Kelly Sagert

World’s Largest Ball of String Ain’t Nothin’: Tale of COVID Grief

Opening Pseudo-Scientific Fact: Weighing 3,712 pounds, this ball of string is 24,901.461 times lighter than the heartache currently being experienced by one single compassionate human. I tried to push the pain away it rolled down a hill. Sorrow picked up twigs and dimes, growing in diameter. I put it in a casket pushing on the lid, squeezing out the tears I hadn’t yet shed. We floated to Lake Erie, my globe of grief and me. We scooped up dying leaves, swirling in damp misery. I cried out to Atlas, asked him for some aid. I’m sorry, friend, he told me

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Poem: Am I Not My Sister’s Keeper?

Am I not my sisters’ keeper? As we shout when wolves crouch down, and hold back blood and tooth and claw with flimsy skirts and petticoats and when we cheer the jungle king that lies with calves in sweet green clover water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Wisdom, pain and sorrow, shame water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Am I not my sisters’ keeper as the pressures of our lives erupt? Who can calm my sister down? Bowls of water, cool fresh water wiping fevered brows with prayer. Rock of Ages, cool fresh water offering faith and love and hope

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An Interview with an Aficionado about her Ever-Growing Rock Collection

Q: Peggy, you’ve just completed a big move. What was the last thing you did, right before you left your former home? Peggy: My flower garden had a rock border. Before I drove away for good, I grabbed a piece of quartz. Q: You still have this quartz, right? Peggy: Sure. Q: From what I understand, you’ve also got plenty more. When you look around your living room, what do you see? Peggy: Fossil from Pennsylvania on my coffee table. Polished rock slab underneath three candles, granite from Mount Ascutney, a Vermont-shaped rock and a piece of quartz with large

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Author Interview: Sol Stein, January 25, 1996

Sol Stein penned his first story on telegram blanks, stolen from Western Union. “My father took them from Grand Central Station because we couldn’t afford paper in the depths of the Depression,” Stein said. His first poem was then published in a school paper when he was seven. “I wrote my first book when I was thirteen and it was published when I was fifteen,” he said. “When I went to see the publisher, he asked why my father didn’t come himself.” More than two million copies of Stein’s novels have now been sold. Selected by major book clubs, they’re

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Author Interview: Aimee Thurlo, 02/14/97

Aimee Thurlo got fired. Frequently. “In 1980, I was super restless at home,” she said, “but I couldn’t find any job that interested me. I got fired from every conceivable job on the planet, too, because I was constantly daydreaming.” “Finally,” she added, “unable to settle on any career that suited me, I decided to try my hand at writing and I cajoled my husband David into joining me.” 

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Author Interviews: Tad Wojnicki 09/16/96

For Tad Wojnicki to write well, he needs to know that he’s evoking a feeling, identifying with the reader at a gut level. “What are we talking about here?” Wojnicki asks. “We are talking passion! Without passion, which is the heart of writing, we merely have cold facts.” He has recently followed his own advice in his first novel, Lie Under the Fig Trees, which he calls a thinly disguised autobiography. He leads us through the romance of Teddy and Rosie, starting with a passionate one night stand in Poland the night before Teddy flees the oppressed country. Arriving in

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Obed Caswell and Walter Caswell: Story of Brothers

Note: I became interested in Obed Caswell and his brother Walter when writing a biography about their niece’s husband, Civil War soldier Wells Waite Miller. I am still waiting for the Civil War service and pension records for the Caswell brothers and I expect their story to evolve as I learn more. Is an historical biography ever really “done”? Anyone who has information about Wells Waite Miller, his brother Lodowick, or Obed Caswell/Walter Caswell, please contact me! Obed Caswell was the great-grandson of one Revolutionary War soldier and the grandson of another; the son of a man who fought in

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Untamed Wolf in Me

Any spiritual journey is, if authentically embraced, a journey towards truth—and significant truths often come to us in pieces, rather than all at once.   When on a weekend pilgrimage at the Order of the Sisters of St. Francis in Sylvania, Ohio several years ago, our group paused in front of a statue of St. Francis with a wild wolf that he was said to have tamed. The question that we were asked to consider was: I think the untamed wolf in me is ______.  I found that question intriguing and tried to create an answer. But, I couldn’t. At

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Poem: Summer of 2021

I slog through muck, a sticky mix of wrongs that reign. I protest. I carry with me no sign, only one lone woman’s heart-scream. I side-step puddles, fearful of taking on more dampness, darkness, dread, doubt, despair. And yet And yet In a stagnant pool of tomorrow’s rain I see, within its waters, reflected the howl of another woman’s rage. Despite myself, I hope.

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Creating Stone Soup With a Pen

Now, you all remember Stone Soup, don’t you? In it, starving strangers convinced villagers to add ingredients to their pot of broth, one containing only water and a single stone. As the villagers agreed and added their contributions, the soup fed them all. So, stay with me here. When writing, the stone is your story idea that you water while you also add ingredients to the genesis of that idea. For example: Tossing carrots into the pot could = creating characters. Potatoes? Plot! Squash is the setting. You get the idea.

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