The galleys for the forthcoming new work are ready and going out as this is written. DOñA CLEANWELL LEAVES HOME: Stories written post-COVID. Yes, I’m back to writing & so grateful for this new team in New York (wo)manning the launch. My lit agent, editor & publisher & in-house publicist–fabulous & fierce! I’m in good hands.
Continue readingI received an early Xmas gift this year.
It’s this song composed for a class project. I’m thankful to the professor who assigned my book. Motherhood, mothering, being a mother…what can I add that hasn’t been said?
Continue readingFor the first time in a while, I woke feeling some relief that voters in this country may have signaled they’re not ready…
Continue readingI’m very much blessed the art is moving out there but even more so that coming in 2023, I’ll have gallery representation. Representation for an artist and/or writer frees us up to continue our work. I end this year starting a new novel for HarperVia, Isabel 2121.
Continue readingLIFTING EVERY VOICE
NOVEMBER 2, 2022, 6:30 P.M. CHICAGO’S, Englewood neighborhood at St. Benedict’s African Catholic Church
https://benedicttheafrican.org/about/
In case anyone wonders
if with drawings– books are done… Doña Cleanwell Leaves Home (HarperVia) scheduled May/June 2023…it’s getting exciting.
This week en el ranchito kept busy moving forward with positivity, health, sun & amor. Plus dogs. Check out next beautiful reading for healing, meditation, prayers, progressive alliances and demonstrative of human resiliency.
Continue readingMy visual work (paintings and drawings), much like my poetry are much like a diary or journal keeping. They represent things I’ve seen, reflected upon or have concerns about. They aren’t attempts at exact representation but a peek into the artist-poet’s heart.
Continue readingAlthough I’m back to full throttle to writing, drawings have remained in my life as almost a daily activity.
Continue readingThe storm comes and goes, returns. Next time, harder. We don’t even bother
with shelters. We give it new names, each time, further fire and rain.
We mourn.
We start again. It could have been you or me, we say, dying
in public beneath a baton’s blows falling amidst a spray of a sniper’s bullets,
but it wasn’t. We go on.
Disaster has happened to someone else.
–(excerpt) A STORM UPON US
