Saturday, December 22, 2007

A Christmas Poem For Writers

This came through my Kiss of Death online chapter loop:

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!"


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