THE GIFT OF FRIENDS AND . . . 


The gift of friends... blog by CL Charlesworth, fiction writerAs the year closes I can’t name all the people I’ve connected with online. They’ve come from parts of the world I would like one day to visit. Friendship formed is a grand thing. Writers are a breed of people who walk through life with great imaginations. I love reading their bios and am in awe of the accomplishments. All I can say is WOW! Writing is a powerful medium.

Accomplishing this 2017 surreal goal for me—is writing THE END to my novel, The Last Merry Go Round. Do I like the book? Yes. I love it. The story, a hard look at a fractured marriage has some scenes that made me stop and think. . .  yeah, I want to show this. I must. Some of my writer friends who’ve read parts of my manuscript say I’ve done a realistic job; others cringe at the realism because they know of such marriages; and others just are silent with two words: EXCELLENT WORK. 

Mary, Teresa, Malorie, Debi, Jessica, Marly, Julia, Summer, Tanith, Donna are women who’ve cheered me on. Tom, who left me alone with a laptop and papers spread over our dining table, and my Dad’s spirit never let me forget my potential. Many, many more to thank. . .  gosh, I’m speechless.

Christmas, a time I remember my small town covered with snow, smells of home cooking, lights, decorations, and company coming in and out from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day—I’m grateful for the traditions as I’ve added to my own as an adult.

I no longer make New Year’s resolutions. It’s hard to live up to even one! I do light a candle at the end of the year. This time it’ll be for the homeless, a population that’s multiplying like rabbits. The gift of friends blog discusses the homeless, by CL Charlesworth, fiction writerThe other day I saw a family huddled in a store’s doorway. They were waiting for health services to open. I didn’t have any money and they weren’t asking. It was a week before Christmas and as I walked away trying not to stare in agony, I reflected back on my own fortunate state. Friends, such as the ones I mentioned, have never left me down. I think of the two homeless children I saw—a baby and a toddler—and wonder what kind of memories will they have?

Life is unfair for many, and even more unjust for more than many. If all we do is look and see no justice for the homeless, then how can we, as writers, show passion in our work?

As the year closes and I celebrate the finishing of my novel, having all edits done, my friends, and family, I light a candle for that homeless family. . .  and hope one day their story is written.

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