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A Writer's Christmas Eve

A writer's Christmas Eve in verse

23 Dec  

‘Twas the night before Christmas, my deadline loomed near 

I promised I’d finish that novel this year

The kids were asleep and the dogs were well fed

My husband was happily snoring in bed

My laptop was working, the printer was fine

And I’d had a glass of my favorite wine

I had no excuse, no reason at all

Why rather than writing, I stared at the wall

My fingers weren’t typing, my thoughts were not flowing

I just didn’t know where my story was going

The characters wandered, lost in a haze

I had not written a word in ten days

I’m always complaining I need time to write

And here I was given my own silent night

 

Back in late March I was filling up pages

I guess inspiration goes through many stages

Because by mid-April and surely by May

My muse had jumped ship and swam far, far away

Then in July when we went on vacation

I left my laptop inside of Penn Station

Replacing computers does come at a cost

But more than the money, my novel was lost

I wrote down everything I could remember

I think I got most of it by mid-September

But a plumbing emergency brought on a flood

The carpets were ruined all covered with mud

Our kitten went missing, the kids got the flu

So running the house was all I could do

I did have a writing spurt on Halloween

I figured out how I could end a key scene

But all through November till now I’ve been dry

With seven days left, did I have time to try?

 

What was that racket? Was something outside?

I rushed to the curtains and opened them wide

There stood a bearded man all dressed in red

“Santa?” I asked with a tilt of my head

“I’ve come to help out,” he said with a grin

“Where’s your computer? Shall we begin?”

 

Now this was an offer I couldn’t refuse—

Having St. Nick as my personal muse

We wrote and revised, and then we wrote more

When it turned light, he left by the door

But I could hear as he flew out of sight

“Make sure your agent retains movie rights!”

I am a writer, with proof now to show it

But I’m not a novelist—I am a poet!

That piece I created with such furrowed brow?

Why, it is the poem that you’re reading right now

 

Read my blog, For Words: http://tanyagrove.wordpress.com/

This post is contributed by a community member. The views expressed in this blog are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Patch Media Corporation. Everyone is welcome to submit a post to Patch. If you'd like to post a blog, go here to get started.

Sylvia Paull December 24, 2011 at 04:19 PM
and you're a darn good poet, too. Watch out. Someone might nominate you as Albany's next poet laureate.
Tara DeRosa December 25, 2011 at 06:25 AM
Love it! You're very talented. Maybe you can send St. Nick to my door!
Tanya Grove December 26, 2011 at 05:02 PM
Thank you! Of course living just on the Berkeley side of Albany's border, I might just be disqualified, but thanks for your support!
Tanya Grove December 26, 2011 at 05:02 PM
Many thanks!
Carol Carlisle December 28, 2011 at 04:34 PM
HOHOHO who would know a man with a beard and and a sleigh could make your day? Way to go Tanya! Thanks!!

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