Alas, I am a writer with a finger injury. This is akin to a soccer player with a broken kicking leg. Last night, cute husband and I decided to be Christmasy and make fondue, which requires some pretty intense cheese grating. Well the cheese grater got me, friends. It got me good. My right thumb has an ugly gash in it on the second knuckle--it's absolutely disgusting. Well, after a day of feeling sorry for myself as I discovered nearly everything one does requires a thumb, I went to Target and stocked up on Neosporin (with pain killer), Bactine (with pain killer), and Band-aids (with pain killer), and all is well again. I'm enjoying a glass of wine now as well and frankly it's like the thumb isn't even there anymore. So, since my excuse for not writing this Christmas story has evaporated (unless of course the world's grape supply suddenly runs out), here I sit on a Saturday evening trying to write.
The little deadline (Dec. 24th) I've set for myself on the Christmas story is proving to be both helpful and scary. When I sit down to write I'm thinking, Sheesh, I've gotta finish this thing, which is actually very motivating (I know that if I don't post it here for all of you, there will be hell to pay). At the same time, I'm very concerned about making it perfect (about really impressing all of you), which is what I mean by scary. There's such a nasty little critic in my mind: I imagine him as a short little man with a black cane and a pointy nose, with spectacles hanging around his neck. With each word I write he brings the spectacles up to his nose, snickers, and says, "You're kidding, right? You think you might be publishable one day? You're really going to share this with your loved ones? And you expect them to still encourage you afterward? Ha!"
And yet something keeps me typing away and hoping that somewhere along the way I'll find the seed I've been searching for and have something good to share with you in a little less than two weeks. So far I've got a woman, her husband, and her daughters waking up on Christmas Eve and all I know is that the woman is sad about something big and she knows this Christmas won't be the same...
Anyone want to write the rest for me?
While trying to be perfect never, ever works, that doesn't mean it's not a good strategy. Trying to see the characters as clearly as I can, trying to see their troubles as clearly as I can, with as much compassion as I can, is what will, if nothing else, keep propelling me forward. The more questions I ask, the more I'll have to answer, and that, my lovely loyal readers, is how you make your word count (inch by inch, row by row, with great reverence for every and, the, but, though and so).
Thanks for waiting, and I hope I'll do you proud.
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