A Whisper from the Hills

In the twilight hours, where the hills of northern New Mexico roll gently under a blanket of violet and gold, a new story stirs. It is one of choices and harsh transformations, where the land itself seems to listen and form its own tales.

The winds carry hints of what is to come, of lives taking shape in the spaces between what is known and what is possible. In the quiet of those hills, secrets wait to be discovered. As the next chapter unfolds, survival, change, and resolve walk together.

Stay close. The hills are ready to share their tales.

The story that began with The Coffiner of Escondido continues with a witch in Abiquiu.

A Letter to You: Under a Harvest Moon

Dear Reader,

As I sit down to write to you today, I look forward to the harvest moon and a lunar eclipse lighting up the sky tonight—an auspicious time for reflection, gathering, and releasing. These moments ask us to look inward, to consider what we’ve cultivated and what we’re ready to let go of. In many ways, this mirrors the journey within The Coffiner of Escondido.

Credit: Darkfoxelixir - Shutterstock

Lourdes Peña, the central figure in the novel, has always been a character marked by what she gathers—the spirits, the art, the strength—and what she must ultimately release. Her story is one of resilience, but also of surrender to forces beyond her control. Like the harvest, it’s about reaping what has been sown, and like the eclipse, it’s about allowing certain shadows to pass so new light can emerge.

If you’ve already joined me on this journey, I thank you for the support, for reading and reflecting on Lourdes’ world. If you haven’t yet stepped into her story, this might be the perfect time. Lourdes, with her gifts as an artisan and clairvoyant, creates coffins—works of art that reveal her connection to the spirit world. Yet, much like the moon itself, she is caught between light and shadow, isolated by her talents, yet shaped by them.

As one reader wrote:
"This is a deep and intricate book that shows us being different has a price." Another reflected,
"Each sentence paints an immersive picture... Lourdes’ decisions shape her life and the lives around her."

Under this harvest moon, as we reflect on what we carry and what we release, I invite you to discover, or rediscover, The Coffiner of Escondido. Signed copies are available through my website here, or you can find the book on Amazon and other booksellers.

May this day of lunar reflection bring clarity and renewal for us all.

Warmly,
Kirk

Thank You for Supporting "The Coffiner of Escondido"

Dear Friends & Readers,

I am excited about the response to my debut novel, The Coffiner of Escondido, which is now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, my website, and at your local bookstores.

Creating this book has been an incredible journey for me, and I'm so grateful for its warm reception. Knowing that you are enjoying the story means the world to me.

I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read and share their thoughts on the book. Your support and feedback are truly appreciated. Hearing from you and reading your reviews brings me great joy and helps other readers discover The Coffiner of Escondido as well.

Please feel free to reach out with your thoughts and reviews. I love hearing from you and am always eager to hear your thoughts about the story.

Thank you again for your support. I look forward to continuing this journey with all of you.

All my best,

~K

Unveiling Lourdes' Story

Dear friends and supporters,

I'm thrilled to finally unveil my novel, a project that has been a part of my life since its conception in 2019. This journey has been both challenging and rewarding, and I'm ecstatic to share it with you.

This novel delves into the complexities of human emotions, exploring themes of loss, resilience, and the enduring power of hope. Holding the first copies of my book, I'm overcome with pride and gratitude. This story has been a labor of love, and now it's ready to embark on its journey into the world.

The Coffiner of Escondido will soon be available on this website at brick-and-mortar booksellers and Amazon. The e-reader version will be available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, and Google Play in the coming weeks.

Thank you for your unwavering support and encouragement throughout this process. I can't wait to hear your thoughts on the story.

With excitement and anticipation,

Kirk

Exciting Update: “The Coffiner of Escondido” is Almost Here!

Dear readers and friends,

I'm excited to share a quick update on The Coffiner of Escondido! The layout and cover design are all set and have gone to printing. Soon, you'll be able to find physical copies at major booksellers and, of course, on Amazon.

But that's not all—we're also working on an e-reader version to ensure you can enjoy the book your way. The print version is on track to be out in the next few months, and we're aiming to have the e-version ready soon after.

I can't believe we're almost there! This has been a long time coming, and I'm thrilled about the prospect of finally sharing The Coffiner of Escondido with you all.

Stay tuned for more updates, and get ready to dive into Lourdes’ world very soon!

Excitedly,

Kirk

A New Spring


As writers, we often find ourselves juggling multiple priorities and obligations, from day jobs to family responsibilities and everything in between. It can be difficult to carve out time for our creative pursuits, especially when life gets busy or our attention is pulled in other directions.

But for those of us who are truly passionate about writing, the urge to create is always there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to burst forth. And when that moment comes, there's nothing quite like the feeling of returning to our passions and inspirations, and immersing ourselves once again in the world of words.

For me, this moment has arrived in the form of some exciting professional transitions with my day job, which have allowed me to refocus my attention on my writing and get my work out into the world. It's been a challenging and rewarding journey, but I'm thrilled to say that I'm finally back on track and more passionate than ever about the craft that has always been such a central part of my life.

I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has stayed with me during this time of transition, who has supported me and encouraged me along the way. Your kindness and encouragement have meant the world to me, and I am truly grateful for your continued support.

And to all of my fellow writers out there who may be struggling to balance the demands of life with their creative passions, I want to offer a word of encouragement. Remember that writing is not just a hobby or a pastime - it's a vital part of who you are, a way of expressing yourself and sharing your unique perspective with the world. So don't give up on your dreams, no matter how busy or challenging life may be. Keep writing, keep creating, and keep pushing yourself to be the best writer you can be. The world needs your voice, and your stories deserve to be heard.

~ K

Ending as Beginning

Hello, everyone.

Only a short update today on some progresses. My novel is out and in the hands of those who can make some important decisions on what happens with it from here. It’s all tremendously exciting, and I hope to share the story with you fully in the not-so-distant future.

The ending of this novel has led me to an extension—a new beginning. The end, once so definite, now springs new life.

 

 
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This World is not Conclusion

Emily Dickinson

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond –
Invisible, as Music –
But positive, as Sound –
It beckons, and it baffles –
Philosophy – don’t know –
And through a Riddle, at the last –
Sagacity, must go –
To guess it, puzzles scholars –
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown –
Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –
Blushes, if any see –
Plucks at a twig of Evidence –
And asks a Vane, the way –
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –
Strong Hallelujahs roll –
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul –

Clouds

For the last few months, I have been digesting, testing, making nit-pick edits to the final draft (before final-final revisions), and working with my excellent editor and friend to get the manuscript ready for agent review. I feel like I have raised this piece of art as high as I can for the moment, though there is undoubtedly more for her to teach me and me to show her. 

I always find these word clouds interesting. They make me wonder about all the other words around and between them and the pictures they paint when all together on the same canvas. This word cloud is one I created from the synopsis of my novel and probably an apropos sneak preview—without a sneak preview.

I look forward to sharing more with you in the not-so-distant future.

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What's the big deal with James Cagney anyway?

Hello, everyone. I hope you are staying well.

A few years ago, I wrote a flash fiction piece inspired by the Edward Hopper piece, New York Movie. Hopper’s paintings remind me much of Hemingway’s writing—scant on detail, but one may glean much from the deeper tides turning in the scene. New York Movie depicts a woman usher in a bygone day standing silent in a yellow-lit entry. She’s lost in thought. I wrote about what she might be thinking in those dim lights. The ideas springing from her and this image have grown into a short story I am working on, and it will meld with my next novel I have given thoughts on below. Here is the original flash piece I wrote with a few minor updates.

New York Movie by E. Hopper

New York Movie by E. Hopper

 

Whatever else might happen, she isn’t going back. This is it. He’s drunk even now in that seat, watching this hideous movie—again. ‘What’s the big deal about James Cagney anyway?’ She doesn’t get it. She could go now and that sad sack wouldn’t even notice she’d left—until she was on a train west; maybe Detroit, or even Texas. She’s got friends there—an aunt and cousins—and she could get a job there and make a fresh go of things. Her boss wouldn’t miss her either—what, with his grabby hands and sour breath and all his cheap talk. Going back to Texas is better than going to prison, that’s for sure. Or back to that Bronx apartment. Because if he does it again, I’ll tell ya, she’ll kill him. In his drunken foolishness, she will shove that butchering knife he is so fond of waving in her face, right into his yellow liver, and not give it a second thought. Not one. Yeah. Texas. There is nothing in this fat city for her anymore. They have used each other up. Who’s big idea was all of this anyway?

 

Crossing Over

It took some time, but I got there. Almost. I think…

It’s but an interesting and frustrating journey. I at last finished the first draft of my novel. The manuscript is now with my brilliant editor. I’m looking forward to hearing her thoughts. 

Some aspects of writing craft became more clear through these months, I suppose, like training for anything else in which you desire to excel. Other aspects became more vague and elusive. All in all, I have learned much about writing and about perspective. I feel like I have crossed over—I feel changed in some ways, strengthened in others, and likely weakened in spots too.

This photo is of a bridge I crossed in Honduras a few years ago. It led to an animal preserve filled with curious capuchins and bright lazy macaws. Birds and monkeys feature prominently in my novel, as does an independent little dog named after the Aztec god of art and Mexico’s flora. 

Bridge in Roatan, Honduras - K. Cummins

Bridge in Roatan, Honduras - K. Cummins

I have shared little here lately as I’ve been working away on finishing this story, which happened a long time ago in a forgotten village laying in a valley in the deep forests of Latin America. I hope to share with you more news about the story in the not-to-distant future.

For now, I am ready to move on to the next project while I wait to hear on the manuscript. I’ll leave this story behind for a spell—though it will always be a part of me. I have some essays to arrange and refine. And a new story is boiling up in me and getting ready to come out. Fireflies…

Ice Ballet and The End

Today, I have finished the story of Lourdes Peña – her final chapter penned. It has been a long and challenging path, where I learned much about writing and possibilities. Now, I have weeks of rewrites and edits ahead of me, which I will fall into gladly with the knowledge I am refining the story of her life and making her more accessible.  

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We are in the midst of a plague appearing to reach almost biblical proportions. It seems to be worse everyday now. Yesterday, I saw something that, for me, summed up much of the surrealism mixed with the hope I have been witnessing and contemplating. A young couple flawlessly performed ballet in the empty, quiet, and iced-over street - with jumps, pirouettes, grand stretches, and bends, I think with much the same grace they might have delivered on stage. They did this in complete silence. It was stunning. I wanted to stay and watch or photograph them. But I felt intrusive, and my hands were full with all the equipment I was schlepping from my office to take home so I could work and other items to drop off to a colleague. It was a story in its own right. Time stood still for a few moments while they spun.

Stay well

K. Cummins Photo

K. Cummins Photo

At the Edge

I’ve come to the edge of my novel; to the place where all those things I have built for the last two years come apart – no, they are ripped. Ripped apart. More accurate.

Lourdes, the central persona of the tale, stands here at this too-high precipice with me. She is strong and silent as she is often. Her nature. She waits for me. She looks into the distance of the haze-filled valley below us.

There are things coming that I dread to write, Lourdes; things I need not see in this world we inhabit together. She smiles, and she nods. I can see in her eyes a knowing of the things I will write.

But it’s my story, she says through the wind.

Then she reminds me of a verse.

Art by Karen Kent

Art by Karen Kent

“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”

― Guillaume Apollinaire

Juana Inés

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Juana Inés de la Cruz

12 November 1648 – 17 April 1695

I have recently discovered the works – and particularly the poetry – of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. She was nun, feminist, dissenter, poet, philosopher, writer, musician, and composer in 17th century Mexico. Her writings were and remain metaphysical and a prescient, sobering, and much-needed discourse — then and today — on our commonalities, be it male or female, saint or sinner, sleeping or woken. She is actively providing me today, in the 21st century, new revelations and inspirations for the context of the final chapters and ending of my novel. She is indeed helping me complete this literary undertaking.

~ Gracias, Sor Juana.

Departures

Good morning, friends.

I found this image of Januz Miralles’ work this morning. It’s called I Need A Guide. I love it. It brings up – for me – many of the emotions I am instilling in my character in these final chapters I am working on now in my novel. It also reflects some of my own thoughts as I bring this all to a close. I am nearing the end of all this writing — all this time, and thought, and anxiety — on her story. She is a real persona in my life. The departures will soon arrive, and they will be bittersweet.

— K

I Need a Guide - Januz Miralles

CJ's Chair

The Porch - K. Cummins

The Porch - K. Cummins

Hello, friends. 

I took this picture shortly after our mother passed in early 2016. It’s the front porch of the house where we grew up in southeast New Mexico. There in the photo, you can see the old rocking chair Mom sat in through many of her years and to the end of her life, with the birds and the morning air, or in the heat of the day after her perpetual tending of the flowers, shrubs, and trees. It is a special place and a special chair.

My sister and I drove down there a couple of weeks ago. The chair was the final thing I wanted to get from our childhood home. A renter and her children live there in our house now. It’s not the same place – not our home any longer. Though, I can still feel Mom in the air there. There will always be a part of her drifting in the breeze there between those trees and around those desert vines.

My sister and I spent a couple of days back in our home town, seeing the old places and visiting the old haunts. She goes back fairly often. I don’t. I think when I left many years ago, I just wanted to look forward, not back. Now it seems there is probably more of my life behind me than in front, so I find myself looking back more often.

The morning before my sister and I left to drive back to Colorado, we went over to the house to pick up the chair. It still sat in the same dust-filled corner of the old porch, like it awaited us — waited for someone. The wood felt dry and looked a bit beat up — full of spider eggs and web. I tied it down in the back of my truck on some old blankets with some rope for the long ride back north. It made it back here just fine.

When we got back to Denver and my sister had left to finish her drive another hour north to her home, I put the chair in the garage. I wasn’t yet sure what to do with it. A few days after being home, I cleaned it all down and rubbed the whole thing with bee’s wax. I let it dry for a day, then buffed all the excess wax from the wood grains by hand. It had dozens of scars and several dry patches; etchings and worn places from all the hands touching it through the years; dark spots and light spots. It all came together in one story, it seemed, under the wax — one tone blending into the next and one worn area turning to a smooth preserved section . A bit how I have felt lately, I suppose. Worn and older. Scarred and creaky in some places. But still useful and still cleans up alright.

Mom’s old chair sits in the living room now, seeming to beckon — calling for someone to come and sit with it.

Maybe I’ll sit there sometime and do some writing, though it seems I always have at least one dog on me when I do sit there, and then another one or two trying to climb up as well.

It has been a while since I have written here. I have been working away on edits of my novel since November. I finally finished those last week and have been writing steady on new material. I hope you all will enjoy reading it someday soon. It’s a good story about a woman, her struggle, and her art.

I’ll be back soon.

— K

The Bony Lady

From the entrance into my forthcoming novel . . .

Altar of La Santa Muerte - Nogales, AZ

Altar of La Santa Muerte - Nogales, AZ

La Santa Muerte – Our Lady of Holy Death – is the feminine embodiment of Death in Latin American cultures. She is also known as the Bony Lady and the White Sister. Her devotees describe her as pure warmth, a friend, and a personal spirit that gladly involves herself in the frivolities and antics of woman- and mankind. That which is vital to her followers, also becomes imperative to her. She is revered as the bridge between the living and the dead, light and dark, growth and decay, love and fear. Her images and folklore have arisen, evolved, and flown from the mists of pre-Columbian times. She has been banned by the Catholic Church and labeled as an outlawed cult. Nonetheless, those faithful to La Santa Muerte number in the tens of millions today.

Jaroslav Panuška, Death Looking into the Window of One Dying, 1900.

Jaroslav Panuška, Death Looking into the Window of One Dying, 1900.

A New Story Brewing

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I have a story rising in my gut – in my mind – from the recesses of my childhood and genetic memories. Fireflies flash around ghost stories told on the porch of an old house set firm on Texas clay. Boxcars rumbling; steel wheels clattering; steam whistles blowing. There’s an old screech owl crying in a cottonwood tree. There’s two young women that are a lot like my Grandmother and her sister when they were rough, tough, and young — back before the war — and a night that just went all wrong. I need to figure out what they are all saying to me.

Fireflies . . .

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