You don’t have time to write under ordinary circumstances. Then the “holidays” barge in long before their actual dates, not so much the holy days, as media and corporations telling you how to celebrate. It doesn’t matter which “holiday” you celebrate: xmas, chanukah, kwanzaa, solstice – you suddenly find yourself with too much to buy and too much to do. I woke up to the the tyranny of the “holidays” when I was the divorced mother of three children – totally responsible for rearing them.
I came down early on xmas morning, turned on the tree lights, called up the stairs and waited for my kids and the holiday glow to arrive. The kids thundered down the stairs and I felt joy watching them dive into their presents. I waited for the holiday glow – and waited. On that early xmas morning, I realized I had worked to make everything that made up the “holiday” spirit: the gifts, the food, the tree, the decorations, the lights, the brunch for family that I’d put on a few hours later. I was exhausted. And, I would have bet that there were millions of women in the same “holiday” condition. I didn’t write about the revelation. I was too tired – and there was brunch to be cooked and set on the table.
If you find yourself reading this – providing you can give yourself the time – and recognize the Ghost of “Holiday” Pressure in your life, know that you are not alone. Here is the owner of Flagstaff’s beloved Aradia Bookstore (the bookstore gone because of a greedy landlord), Martha Shideler, with her antidote for writers weighed down by the demands of the season:
A WRITER’S NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
by Martha Shideler
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the land
Not a writer was stirring, no pen was in hand.
Their stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that the Muse would soon appear there.
The writers were nestled all snug in their beds
As nouns, verbs, and adjectives danced through their heads.
Ma and I in our jammies and caps
Had just settled down, journals in laps,
When out on the lawn their rose such a clatter
I sprang from my chair, the books all a-scatter.
Away to the window I flew in a hurry,
Saying to Ma, “Keep writing, don’t worry.”
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the whole midnight world an ethereal glow.
I grabbed for my pencil to try to describe
The colors, the lighting, each nuance and vibe.
And then there appeared the reindeer, the sleigh,
And I thought, “Oh no! This is just a cliché!”
But not to panic—no, there’s no cause,
The driver was, indeed, Santa Claus.
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
Santa and reindeer took to the sky.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came.
He whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now Tolstoy! Now Steinbeck! Now Austen and Joyce.
On Angelou, On Piercy, On Shakespeare and Boyce.
To the top of the roof, to the top of the wall,
Now Write Away, Write Away, Write Away All!
As I drew in my head and was turning around
Down the chimney Santa Claus came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And had a large pack, in which gifts had been put.
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
He looked at my stack of books to be read.
He looked at my journals that covered the table.
(The room was a mess, it looked like a stable.)
He looked at my notes—“Drafts 1, 2, and 3,”
And said, “You are writing a novel, I see.”
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
“Writing,” he said, “can be very scary!
It’s hard, you know, not to sound like a hack.
Let me see what I have for you here in my pack.”
He laid out gifts then under the tree,
Some for the others, and some were for me.
“Wisdom Cards”—a stack that was massive.
The first card said, “Write Active, Not Passive!”
The next card said, “You must learn this well–
When writing description, Always Show, Never Tell.”
He handed me next a new magic pen
“So your words will flow smoothly again and again.”
“This double-edged sword—our last one in stock—
Will help you destroy each new Writer’s Block.”
There were many more gifts that were fit for a bard–
An agent’s contract, a publisher’s card.
When the gifts were all placed, he left as he’d come,
He closed his pack and rose up the lum.*
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all! NOW SIT DOWN AND WRITE!”
* lum is the Scots dialect word for “chimney.”
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