Snoopy calendar to 7. Something is off.

Gloomy. Wet. Cool. Trucks already disturbing the morning. Am I really that sensitive? To sound? Calendar dates? The weather? I suspect I am. Always have been. That’s what carries me upstairs, downstairs, into spaces, closing doors to behind me so I’m alone with these keys.

In the past month, I’ve written three stories. Shorts. As of now, they are vodka, hollow, and burying Mr. Beasley. Each has roots in other work but have grown into new bits. Scenes. Vignettes. I’ve submitted two of them. Shooting for the moon, places like The New Yorker. It’s fun. Stringing letters together so they make shapes, colors, and sounds. My favorite part is printing them on paper. Giving them life with ink and fiber. Leaving them on my wife’s desk to read.

She’s up now. With the gift of slow wakefulness. A long, deep breath into another day. Cat curled up on her chest. Sporadic morning traffic barely noticeable. Tires shooshing on wet pavement from rain we need to wash, water, and feed this world of opportunity.

~ KJ