A Writer’s Night

Many nights I am awoken
Sentences formulating
Gathering mysteriously as clouds expand with the mists
Pathways for explorations…
So unlike the days not so long ago
When I strove for the light
Cloistered with boxes of 3 X 5 cards
Aghast at my own stagnation
But I persisted…I persisted…
With a faith that was not a faith
But only a yearning and an intention…

Why my psyche concorded
To attend with its consciousnesses
To arouse me with conversations
Inspired by nocturnal travels
Will probably be not known.

Yet I now journey and play in worlds
Deeply integrated with
Mind, heart and spirit.

This is the only world within which
I wish to live…
For you see, I am an artist…..
Flourishing within the mysteries.


Easter Island statues moon star sky


The Granting

I awoke this morning to a life I have been dreaming of…
for twenty five years…it has manifested…




             A Dawning…
             Muses Inspire…
             Spells Imbue…
             The Bones of Story Evolve…..

Dharma Do

My heart is awash in billows of gratitude.  Finally, after so many years of my ‘gypsy life’, movement hither, thither and yon that hindered progress on Destiny’s Consent, I am once again at work birthing the next sequel.

This is my special space here in the jungle. It is Laura Shepard Townsend’s space. It is her room. It is my writing room.  Everything is here…my books, my notes….my boxes and boxes of 3X5 cards. They sit on the floor beside me awaiting the creation of scenes. Who is Angelica Grastende in 1926 to 1932?  She is a flyer…yes!!


It is here that I live within my story: the next part of the dream I dreamt so many many years ago. I now live among the Mysteries.  I summon the Muses for assistance.

I look to the walls; Pat and my Mother smile inspirations upon me. Delores Hanney is there in a review published in The Venice Beachhead.

The desk at which I sit is a Chinese altar bearing talismans for lyrical clarity: a quill pen carved with mythical symbols leaning amidst crystals; an antique brass ruler engraved with dragons; a pen studded with jewels; amulet stones gathered from many places.  Beside me is a lacquered screen with carved gemstones in the shapes of flowers……mmmm….all of my treasures.

A pig with wings…’when pigs fly’ and I am at work. I am doing my work, with the gift I was given upon arrival here. It is my dharma. It is my quest.

This is what I believe and what I know.


Paula Jean’s comments

I woke to one of my neighbors shearing away my bougainvillea blossoms that had had the audacity to stray into her yard.  I felt sorry that somehow the floral exuberance did not enthrall her heart and soul…and blessed the dying blossoms and her….so I arose, not exactly thrilled with life and its circumstances on this morning.

I wandered into the studio, almost swooning with the scents of orange blossoms. I checked FB and discovered these three posts on my page by Paula Jean, an intelligent adventuress I met at a Butterfly Sanctuary and Garden in the hills above Montezuma, Costa Rica.

                 “I am thoroughly, completely enjoying your book, It is my perfect escape from all my worries. I have been dealing with fleas these days in FL and for you to write about the Flea Circus has me giggling. It is so perfectly written from the standpoint of this child. How imaginative, how delightful, and filled with drama and conflict, filled with descriptive images. I can hardly put it down, thank you for writing it and will no doubt read your second one. Such a treat to have met you and to now read your magical story. It took over a year for me to buy the book, but I suppose I needed to find myself battling fleas to time it right, LOL.”

                “I weep as I come to the end of The Gypsy’s Song. I should have ordered the second book at the same time. Now I must wait for its arrival. The story is captivating and filled with so much, so many parts that have influenced our lives. Small tangents that speak to me on another level. Perhaps I was a gypsy in a past life. The draw to Bohemia touches us both profoundly and I love all the small references to a larger philosophical belief, references to Jung, The Tao, reincarnation, oh so many.”

                 “I am reading a delightful book by Laura Shepard Townsend, titled Destiny’s Consent. I was fortunate to meet this beautiful woman in Costa Rica last year. Not sure exactly why it took me a year to pick up this book but so glad I did. It’s a beautifully written story. If you are looking for a great read, beautifully written descriptive story about Gypsies in S Ca in early 20th century pick it up from Amazon. She has a great web site too”

Needless to say, my puny mind has shifted from my neighbor’s actions to Paula’s generosity of spirit embraced within her words. For a writer and an artist, there is little better happenstance in this world….thank you, Paula….

 The Gypsys Song smallfinal-cover-web



A New Book

muses bringing in

To Begin my Storytelling:

Cast a spell
So as to call unto Psyche all Muses,
Ancient and Wise…..

As well as All Helpers
In the Invisible World


When She Has that Look in Her Eye

This is so much how I feel at the moment working on my next book, Angel’s Flight, the next book in the Destiny’s Consent series.  Of course, in her genius, Clarissa Pinkola Estes has captured it perfectly: a simple matter of spit and crystalline bones and balancing acts on fingertips..

“When she has that look in her eye, she is balancing a big cardhouse of ideas on a single fingertip, and she is carefully connecting all of the cards using tiny crystalline bones, and a little spit, and if she can just get it to the table without it falling down, or flying apart,  she can bring an image from the unseen world into being. To speak to her in that moment is to create a Harpy moment that blows the entire structure to tatters. To speak to her in that moment will break her heart.”
                                           Clarissa Pinkola Estes   Women Who Run with the Wolves

Currently I feel I am in the midst of casting a spell to summon muses, goddesses, and all cosmic helpers to assist me with my quest to bring those images from the unseen world into being.  I am a witch goddess crone….I stand at the end of the world to watch doors open and close, to watch the flight of flocks of birds, and to watch the magic of the world unfurl….I truly believe that reality is completely dependent on magical worlds.

woman with tree becoming birds

I just finished rereading my first two books and am so in awe of them…this knowledge pushes me to aspire to the same level, to return to the same place in which I dwelt when I wrote them.

No easy task…those eight years spent writing the first two books, were days of miracles and more miracles and then even more miracles to guide and to inspire me…golden light shimmering each of my footsteps so as to bring my words shiny and bright, garnished with the wisdom of destiny’s consent spit-fired with grand adventures.


A Necklace of Crystals


The explanation I tell My Self is that
It was simply because
I lost my crystal necklace,
My talisman
A symbol of my witch art
Oh you may be sure
I wore it  for the reading,
But somewhere, somehow
It fell off my neck
Hidden, gone…
Abandoned, I was to stand naked
On the night
I lost my virginity
That was the night
I spoke my poems aloud to the others
For the very first time

When asked if I had a poem to share, I hesitated not
For I had prepared for the reading
And strode with purpose
To the center of the room
In the midst of the waiting artists
And birthed my words
Syllables claimed from my heart
On into the spheres

As I read,
With no warning,
No warning at all
My voice treasoned into
A Falter,
A Betrayal of the Diminishments
To whittle my core in the way past
Physical proof
Of not only the axing of my psyche,
But also its infitessimal recovery.

Oh No!
Oh No!
Not now!
Why NOW?
But I continued
Even as my voice rasped in self-doubt
And paralysis…a sabotage
To battle my poet’s heart intent
Its longing to jump towards the stars
Do not dare, it told me
Do not DARE!
Stay small, stay inconspicuous
Do not risk, do not venture….

The group listening was
One of strenuous talent
I did not know
I did not know
I did not know
I was not prepared for
Art as a performance
Oh, how different presentation is
From the work
How very, very different
I read another
I was applauded
Applause hollowed with pity,  politeness
For you see,
It was a night of champion performers
Those who wrote, crafted and rehearsed
Those who twinkled with adoration
Armored with persona and personality

I could have introed my neo status
I could have shared my pain
And my difficulty
They would have understood
For they were all poets…….
They know

But instead, my pride said nothing of beginnings
Shame stumbled away into the night
Ensuring I would be without community.
I have not shared my words again.
But I will again very soon.

I suppose I could just play a tape next time……..


Vanquishing Artistic Doubts

This is a very personal tale of my vanquishing artistic doubts and angst.

Once upon a time, I awoke, in possession of a dream of Gypsies and Oracles in Venice, an inspiration for what was to become the series of books, I call Destiny’s Consent.  Years passed. And then more years. To be exact, eight year between all of the research and the subsequent writing of the first two books.

My friends, were, at first, supportive, but over time, though they endeavored to be polite, their mouths constricted with their doubts whenever I brought up Destiny’s Consent. At first I shrugged off their reactions. After all, the ideas came to me in a dream directly from my psyche, I believed. But after eight years, I have to admit I began to feel foolish. After all, who was I to try to write such an epic tale?  I certainly wasn’t making any money, and the effort was eating up my life – five hours a day, five days a week. I loved the writing; the connections of fact and fiction; the way the story integrated all aspects of my life….miracles occurred, but…

And so the debate about my art began, fanning into a tempest of uncertainty.  Thee was constant discussion and counter-discussion in my head. There was much self-examination, increasing in tempo and frequency until even my artist’s mind got dragged into the fracas.

Like the princess in Rumpelstilskin, I decided to ask my questions to the night, and perhaps spin straw into gold.  Here goes nothing, I thought.  But okay:  “So, am I supposed to keep on writing this book?  Is this my task?”

 And then went to sleep.  Here is the humdinger response in my dream that night.  See what you think.

I am in New Orleans. It is Mardi Gras.  The streets are not only jammed,
but in many cases, blocked by celebrants.  I am not able to go in a
straight line to my destination, but must retreat to alleys, going
this way and that.

I am carrying a present given to me, but it is wrapped in a box, so
I cannot see is what it is.  I make a stop, then continue 
on to a party,
comprised of artists. There I am speaking to an aged man seated in
a chair, 
and realize in a panic that I have left my present behind.
I jump up to leave. 

A radiant crone, her face alight with beam, comes toward me.
She carries a huge pen, bejeweled with all colors of stones, so large
she must carry it like a queen would a scepter.

I recognize the pen as my gift, that what was wrapped up in the box.

Jeweled pen better

WOW!  I awoke, my uncertainty converted to surefootedness.    I was to write!  The universe’s gift to me for this lifetime is a pen, the most precious and magical pen.

And here is the corker for me.  It answered another question I had not yet formulated about whether to continue writing stories. Well, this dream spoke directly to my soul in story form.  Stories are great solace for the human soul, for they are gentle guidances whispered to submerged parts of the psyche.  I know this to be true, and greatly heartened by my dream of jeweled pens, continued on with my writing.

This experience is what I call Destiny’s Consent in action.  But remember, I had to ask.  My faith in my path was reignited.  I have gathered community around me and try to hold each artist, whether poet or writer of prose, within my heart.  I have begun reading my poetry OUT LOUD; I am reading from my books with sweeping gestures.  I am about to begin Book III in the Destiny’s Consent series. And when I saw a jeweled pen, I swooped it up as a talisman to remind myself of my own destiny….

I am not on the NY Times Bestseller List (as yet), but rest assured, I am a writer who loves to tell you stories.


On the Writing of Nonfiction and Fiction

Storytelling, really?

 In the current book market, nonfiction and self-help writings certainly manifest more attention than fiction.  There are more nonfiction books published; more agents for nonfiction writing; more profit. One can self-publish; start lecturing in seminars; go onto radio shows and on stage and give speeches, dispersing advice to the masses. 

 It is touted as easier to get going in the nonfiction arena, and I assure you that with each rejection by agents/publishers, I had been sorely tempted to take a few more courses to alter my degree from a BA in Sociology to a BA in psychology and write a book on let’s say, True Love. 

 A valued friend suggested I write self-help books, because from her perspective, she feels I need to enlarge the arena of those I help, having been on the receiving end of the wisdom I have shared with her over the years.  Because my friend is quite prominent in the field of psychology, earning tens of thousands of dollars for each one of her lectures in her field, I was, of course, flattered.  I took it so much to heart, I began journaling for an insight and answer. 

 However, my Psyche, my very cantankerous Psyche, apparently not at all interested in revenue, chose storytelling.  One morning I awoke, with a complicated and important dream in my possession.  I wrote it down immediately, capturing the life adventure of Angelica Grastende, a woman of Rom.  It was thus that Destiny’s Consent was birthed.

 I take solace for the small amount of coins in my pocketbook from a few sources: Alice Walker, Clarissa Estes Pinkola and Joseph Campbell and the Twelve Steps. Not too shabby of company, I might add.

 Alice Walker stated this beautifully in an interview about her work:
“Storytelling, you know, has a real function.  The process of the storytelling is itself a healing process, partly because you have someone there who is taking the         time to tell you a story that has great meaning to them.  They’re taking the time to do this because your life could use some help, but they don’t want to come over and just give advice.  They want to give it to you in a form that becomes inseparable from your whole self.  That’s what stories do.  Stories differ from advice in that, once you get them, they become a fabric of your whole soul.  That is why they heal you.”

 In Women Who Run with the Wolves, the brilliant cantadora, Clarissa Estes Pinkola, relates stories women have shared with one another through the ages to assist in life’s transitions.  I know that story has the ability to penetrate into the reader’s heart and soul, in the solitude and the quiet, dislodging deep injuries and the resulting toxins, to be a balm—and to heal calmly on a profound level. 

 Joseph Campbell refers to stories as a deep well-spring of enduring truths that run through the human psyche and resonate within the core that runs thru the human psyche. 

 Twelve Step groups act in the same way: they share their stories, their mythologies with one another, with the directive, “take what you need, and leave the rest”.  There is no attempt to tell the other person what to do, but just relate our experiences.  If the other person wishes more information, they can speak with the person after their meeting.  From my experience, for the addict psychology, but for the young as well as any strong minded individual, advice given will not be heard, or if heard, will be rebelliously discarded.  

 Since, I myself, became so lost, so misguided in my own life, by society’s directives, I am choosing to pass on what I have learned. The Buddhist say, “you don’t get to keep what you don’t give away.”

Destiny’s Consent is my ‘give away’.