Tag Archives: narrative fiction

I fabricate books.

I fabricate books. Books are printed on paper and bound, most often with a cover that wraps around it, usually hand-held but can be propped on table or lap, requiring repetitive mechanical finger action to advance pages.

Bedside readers for the adult mind… erotic & sexotic

kathleenk_erotica_books_dark_prince_sexotic HoneyB I 7174296_cover  PP Native Cover.4539172.indd

frontcover Stoner-cover copy imageStoners_bone_of_contention_cover

hires_frontcover  ARCHING Cover Memorial+3 pre-FINAL cover_rough0003a


Vivid family fiction for those who read

between and beyond the words.

frontcover   FAMILY cover front harvest from PDF

Stainless Mary BookCoverImage   LentHand frontcover-medium

eBooks are pale iterations lacking body, they are not tactile, they do not show wear or tear of handling, they don’t have cracked spines or bent corners. Overly-tidy for my taste.  War and Peace is the same “weight” as Love Story on an eReader but put side by side in print telegraph their scope (comparing file sizes just isn’t the same).

I render digital versions for convenience.  It’s a low-cost way to get my stories into people’s minds.  I would like to see less “bad faith returns” meaning if you do eRead the book, don’t eReturn it.  It is just as low-class to wear something once and take it back.  You know you’re wrong.  eBooks have “Look Inside” previews and reviews so it isn’t a pig in a poke, and MAYBE you might go wrong 10% of the time.  You also don’t have to “like” the book meaning if the ending bummed you out that isn’t reason to reject the book purchase/reading experience.

I am grateful for Print on Demand as it allows me to create book masters for one fixed cost and then produce copies as needed.  I imagine it runs much like a busy port using containers to mix shipments of feathers and bowling balls by creating stack-able units no matter the content.  POD publishers have lots of ‘containers’ ready to roll. My graphic poetry is stacked on my Stoner fictional memoirs next to the Honey B.’s.  Mixed in with the sexotic-erotic-graphic containers are the family-driven narrative fiction products ready for reading by those who don’t want all the folderol of overt sex yet expect passion, drama and engagement.


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Why Did Almost All Societies Believe that Women Were Inferior to Men?

Why Did Almost All Societies Believe that Women Were Inferior to Men?

By Quora ContributorAnswer by Dan Holliday
Posted Friday, Aug. 23, 2013, at 11:12 AM

This article talks about why we consider the gender abyss in the terms that we do but, of course, he uses male-pattern thinking and man language to make his point.  His view is presented logically (men love that), with a point to be made (a-hem), but fails to question why it matters so very much for men to be on top.


“There is certainly one way women are superior to men… they are better at being women.”  Kathleen K.

The book Stainless Mary (O Come, All Ye Faithful) asks if bio-plumbing determines destiny.

COMMENTARY by counterculture writer Kathleen K.

In the vivid family fiction that I write, there is an essential choice to be made about love and what it means to that character.  There is wit and stupidity and cupidity and honor but always one element is their existential inventory that is not weighted by genital tissue.

I also write erotic-sexotic literature anchored by the non-fiction cult classic Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl) now in its third edition.  I spent a year listening to people talk about sex and love and hunger and denial.  I taught operators how to sweet talk fast enough to earn us $1/minute (back when gas was 90¢/gallon).  I have studied sexual literature and lived a gender-influenced life.

The proof of the error of the thought that men are superior lies in the outcome of their leadership.  Planet is dirty, money is funny, racism-genderism persist, the diff-abled are marginalized, and crime rises.  A true leader knows the value of all the assets available, male and female, young and old, dark and bright.  When you advance one side at the expense of the other then both lose.  In some ways we’ve come a long, baby; we are at least working on equality of opportunity here in the States and in other like-minded countries.  The societies hiding their women in metaphorical tents descend into rigid mob mentality leading to cultural chaos and loss of life.  Men benefit from complex relationships with women, using them as cum dumpsters is by definition self-defeating strategy.  Wasteful and wicked, dismissive of our combined power to enhance life and encourage splendor.

Women are not blameless in all this but you cannot argue that we’ve ever been in charge.

We endure in a different way.  We triumph at every birth by completing that one act of natural magic unreplicated in our uber-science world.  I can catch a baby from a baster but you need a womb to birth one.  Natural fact.  Mathematics = females arrive with their egg-potential established and will use about 500 of those million maybe-babies over the decades of fertility.  Menstruation and menopause echo in women’s blood-driven lives distinct from men’s reproductive assumption that it is always possible for them to reproduce, even in old age, even minus one ball, sperm springs eternal.

I agree that reproductive responsibilities did shape our roles, where I differ is in the significance of that.  It is not “lesser” to build babies rather than railroads (we’re making passengers), it is not “weak” to disdain battle as unending male pissing contests.  Women use nature as a guide, submit to the cycles of growth and loss.  We call back to the older (smaller) cultures that were one with the Earth, they respected its majesty, and preserved its wild beauty.  Women aren’t thought of as fighters but we conquer:  we do that by letting our bellies fill with hope for a being whose gender is not known.  It is a natural surprise; modern gender-testing is that science stuff intruding. (If we “needed” to know gender before birth for survival there would be a way to do that, we would have evolved some uterine porthole.  We didn’t because we don’t need to know that detail to complete the process).  It isn’t important at the biological level no matter how definitive in life.

It’s like using the Bible (Koran, etc.) for guidance when it is by definition the record of one gender’s view of the world.  I mean, really:  Pope Francis slipped when he admitted he’d rather have gay priests than female priests.  And that’s a stance against their own damn liturgy.  It’s a sign of imbalance to so devalue large segments of your population, this warp in perspective hampers advancement.

It’s a woman’s way to seek collaborative solutions, knowing to gather for strength from within, weaving loyalty.  Men spurt their energy outward with little regard for collateral damage (one of their phrases); it is winner take all in their King of the Mountain value system.  Women know you don’t survive alone.

It isn’t all grim; there’s love afoot and we make progress.  My books celebrate character and catalog the choices we face along the way.  The first step is to be thoughtful, to cultivate appreciation for all beings you meet because they are just as helpless as you are to pick the tint of their skin or the place of their birth.  What they do with that tells the story.

Kathleen K. Books Info/Buy Links

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Narrators with something to say (echo back)

Kathleen K. is able to cross from porn to art by conjuring narrators with something to say.  Visit KathleenK.xxx for an online catalog of collectible sexotica geared to the rowdier reader.  And if you aren’t so rowdy, consider visiting KathleenK.com for her family-life fiction suitable for all who read between, around and beyond the lines.

Her books toss you all over:  tow truck driver, phone porn artist, empty-nester divorcee+widow, stoner grocer, fatherless heiress.  And these people meet other people; they meet people in women’s shelters and people at peep shows and people at Mass.  You are treated to a bank-shot impression of the character’s impressions:  that’s the simple secret to the readability of words arranged by Kathleen K.  She shows you what she wants you to see within-without, over and over, under, and through (to).

The books are fun to read, part vocabulary challenge, part snark, lots of perspective.  Her narrative talents redeem the counterculture emphasis of her themes, directing the reader through the static and into the message.  She isn’t looking for you to agree with her, what she works on is fully expressing the character’s position and leaves you to judge for yourself.  She keeps a comical tone in her work and has a flair for dialog; the traits of her characters are lovingly carved by her luxurious language.

Her word of the day:  recondite.  Her books engage the literati, the cognoscenti, and the culture vultures; the message is that she is writing for book lovers.  You have to like to read the words, not skim through your familiar-formula crime or romance or spy book.  As an indie publisher, Kathleen K. creates an online presence that is unique and self-sustaining.  She’s targeting savvy readers who like literature spicy & rich, and book prices low.

Kathleen K. Books Info/Buy Links

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Joody – family fiction told in four stories


Joody is not a good mom to her three kids.  She’s not dangerous, she’s careless; she self-medicates with pot and beer; she’s allergic to responsibility.  Life is a big mirror with her in the center.  Her all-perfect sister Janet with the good job and the nice car and the big house can certainly afford to share with her and the kids.  It is the fourth pregnancy that convinces Janet that it might be time to take the kids away from her sister.  If it was time, she wasn’t ready.

Four narrators tell their side of the story, this is a family in crisis with sisters in conflict.


 Joody (A Case Study in Post-Dramatic Stress Disorder



“You were pregnant?”

“I didn’t know.  Until it was too late, I just didn’t know.”

“How could you not know?  Joody… what is going on with you?”

“I knew you’d be mad.”

“Mad?  You think this is about me being mad at you?  What have you done?”

“I figured it out, that I was pregnant, so I got some girdles.”

“You were wearing girdles to hide the baby?  Is that why I didn’t see what was happening?”

“It wasn’t just girdles, I had to squish my boobs flat until they about burst, my clothes looked terrible, lucky for me you’re blind to fashion.  Like that sweater, Janet, really.”

“Focus, Joody.  The baby… what about the baby?”

“It came too early or something, I mean, it just kind of slipped out.  It never cried or anything.”

“When?  When did this happen?”

“Wednesday night.”

“You had the baby Wednesday night and went to work yesterday?  And today?”

“I’m fine.  I have given birth a few times before, you know.  I did what I had to do.  It’s over and I’m telling you I’m fine.”

 “If there is a dead baby in this house then you are not fine.”



It seemed horrible that my plea to Joody to be careful and avoid getting pregnant again was interpreted as not letting me know when she did get pregnant.  I suspect I was her test case because if she could fool me, she could fool everybody.  She was fooling us for our own good, according to her, so we wouldn’t get all worked up and blah-blah-blah in her face.  By the time she faced facts about being pregnant, one of those facts was it was too late to “do” anything about it.  I have no experience making this decision, having made an earlier decision to avoid the risk or be prepared to face the natural consequences.  Only child-bearing women ever live through this issue and I don’t qualify (yet) to judge any woman’s choice even if I have a strong opinion.  This thinking brought me back to the dead baby, the poor little soul who wasn’t celebrated in the womb, wasn’t spoken of with anticipation; didn’t have a cute nickname like Fetal Attraction.

Joody confessed she hadn’t seen a doctor or midwife, she bound her belly and crossed her fingers.  She thought the baby would come at the end of the summer but it was only June so that’s why she wasn’t prepared.  Why did we have to tell people now when she’d done such a good job of hiding it?  We could take care of this on our own, just the two of us, right?  I insisted my sister get some medical attention, more importantly I wanted the baby treated like a human being.  I knew CPS would get involved, maybe the police… it was a nightmare.  It was Joody’s nightmare.  I knew she wasn’t looking that far ahead:  she thought going to the emergency room was a complication ruining her Friday night.  I knew it was the floodgates opening.  Some part of me wished it wasn’t so but, really, she’d been adrift in dangerous waters, not under­standing her kids were real live people, they were her burdens, they were her joys, they were hers.  She did the best she felt like doing and then expected others to lend her a hand for the sake of her kids.

Down deep, I knew that the lifeless baby was a human being no matter how inconvenient it seemed to uproot all of us over a death that couldn’t be changed now.  Joody had bound her body and kept her weight down in denial of her responsibilities to see beyond herself.  I didn’t know where Juniata found the baby: my toddler niece had been left alone in the house, poking around the kitchen cupboards like little kids do, probably banging the doors.  I was glad Bryce hadn’t seen the bundle, and that Suzanne hadn’t understood it.  I intended to transport the remains in a valise I knew was in the front hall closet.  Even wrapping the swaddled bundle in the table cloth left my hands feeling stained with death.  Some part of me understood Joody had actually handled the slippery baby, had waited for the afterbirth, cut the cord then discarded the placenta in her trash can the next day on her way to work.  She went to work to smile at the restaurant staff and customers like any other day in the melodrama of her mind.



I have a reverse guilt of knowing I have enabled Joody to avoid the most severe consequences of her choices.  She is weak; she lacks a sense of perspective.  Her pregnancies were all complete surprises to her, as if she had caught the Martian Flu here on Earth ‑‑ astounding.  It was true I had grown more exasperated with her as the years went along and she didn’t pass out of her party-phase.  Now Bryce didn’t like it when she came home drunk and even Suzanne didn’t laugh at her stumbling around anymore.  Juniata had been the ‘it isn’t just me’ flag on whether Joody was as bad as I thought.  The sailor-daddy felt his child was safer with his aged grandmother taking point for his interested family so he made legal arrangements before the baby was even born.

Joody had tolerated that pregnancy knowing the long-haul work of raising the baby would be passing her by for the immediate future (she has a short horizon).  In her fuzzy-thinking dream-world she would reunite with Juniata sometime after the girl was potty-trained, or maybe when the kid was old enough to run errands.

You can look back at my river of tears tracking scars that she made, and see how the gravity of the situation has determined the course of my life.  These children are real, and they are now, and they are precious in and of themselves beyond any blood relation to me.  In that sense I cry for all children… because I constantly consider the kids I know best in juxtaposition to the circum­stances of little brains worldwide convoluting with their own experiences.  There are starving children and battered children, militarized and sexualized children.  Just being born in the USA improves the odds you’ll survive infancy (although not as high as Sweden’s).  Just as importantly, I know most kids grow to productive adulthood.  Part of loving children is to know their world, and help them through it by celebrating their contribution to it.  Joody and her kids live in an urban environment, lucky to have good schools, affordable housing and public transportation, with a vigorous economy.  And me.

I’m so appreciative of our advantages that it makes it hard for me to forgive anybody wasting opportunity, opting out.  Joody is guilty of consistently choosing herself above her children.  Joody chooses herself above all.  The degree of her self-absorption makes it impossible to communicate with her about anything but her.  She can be goaded to at least look like a good mother at times… motivated to improve her own image rather than act on behalf of another.  Bone-deep, Joody believes she is special.  If she thinks she’s doing her best, then that is good enough.  No matter if the results are inadequate, that’s not her problem.  She did what she did and it’s done. 

How was I to know what was truly in her heart?  I can only look at the thirty years I’ve known her and use that to predict her most probable reactions.  All of this anchored my thinking as I ran through a dizzying recalibration of what I knew about Joody with the dead baby between us.


Questions.  Answers?  Order!  Info@KathleenK.com

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