A Writer's Christmas Dream

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a writer was typing, ignoring their spouse

Sticky notes were hung on the desktop with care

For future ideas that will make readers stare

.

The characters were nestled all snug in their bed

In hopes the next chapter won’t find them dead

As my wife sleeps in PJ’s, and I lay awake

Planning to fix a plot hole I’d baked

.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter

Away to the window I ran like a flash

Because people can’t fly, and the best word is dash

.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of midday to objects below

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer

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With a little, old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick

More rapid than eagles, his courses they came

And thumped on the rooftop with excellent aim

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And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof

As I drew back my head, and was turning around

Down the chimney St. Nick came with a bound

He was dressed all in fur from head to his foot

And his clothes were tarnished with ashes and soot

He tossed down the bundle slung over his back

Then pulled out an agent from inside the sack

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My eyes opened wide and my mouth hit the floor

I’d queried this agent just two weeks before

“Hello,” said the agent. “Please tell me your pitch.

My email was hacked, yours was lost from a glitch.”

.

I sputtered, and stammered then breathed very deep

And told of my story to make readers weep

The agent smiled and held out her hand

“Can I see a sample? I think you’re my brand.”

.

I lurched to the desktop and wiggled the mouse

And printed the first five pages to browse

She sped through the story, her face not a frown

“Do you have any more? I can’t put this down.”

.

St. Nick gave a wink and a great jolly smile

Then spread out more gifts from the rest of his pile

And laying his finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose

.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle

But I heard him exclaim ‘ere he drove out of sight

“Happy Christmas, good writer, and to all a good night!”

.

It’s silly and a little deranged, but it’s my Christmas wish, so I can have fun with it can’t I? Merry Christmas, good writers!

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