About the Author

Kurt Douglas Frazier writes the way some folks whittle wood or mend fences. He does it slowly, carefully, and with a deep respect for how things have always been done.

His stories lean toward the human-sized moments: aging hands, curious children, quiet courage, and the small truths that shimmer just beneath ordinary days.

"The past is not behind us. It walks beside us, and occasionally it clears its throat; we all want to be noticed." - Kurt Douglas Frazier

A lifelong observer of people and places. The author is especially drawn to voices that are often overlooked: old men with long memories, children with honest questions, and everyday souls standing at the edge of wonder.

His work blends gentle humor with lyrical reflection, favoring heart over spectacle and wisdom earned the hard way.

When he isn’t writing, Kurt Frazier can usually be found thinking about things:

• stories he hasn’t written yet,

• listening for a story the way one listens for wind in the trees.

• looking for inspiration.

He lives in the Mobile, Alabama, United States and continues to write fiction that values legacy, patience, and the quiet beauty seen only by those willing to climb a little higher.

A Word About Goals

Goals are the quiet fence posts that keep a writer from wandering too far into the weeds. They do not chain the imagination; they give it something sturdy to lean against while it looks up at the sky.

A writer without goals is not lazy, far from it. He is usually busy in all the wrong directions. He collects ideas like postcards, half-written pages like ticket stubs, and notebooks that hum with promise but never quite sing. Goals are what turn that pleasant hum into a melody.

For a writer, goals need not arrive dressed in ambition’s sharp suit. They can come wearing overalls. Modest goals are often the most faithful: write three mornings a week, finish one chapter before judging it, send a story into the world even if it trembles on the way out the door. These are not flashy resolutions. They are habits, and habits are the old tools that built most things worth keeping.

Goals also teach patience, which is a virtue writers learn the long way around. Stories ripen at their own pace, but a goal reminds us to keep watering the soil. It whispers, “Sit down anyway,” on days when the words hide like shy children. It says, “This absolutely matters,” when doubt clears its throat and asks uncomfortable questions.

Most importantly, goals give a writer a sense of direction without stealing the joy of discovery. You may not know how the story will end, but you know you are walking toward an ending. That knowledge steadies the hand and calms the heart.

In the end, a writer’s goals are less about arriving than continuing. They are promises made not to fame or fortune, but to the work itself. And if kept faithfully, they leave behind something rare and good: pages that exist where once there was only intention, and a life shaped, quietly and deliberately, by words.