You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.
~ Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Get your facts first, then distort them as you please.
You may say a cat uses good grammar. Well, a cat does — but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you’ll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw. Ignorant people think it’s the noise which fighting cats […]
Creativity and imagination, unlike faith, is constantly replenished by our need to question the universe, to give it form and purpose… That’s why it is so dangerous to marry the power of the church to that of government. Only corruption can result. […]
I write what I know.
I never found my mother stirring ground glass into pie filling or cut anyone’s throat.
I’ve never poisoned anyone.
I’ve never been trapped in an abandoned house.
You get the drift. My fiction is mostly not-the-truth.
Coming soon from Wildside Press
“When Cheese Is Love”
in Austin Mystery Writers’ second crime fiction anthology LONE STAR LAWLESS
I’ve also published bits of memoir in Story Circle Network’sTrue Words Anthologyand Journal, and Story Circle book reviews on Amazon.
About M. K.
I’m M. K. Waller, aka Kathy, former teacher, former librarian, former paralegal, and former pianist at various small churches desperate for someone who could find middle C.
I write crime fiction, literary fiction, humor (I hope), memoir, and whatever else comes to mind.
I grew up in Fentress, population ~ 150 in 1960, on the San Marcos River in Central Texas, the Blackland Prairie, where pickups hauled hay and kids and horses, guns killed the occasional rattlesnake, Miss Pedula the milk cow grazed by the roadside, and a dear old gentleman named Dick Ward sold double-dip ice cream cones for a nickel. Old ladies played dominoes on front porches in the afternoons, and old men gossiped on benches outside the post office. There were still horned toads and lightning bugs, and mosquitoes were one-tenth the size they are now. In 1983, my parents finally installed working locks on the doors.
Life was good. I would like to have the mosquitoes and the nickel ice cream and the old people back. A few things, however, are best left behind.
Memories provide grist for my word mill.
I now live in Austin, Texas, with two cats and one husband.
Like other writers, I’m first, last, and always a reader. Like other former English teachers and librarians, I no longer have a captive audience (“Read this! It’s wonderful!”), so I spread the word the best way I can.
I list authors and titles as they come to mind. The list grows day by day. I expect it to meander all the way to Infinity.
The Truth: Clyde Edgerton. He’s a genius, a writer who brings you to tears and then, before you can put away your crying towel, makes you laugh so hard you start crying again. And each of his books is different from the rest.