Girl Gets the Dickens Scared Out of Her

Last night I was visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Writing.

It all started when I came home around 1 am from work (oh yes, I’m in retail).  I changed into my pajamas, turned on a terrible on demand movie and began victoriously dominating my second bag of chips for the week.  In fact, other than a few stray peas in my fried rice, no vegetable has touched my lips in the last six days!  Hmm, that’s bad, isn’t it?

Anyway, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I hear is a bunch of moaning and chain clattering behind me.  I twist my head around and there is my best friend, Drakob Farley, all blue and dead and dragging an iron ball behind him.

“Drakob, what’s up?  I thought you died; it’s great to see you!” I said.

And he’s all like, “Jessiiii, you haven’t been true to your writinggggg!  You’ve forgotton the passionnnn and voice inside youuuuu!”

“Who has the time, man?  I’m working 60 hours a week as a human punching bag for last minute Christmas shoppers!  I just don’t have the strength anymore.  Cut me some slack, Drak!”

“You will be visited by the Ghosts of Christmasss Writinggg.  Take heeeed, they will come shortlyyy.”

So now I’m all irritated and grumpy.  Stupid Drakob waking me up after only 2 hours of sleep.  But the next thing I know, there’s a huge gust of icy wind and I’m freezing!  The picture window in front of the couch is wide open and this giant rendition of my favorite middle school english teacher comes breezing in all covered in rags and shaking snow everywhere.

“Jessi, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Writing Past.  Why have you forgotten who you are?”  She starts throwing all these journals that I’ve kept since seventh grade at me and folders of short stories and poetry I wrote since I was five.  One of the journals hits me on the head and knocks me out!    

When I come to, we’re sitting in my old room in the house I grew up in.  I can see my old self scribbling in a notebook writing a series of poems I dreamed about publishing.

“Do you remember giving me these poems to read?”  my teacher/ghost asked.

“Sure I do.  I was really proud of those.  The series took me all summer.  I had elaborate plans to publish them with illustrations by my brother.  I even had my mom get me a blank hardcover book so we could sketch out a sample copy.”

“Do not forget your childhood enthusiasm!  You know who you are!  If you do not change your ways, you will surely suffer.”

With that the dream fades, and I’m back on the couch, blanket pulled up to my nose in a creeped out and scared fashion.  Wow, that was weird.  No more chips before bed.  Better brush my teeth and hit the sack for real.

No sooner than I put the toothpaste and brush in my mouth than the bathroom door starts shaking uncontrollably!  Seriously?  Again?  So soon?!

Bursting through the wood, creating thousands of splintered debris, enters who I can only assume is the Ghost of Christmas Writing Present.  With a nod, the ghoulish thing that looks like a publishing agent, but with the face of a gnarly mountain goat, beckons me to follow her.  I’m tiptoeing and hopping through the bathroom door damage in my sock feet and when we step through the entranceway I’m half expecting another dreamlike transportation.  But no, she nods to me again, and basically we ascend the stairway from the downstairs bathroom and actually just walk ourselves to my room where my computer is on and the few pieces of work I have managed to write are sitting freshly printed out, still warm from the press.

“Yes, I know.  It isn’t much, but it’s a start right?” I plead.

She stares at me blankly then begins to eat page after page of my work!

“Stop that!  Oh my god, do you have any idea how long that took me?!  Give it back!”  I began tugging and pulling the pages out of her mouth, but it was too late.  My work became a pile of half masticated goat goo.

“I hope you choke on it!”  I yelled and crumpled into a ball of blubbering sobs.

When I looked up again, there was a hand extending a tissue out to me and smiling.  Ah, the Ghost of Christmas Writing Yet to Come, thank heaven!  Finally, she would show me the way of what I needed to do and I’d be able to view the immense success I would surely achieve in the next year or so.

“Oh, sweet Ghost of Christmas Writing Yet to Come, take me to my book signing please!  Or to my book tour, if we’re running late.  Do I have time to put some make-up on?  I just ate a whole bag of chips and I feel downright disgusting.  What’s that?  No time?  Very well, lead on, but please let it be something joyful.”

The ghost wore flowy angel garb and had shiny, wavy hair like in the movies.  She didn’t have wings, but she whisked me away flying over the city which looked so peaceful with the twinkling Christmas lights in the snow.  When we landed, I was home again at my family’s old house.

“You’ve brought me to my family Christmas?  I see, you’re right, it’s important to be with the ones you love at Christmas.  Thank you, Spirit.”

Inside, I saw my future self, I looked old and fat.  Too many potato chips, I’ll remember that.  I was hugging my siblings and we were all talking about what we had been up to the past year.  I was impatient to hear myself speak.  Surely, I was gifting my entire family with my new, best-selling novel.  When I could see it was my turn to answer I gasped.  I was still working in retail!  I had been transferred from store to store to manage new teams and drive sales!  I’d spent the year moving and repeating my coaching methods.  I hadn’t written anything at all, not even an annual Christmas letter!  This was serious.

“Oh Spirit!  Take me away from here!  This cannot be my Christmas writing future!  I won’t allow it!  Just look at my previous blog post and you’ll see that I plan to follow through and work on my writing!  I do, I do, I do!  Please, Spirit, take me home so I can change my Christmas writing future!”

I awoke back on the couch where I had started the night.  I immediately bolted up, threw the blanket to the couch, put the chips in the cupboard (I couldn’t throw them out, one step at a time, spirits!), and grabbed a pen a paper.  Today I vowed to figure out the next scene in my story.  It all starts with Lydia walking into a snow covered area and being met by the ghost of christmas brainstorming…

7 responses

  1. such a funny play on words! hahaha

  2. You continue to astound and amaze me. I loved the story, and the playful way you managed to poke fun at yourself.
    And the concept of using your own writing to motivate yourself into writing? That’s, like, far out man. Er, woman. You know what I mean.

  3. A terrifying ending!

    Keep on writing!

    We must all keep on writing!

    (Especially you, because I want to read more of these short stories if possible)

  4. […] will write and what you will write.  Otherwise, you’ll start blogging some remake version of “The Night Before Christmas,” oh wait, I already did […]

  5. Creative ideas, wild imagination, great command of the language, confidence, insecurity, and endless guilt. You really are a writer.

    1. Best reply ever, thanks for the praise on my night of writer’s block. Coming soon: An entire adapted piece from Shakespeare’s The Tempest!!!

  6. […] This final one is not really a miss, but a funny blast from the past.  One month into starting this blog I was battling writer’s block and tired from working retail in the holidays.  I shared this spinoff for my first three commentors.  Girl Gets Dickens Scared Out of Her. […]

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