"Twas the Write Before Christmas"

A spoof on writers block based on the beloved "Twas the Night Before Christmas" Happy Holidays to all.

'Twas the write before Christmas, and all through the house,

not a  thought was stirring,  I played with my mouse.

The trails the tail made as it moved o'er the screen

could be customized, lengthened; it was a dream.

 

The ideas for my story had all turned to lead,

the visions, so plentiful, danced out  my head.

Alone sat I brooding, in robe of red,

lamenting the story.   I'm afraid it was dead..

 

When out from my speakers there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my chair to see what was the matter,

Away from the 'puter I jumped like a 'Roo,

If you would have been there, you'd have jumped too!

 

The moon on the breast of the computer screen's glow,

gave a luster of mid-day to keyboard below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

a Little 'Ole Muse and Eight Gnomes, oh dear!

 

The Muse stood there quietly, assessing me,

I knew in a moment I could  be free;

free of the misery that gnawed at my soul,

when words do not come, it's a terrible blow.

 

"Now, DIALOG!  now, PLOT  now, LYRIC and PROSE!

On, IMAGINATION! on, CONFLICT! on, SETTING and SOUL!

To the top of the page, to the top of the scroll,

Now dance away, dart away, make story whole!"

 

The waggish Gnomes laughed, tumbling onto the page,

dancing and playing while contriving a Mage,

warriors came next, then maidens to woo,

battles, and love scenes, and deeds to do.

 

And then, in a twinkling, words came anew,

the keyboard was humming a tune as it drew

forests, streams, evils to fight,

maidens, and castles, and warriors of might.

 

The Muse stood there silent, dressed all in swirls

of magic, of potions, of sweet mocking birds,

A bundle of expressions she offered to me,

I smiled at her then.  She was helping me See.

 

Her eyes mocked me knowingly ... she looked almost contrite,

I proclaimed her inconstant, she knew I was right.

I blamed her for taking a toll on my health,

forsaking me also affected my wealth.

 

The stump of a pen she held tight in her grip,

She looked rather glum, so I didn't dare quip.

Her shortcomings it seemed where creatively bent,

Understanding dawned, I  immediately went

 

To my knees and begged pardon, for seeming as if

ungrateful for her presence, as she so deemed fit.

I sighed as she smiled, and as our eyes met,

she told the Eight Gnomes they may stay with me yet.

 

To cavort with the child who dwells here tonight,

believing in magic and words that have might.

The soul of the writer forever plays

in weald and gardens in worlds that she lays

 

at the feet of her readers, muses and such,

that will read and hopefully love very much,

The Gifts of the stories the writer must write,

on this Christmas eve, a Magical night.

 

So, thanks Mr. Moore, for the loan of this form,

the poem this writer has 'borrowed' much from,

It was not to rob you of words that are yours,

Just merely to borrow an Old Muse's sword.

 

To all of you out there, inscribing away,

never stop sculpting the words that relay,

all of the wonders of life and this night!

"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD WRITE!"

Reviews

[Dpalmer]

I freakin loved this! It talked about something we've all been through in such a festive way.

[otterbe]

Thanks so much, I had a great time with it as well. I always appreciate feedback, and happy holidays to you!

[blueyedany72]

That was wonderful! I enjoyed it very much. You did an excellent job. Thank you for sharing it!