Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Merry Christmas to All...

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
The writer was stirring, disturbing that mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
But the writer was sockless, her feet were quite bare.
Sure, children were nestled, all snug in their perches
Though sugarplums, what? (Took two internet searches.)
The man in his cap and writer shoeless as stated
Had just settled down when she rose unabated
For a clatter she heard, not on lawn but in head
And threw back to the covers to scribble with lead
For out of the window appeared such a flash,
Well, no, not in window, but head, like a crash--
The idea like the moon on the new fallen snow
An idea soaked with luster, one to relish, to know--
When what, in to her wondering mind did now form
But a new character, story, a novel reborn!
With appeal so disarming, so lively, so quick
She knew this idea was a gift. From St. Nick?
More rapid than eagles the ideas they came
And she scribbled and scrabbled, gave characters names.
Now this happens, that does! Now this turn of plot!
She scratched out the notes as they came fast and hot.
At the top of the page she turned over new story
Her pen dry of ink, fingers bleeding (quite gory).
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly
So the muse seemed that night, as though fallen from sky
And up through her mind like the coursers they flew
Like a sleigh full of toys, an idea burst, a mind-stew
And then, in a twinkling, the plot twist, it came!
And she knew the old story would not be the same
Like a bundle of toys Santa throws on his back
So words tumbled--no she wasn't a hack!
So downstairs writer went for some coffee and sweets
To refresh, to renew, to deliver a Tweet.
She was dressed in old sweats pulled from out of the bin
(Don't judge her! She's sleepy. It isn't a sin.)
And her eyes? They were glowing: such sureness! So bold!
For the story she scribbled was sure to be sold.
She threw back her decaf, plus one Hershey's kiss
Then plopped at the table, not blocked, not remiss
The stump of a pencil she now clutched in her teeth
While the ideas they circled her head like a wreath
Her face? Does it matter? Her dress-size? Her belly?
She laughed now with joy (you're imagining jelly).
She winked and she twisted, returned to the work
And finally finished, and gave a quick jerk
And saving her work, and then blowing her nose
She gave a huge yawn, up the staircase she rose.
She sprang into bed, to the dog gave a whistle
And flew into sleep like the down on the thistle.
But I heard her exclaim ere she fell into snore
Happy writing to all, and I hope it comes more.

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