Charlotte Cook has earned a Master in Fine Arts (Creative Writing) and been published many times, from a weekly column in the long defunct Berkeley Gazette to the Winter 2001 issue of Moxie Magazine. She's been teaching writing since 1993, specializing in mystery, literary, novels, short stories and creative non-fiction. Many of her students are published, win contests, and some have gone on to graduate school in creative writing. Now Charlotte is also president of KOMENAR Publishing, which publishes "mainstream" fiction (www.komenarpublishing.com)

Her short story, "A Child's First Book of Rodents," was awarded third prize in the short story contest of California Writers Club's Jack London Writers Conference a few years ago. Excerpts of pieces published by Moxie Magazine and the San Francisco Chronicle can be found on this website.

Charlotte is a big supporter and long-time member of the California Writers Club. Checking the various branch websites (www.calwriters.org) will tell you what's happening locally for you and where Charlotte might be speaking or presenting. Checking this website will also give you information about what Charlotte's doing.

Sample Writing From Charlotte

Excerpt from "Time to Play Hitler and the Jew," published in Moxie Magazine.

"Time to Play Hitler and the Jew"

Eight of us waited for the elevator. Our transport appeared stuck on the third floor, so we stood together facing the closed metal doors. We made routine jokes about being "invited to the high rise," the only building that towered over the converted, one-story warehouses in the encircling blocks of Silicon Valley. We were from different departments assembled to talk about one specific disk drive issue.

"Damn," Steve Marshall said, "I just realized that f-g kike from Accounting is going to be here. When a goddamn kike has power, you can just guess what to expect. Big noses to stick in everyone else's business."

He said more, but I couldn't hear him above the sudden buzz in my brain. I looked from face to face. Two others joined in, their faces tight, their expressions as conspiratorial as his. The rest turned their eyes to the green light that tracked the elevator's lack of progress.

Once again I had passed as a non-Jew. Once again I found myself among anti-Semites who spoke freely, assuming I was one of them and one with them in their prejudices.

To the world around me, unless I announce otherwise, I am a white American of any Christian affiliation that makes up mainstream America. Most people assume I am Catholic because I "look Italian." But I have always been a Jew, proud of my religious traditions and painfully well-educated in Jewish history. That morning, I burned with rage at Steve's remarks and the impunity he demonstrated speaking his bigotry so publicly.

Was there something I could say? Something I could do? I searched my mind. Whatever action I chose, I had to put Steve on the spot. I couldn't afford to have my outrage or the impropriety of his actions be dismissed because a Jew-a spy-had been discovered in their midst. Once before an angry man in a similar situation had reacted with, "You should wear a Star of David or something. It's not right that we don't know you're Jewish."

"Steve, are you sure," I said, "that everyone here is Christian? You know, Jews aren't a race."

The others turned toward Steve. Steve made eye contact with me, but only briefly. Then he looked around, as did his cohorts. As did everyone in the group, except me. I watched Steve. A slight sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow. I could almost smell his fear. And, breathing slowly, I wondered if he could smell mine.

Published in the San Francisco Chronicle on December 6, 2002

"A Husband's Special Christmas Gift"

This Christmas Eve my husband and I will once again watch old Christmas movies. We'll snuggle and exchange a few words and laughs about the big day tomorrow. We'll put out Santa's cookies and milk. Then I'll take another look at the Christmas tree aglow with lights and ornaments, hovering over a bounty of presents from friends to us and me to Dick.

There are no presents from Dick to me. And it's not because I'm Jewish. Their absence is due to my earliest Christmas memory, when I was five and had asked for a Christmas tree.

The pathetic little thing stood on the kitchen table. A bright colored, faux evergreen with bristly branches, probably from some miniature train display. My mother and father hovered like boxers in a ring.

Mother screeched, "Get that thing out of here!" Father countered with "What harm can it do?" This continued much like a phonograph needle hitting a scratch on a record until something jarred loose.

This time it was my brother shouting. The little tree went in the garbage. And we went on until the next conflict found catalyst.

Of course we weren't about to celebrate Christmas. We were Jews. What kind of Jews? My father had escaped the Nazis. His family had not, dying in the camps. So Dad became an anti-Semitic Jew. My mother's family escaped the pogroms and post World War I depression by immigrating to America. But they left her behind, in a Catholic convent hospital, outside of Vienna. She was supposed to die of a terminal infection but didn't. Mother proclaimed herself a Jew but hated God. And my brother, he just didn't want to be a Jew or the son of immigrants. I became the practicing Jew and God believer . . . and I married a Christian.

So where are my husband's presents for me? During the night Richard will get up, turn off the Christmas lights, eat Santa's cookies, and flood the area under the tree with my presents. They'll be there when I get up, complete with "From Santa" tags.

Richard wants me to believe in Santa. The Santa of "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus." He wants me to know the joy and magic of childhood delight, the warmth of family traditions. Everything that I didn't have in my childhood. So my husband gives me Santa every year. A renewable memory.