‘Twas the Week Before Christmas
By Karen Docter
‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the land
My dust bunnies had grown bold, joined the Editorial Band;
Revisions were hung by the critique rank and file,
In hopes that my manuscript would soon top the pile;
Characters were canoodling in their own special way,
While villains of danger snuck into the fray;
And my hero in his splendor, and heroine bathed in moon’s light,
Had just dissed their love for the fourth time this night;
When out of my brain there arose what I’d been missing,
Had to rush to the office to tweak a bout of kissing;
Away to my chair, I stumbled and swore,
Ripped open a Window and widened my eyes more;
The cursor, blinking cheerily on the computer screen, teased,
Tormenting my poor muse, more than it appeased;
When, what to my beleaguered senses should un-wend,
But my muse on a lotus blossom, and a close writer friend;
With a great mighty shove, so swift the prevention,
I knew in a thrice, this was editorial intervention;
So swift the editor kicked off her perch, ideas they came,
And my muse danced and sang, I knew this was the game.
“Now, Narrative! Now, Point of View! Now, Adjective and Verb!
On, Sentence! On Paragraph! On, Synopsis and Blurb!”
“To the top of the list! To the top of the pile!
Now print away! Print away! Print away, smile!”
As manuscript pages that before crazed muse envision,
When they hide behind walls, come out with permission;
So rise to the occasion the plot points they grow,
With a screen full of characterization, my muse did yet glow;
And then, in that moment, I heard my hero speak,
Those sensuous words and statement of love’s peak;
As I reached for the words, and was putting them down,
My heroine laughed and tried on her wedding gown;
From her fingers danced stars, my muse had donned glitters,
Her crown was tipped over from too many gin-and-bitters;
But she sat on my poor editor, not allowing her vent,
My muse looked like an angel, or maybe an agent;
Her face – how it glowed! Her dimples how naughty!
Her eyes full of mischief, her nose not one bit haughty!
Her gleeful expression was fixed on the page,
And the stubborn tilt of her chin was as firm as a sage;
An eraser-less pencil she clenched tight in her hand,
And an aura of contentment encircled the land;
She had purpose to her step, was lithe enough to bend,
To the winds of creativity, she was surely there to wend;
She was the vision of my heroine, an odd little perk,
And I laughed when I saw her, my psyche at work;
With a gracious smile and a nod in my direction,
She gave me the notion I could bow to her perfection;
She spoke not at all, but took over my work,
And filled all the holes; then turned with a smirk.
And saving her words, I would tomorrow sigh,
And giving me a look, out of the office she did fly.
She freed my sorry editor, dusted her off with a smile,
And away she tottered without the least bit of guile.
But I heard her exclaim, as she packed up her bikini,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good ‘Finis’!”
[‘Twas the Week Before Christmas, Karen Docter © 2007]
[[Inspired by ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, attributed to Clement Clarke Moore.]]