For many, bringing a sense of clarity is a daily struggle even before COVID-19. Now digesting and swallowing the bitter pill laced with self-quarantine, self-isolation, shelter in place: a table reservation is with one’s self—these new buzz words have replaced the more acceptable (and sadly accepted) terms of living:  SOLITUDE, ISOLATION, AND LONELINESS. Social isolation, solitary, table for one, RSVP blog, March 2020

Writers, all too well, are used to living in a quagmire of cubical existence. We call it creativity. How fortunate writers are:  we know the rules. Continue reading

Taming of the Shrew-d Pen

Last week while looking though my window at the endless rain, my brain raced with ideas for my next 3 stories. I think the stillness of the room allowed thoughts to drift away from the saturation of recent NEWS HEADLINES. To be fair, I can’t blame the toxicity of what is trending into viewership obsession. I did need a break from marketing my present book, The Last Merry Go Round. It’s not that I don’t love the story—I do, and still feel I did the right thing by writing a not-your-normal-candy-romance-about marriage. The reviews so far indicate I was on to something. Continue reading

New School – New Rules

New School, New Rules. A blog about marketing a published book A major task in my city is freeway driving. Trying to get from Point A to Point B is an impossible issue. Traffic is a snail’s ride on a parking lot, causing significant irritations, especially when time isn’t on your side. Recently, when I was in a holding pattern, within a ¼ of a mile from my exit—a thought came to me watching all those solo drivers. ‘How many were alone, had family, or had friends.Continue reading

Naked Tree

An unadorned Christmas tree, a Naked TreeA tree is in my house. A tree in my house is unadorned with lights, ornaments, or presents. I’ve been studying its shape and its nakedness.

Over this past week, its image has become a focal point for my morning meditation. The tree’s calmness and the stillness of its branches, resonates inside me, a reflection of this year.

There is a song written by Yoko Ono and John Lennon~~~Happy Christmas (War is Over). The first two lines are in my mind as timeless and poignant, as any sung this time of season….

So this is Christmas and what have you done
Another year over, a new one just begun

The naked tree standing before me represents the present and future.

Homeless man with Help sign, wearing a red hatThe tree’s trunk is the present, my foundation. My thoughts of who I am, not just as a writer, but of a person filled with empathy for those who have less than I do. I walk past the homeless, no longer labeled as men or women—just homeless. I feel empathy because I know (and have to believe in my heart) that not one of these people was born with the main thought, When I grow up, I want to be homeless. My empathy as I meditate fills with sadness, for there are so many homeless sleeping under the naked trees.

The naked tree’s middle is the future.  My future as a writer is slowly moving into the light of recognition. I’ve met thousands of authors, filmmakers, poets, teachers, photographers, and actors who have inspired me with their support, amazing dreams, and fearless projects of past, present, and future. Humility fills my heart for the tremendous and most glorious house, full with people who have asked me to be a part of their network-community. Our trees grown together are a wondrous forest. I know for all of this: I am blessed. My future as a writer has many branches. And I will water its root. And I will eventually form a foundation—for the homeless whose words and art have been buried inside the threads of their coats—as they sleep under the naked trees.

The future is the top of the tree.  We need the tree’s crown. Is this why we put a star or an angel on its branch? Are we secretly praying for a better future, a time when all people can awaken with the basic necessities—food, clothing, love, shelter, and happiness?

As I meditate, this very chilly morning, I think of the beginning of Louis Armstrong’s song~~~What A Wonderful World

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world.

and then there was one

November 2019 blog-and then there was one, written by c.l.charlesworthI’m always reflective in the last two months of the year. I’ve always been this way for as long as I can remember. The changing of the seasons from fall to winter brings thoughts of the end of a year, and more often, how fast time has passed.

Time, as I age, becomes no more of a number, or a nail waiting in the wings ready to seal my coffin. In my mind, I’m still the wide-eyed, huge-smile child, the one whose picture is on my dresser—she’s in long, pig-tail braids and fashionable cat-eye glasses. She reaches through the frame and hugs me when I need it. She is my past, present, and future. Her voice is mine. Continue reading


Scary demons, poison watersThe unknown for me is scary. Sometimes, fear grips me, and I become very immobile. I admit this is a life-long exercise, and most times, I WIN.

I can count my demons, and wonder, how will I ever be able to put one foot in front of the other, to fill a blank page with my imagination? Am I alone in this thought? Writing cultivates fear. It strips away all clothes and reveals a writer’s words—naked—or the world to either love or hate. Continue reading


Photo of Summer time scrawled into beach sand near surf. Summer brings many things to mind, and one is the sense of space I had as a child. School recess went from June to September. Summer brings many things to mind, and one is the sense of space I had as a child. School recess went from June to September. A grin filled my face when the final bell rang. Happiness meant a reprieve from classmates who got on my nerves and unimaginative teachers, whose play-book was rule-driven. Finally, freedom from peer pressure about which suitable school (aka-hip) outfits to wear, or how to maneuver a full-throttle class load (parents insisted on me maintaining honors). Continue reading


Conversations over coffee blogAs a result of meeting several women in a book club, I belong to a conversational group, gathering monthly at various coffeehouses around town.

There aren’t requirements, other than to make the time (about two hours) for weekend coffee. Attendance of writers, students, artists, retirees, self-employed, and newcomers to town varies between eight to a dozen. Continue reading