writing versus the holidays: round one

I dread the holidays.

There are parts I love; the eggnog, the excuse to play Scary Solstice music at all hours, the get togethers.

It’s the other side that bothers me. Trips to the mall. Mail ordered gifts that don’t arrive in time. Giving presents to people who spend a tenth what I spent on them. Dinners with people who wonder why my notebook has to sit at the table with them.

Over the years, I’ve found ways of dealing with the problems. I can plan that trip to the mail as well as a general about to attack an enemy. If the mail arrives late, I print out the pictures of the item, put them in prettily wrapped boxes, and give them out. I feel sheepish for spending more on people skimped on me, but it’s a lesson and next year I’ll plan accordingly.

The notebook? I’ll dress it in wrapping paper and put a bow on it, but it’s coming to the table.

Before I was published, people grumbled about the notebook. At best, they frowned at it. At worse, they kept trying to put dishes on it.

After I was published, though, most of them became very pleasant about it. They respected its space by my side and kept dishes (and drinks) away from it. When I open it to write something, they smile. Sometimes they ask me to read it to them. Being a dark fantasy/romance writer, they tend to ask only once.

When things get hectic over the next three weeks, I will think about the best parts of the holidays. When I’m making the thousandth trip around the parking lot, I’ll play Blue Solstice. When I’m printing out the third picture of one of the gifts, I’ll sip a little more egg nog.

And when the mashed potatoes get put on the notebook, I’ll dig it out and write something scary and hot. Then . . . I’ll just go ahead and read it anyway.