From Your Friends at Las Cruces Writers
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Only the writer was stirring, with keyboard and mouse;
The plots were developed and outlined with care,
In the hopes that inspiration would soon be there;
The characters were diagrammed and what was said,
Had morphed into dialog that prattled along in his head;
And the imagery for the story and all that artistic crap,
Rumbled in his brain before his long winter’s nap,
When down on the page there arose a great natter,
His typing and corrections tried to calm the strange matter.
From his fertile mind the ideas did flash,
But the scenes he created always would clash.
A poem of Christmas, of hope, and snow,
Or a play about New Year’s stolen by a crow?
A miniature world constructed of spore,
Or a space-fairing mouse determined to explore?
The imagery flew in scenes so vivid and wild,
He sipped at a scotch to calm his inner child.
Then came the verbiage in novelistic verisimilitude,
And then waves of editing to calm the cacophonous and rude.
The work expanded and he started to pace,
As the night deepened cold, he saw traces of grace.
He typed and he sipped and he walked and he sang,
His phone was silenced and never once rang.
By dawn he was finished and looked at his work,
Then logged onto TikTok where he perfected his twerk.
A poem about writing on a long Christmas night,…
