Happy Inkmas to all, And to All a Good Write

Twas a late night of writing in this quaint little house

My pen was not stirring, as I nibbled my souse;

Writer's block hung heavily, I was pulling my hair,

In hopes that a plot twist soon would be there;

My insomnia was wretched, I could not lay snug in my bed,

While visions of storyline danced in my head;

If Emma dropped her ’kerchief, and also her cap,

Far from where her body settled, brains bashed into a long winter's nap-

The Detective would find them and stir such a clatter,

Her killer would spring from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window he'll run in a flash,

Tear open the shutters and throw up the sash.

And though the moon shines on the new-fallen snow

He shan't see the garden spire snow covered and deadly below,

Then, what to the Detective's shocked eyes did sear,

A man in full flight, raining down by his rear,

He flailed and he screamed, limbs so lively and quick,

The Detective knew in a moment he was going to be sick.

More rapid than eagles my thoughts how they came,

I chortled, and shouted, spat the killer's name;

"Now, take that you jackass that killed the poor vixen!

How you stupidly thought you'd evade Detective Dixon!

I studied my work, I studied it well

Oh bloody dash it, dash it to hell

All night of writing and I could just cry!

I had only three characters and two of them die.

After all night of writing this was as good as it got?

It looks now like rubbish, total drivel, pure rot!

I wadded the pages and tossed them away

And back up to my bed I went in dismay.

I beat on my pillow in total disgust

My skills of good writing I now rather distrust.

I couldn't get settled so I climbed to the roof

My thoughts all dried up, like dust they went poof!

The deadline is near, the time has come round,

And yet here on my rooftop is where I am found.

I sit up here sulking and plumb full of pity,

Looking from my high perch down on the city.

Look, there just away yon, are lights in a window, pen scribbling to papers,

Writer with brows furrowed in vexation, and mumbling in vapours.

Alone I am not, the struggles are real

There is at least one other writer, feeling what I feel!

The writer looks up and gives me a nod and a smile.

I nod back cheerily and watch on for a while.

I get struck with a giggle, and cry out in the night,

"Happy Inkmas to all, and to all a good write."

***************

I hope you enjoyed this "Twas the Night Before Christmas" inspired parody depicting a writer battling writer's block. Although Christmas isn't celebrated by everyone, many are familiar with this classic poem. I thought it would be fun to turn it into something that writers could identify with and hopefully get a chuckle. I confess that the original poem was much longer than I realized. My parody is a bit shorter. Still, I think it recognizably captures the rhythm and conveys the angst sometimes felt when we writers pour our hearts and souls onto paper only to find later when we re-read it, that it just doesn't do it for us. After all, a writer is generally their own harshest critic. As short as my version is, I worked on it several hours to get it "just right" and still, I have no doubt that tomorrow, I'll look it over and think to myself, "you goof, you could have done better."

P.S. In case your are like my hubby and wonder what is "souse" -- it isn't a drink, which I had hoped it would be. Instead, it is a cheese made from the meat of a pig's head and some gelatinous goo to hold it together. UGH! I've never ate it and have no plans to ever try it. Maybe when pigs fly? Or when the apocalypse hits and that one can of food you find is souse.... then maybe. Or maybe I'll just let the zombies eat me.

(Received Top Story on 12-12-2021)