Karin received her MFA in creative writing from Naropa University and has worked on a diverse range of projects as a copy editor or developmental editor, including romance novels and university textbooks. She writes short and long fiction, scripts, and reviews, and she published her first novel, Invitation to a Hanging, in 2023. When not wrangling the written word, she loves spending time with her kids, photographing abandoned buildings, and yoga. She might have an addiction to cat videos.

As a Story Terrace writer, Karin interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below

Heaven Is Built From Legos

I lived a full life during my visit to the Lego store. There was joy and sorrow, laughter, love, and anticipation—of course—because we were going to THAT PLACE! We arrived doe-eyed and drooling, or at least they did. I was the reluctant driver.
I warned them ahead of time. “I’m not loaning you money. Christmas is coming, and my toy budget is allocated.”
“But we just want to look!” they said.
They were curious about the new models. But it turned out their allowance was searing like a hot virus in their pockets. The pain made it essential to eliminate the ache—the burden—of their funds.
Cash heavy as they were, there was a certain confidence, a joie de vivre and tire-kicking stride as they eyed the boxes on the shelves. But they each had only a little money—not enough for anything interesting. The two oldest negotiated and decided to consolidate and buy a Ninjago model. The young one was jealous. He scanned the shelves and picked a tank truck he just had to have.
“You don't have enough money.”
“You could loan me some.”
I shook my head.
“Why!" he cried.
I gave him reasons, as if they mattered.
He asked again, and we went back and forth, and I put the box in its place on the shelf. The middle boy came to me teary-eyed and said the oldest had betrayed the bargain and picked something from Star Wars, not Ninjago, so the deal was off.
“He always does this,” he said.
“Then don’t make deals.”
He cried, and the youngest threw himself at my feet and grabbed my ankles, and the oldest said, “I’m bored.” He went back to the car because he could. Besides, it turned out, he’d already blown his money that morning and really didn’t have any to contribute to the grand bargain, but I didn’t reach this conclusion until later. And so it was the two and me.
“Let’s go,” I said.
"No." Their feet were planted, and with all the crying, their roots had gone deep.
The middle boy drew his money from his pocket and counted to see if
the number had grown.
I felt bad about the broken pact and the dashed hopes. And the truth was, I was tired. We'd been wandering the store for nearly an hour. My blood sugar was plummeting, and I was having fantasies about boarding schools and valium. It seemed the only way out was for me to carry them. So I relented.
“I’ll loan you each your next week’s allowance.”
The youngest one's face looked like the sun, then turned to panic.
“What did I want?” he asked.
We found the truck, and a Ninjago vehicle. Sure, I'd given in, broken my boundaries, lost out an opportunity for a lesson on financial management and a little bit of dignity when I'd managed one or two mermaid steps with a seven-year old clinging to my feet, but I learned something—I learned that happiness comes in the shape of small plastic bricks.