(Press play.)

‘Twas the night before Christmas and in the small den,

A writer grew weary, and she threw down her pen.

She typed up her pages, and ran the Spell-check,

Convinced that her words and her story were dreck.

She deleted the lot—”Take that, protag, you bum!”—

And fell asleep quick so that Santa would come.

She dreamed of St. Nick landing loud on the shingles,

To slide down her chimney (the thought gave her tingles),

And fill up her stocking with writerly do-dads,

Including a plot; and a hero with true ‘nads;

And one perfect sentence; an opening that grabbed,

Full of conflict, and fear, and a body that’s stabbed.

Could he put dialog that crackles (two lines or three),

And a muse not so fickle beneath the fir tree?

She didn’t want much, no gift-bearing mages,

Just a story so true that it sang from the pages.

Then in the new year, when her spirits were falling,

She’d answer the phone to a publisher calling!

St. Nick left all this and a little bit more–

Some tips from a blog where they all knew the score.

He peered in her soul and he sussed out her passion,

And stored hope in her heart before he got dashin’.

Merry Christmas to all, happy holidays, too,

From Career Authors bloggers to you and your crew.