Saturday, December 22, 2007

A Christmas Poem For Writers

This came through my Kiss of Death online chapter loop:

THE NIGHT BEFORE A WRITER'S CHRISTMAS
By Petrina Aubol
(With the usual apologies, especially to the poets out there.)

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house'
Not a creature was stirring, only me and my mouse.
The family snuggled, all ready to dream.
Me, I just struggled with my electronic machine.
"Should I use tockety tick or tickety tock?
Now which goes better stocking or sock?"
My thoughts got knocked out by noise on the roof.
Those pigeon pests sounded like each had a hoof.
Shaking my fist, I inserted ear plugs,
Picked up my beer and chugged a few lugs.
And with a resoluteness hardly ever seen,
I returned my attention to that dratted blank screen.
When all of a sudden banging on the door,
Penetrated my earplugs which I threw on the floor.
"Go to hell," I shouted to the intruder outside.
"I'm writing an opus in which I take pride.
My hero's heroic, my heroine's a dream,
The villain is the worst rascal ever seen.
My conflict's conflicting, it's all in my head,
But 'twill be in the computer before I hit the bed."
"Open up!" hollered a jolly voice in the hall.
"I've brought you some presents, both big and both small."
"Don't want any, go 'way," I told him with a roar.
But at his insistence, I opened the door.
There stood a fat clown dressed in fur and in red
With a white beard and pointy hat on his head.
A sack full of packages flung over his shoulder,
He stared me down, couldn't have been bolder.
I remembered my subplot that needed a boot.
What a great hook, an old joker in a red suit.
"Come in sir," I said flinging open the door.
"Sit down and please tell me what you're here for."
"No time to sit, writer, I've a long way to go,
But you sit down, I've goodies to show."
Speechless I sat in my desk chair pushed back,
And watched the old guy go through is sack.
He flipped me a card, "An appointment in New York City,
With a literary agent who'll read your new ditty.
Here's a Random House contract for you to sign,
Six-figure advance, put your x on that line.
Next is the route of your book tour with paid fare,
And your own eager publicist, who'll accompany you there.
Here's a brand new printer, thirty pages a minute,
With a lifetime supply of top grade paper in it.
Here are some cartridges and if you need more,
Staples will send them, pre-paid from the store.
His sack was lighter but more goodies he did find,
"A brand new thesaurus and dictionary combined.
A tape recorder so you can write and then jaw,
And a word processor program that works without flaw.
And last but not least from the Times of New York,
A book review claiming that you are no dork,
But a literary genius of the greatest acclaim,
Whose work will be bought out as your rise up in fame.
I'm taking your first draft which I will critique,
And leaving my life story which is most unique.
Then you can ghost write it, I'll finish it quick.
But we must use my by-line which of course is Saint Nick."
"I believe in you Santa," and in spite of myself.
I hugged the geezer, "You're the greatest old elf."
"Merry Christmas, Writer," he exclaimed as he left my sights.
"I'll be back next year to discuss Movie Rights!"

THE END!!!

No comments: