Talking Story


‘Twas the Night Before Deadline

(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)


‘Twas the night before deadline, when all through the den

Not a writer was writing, not even with pen!

The novel was due to reviewers with care

In hopes that sales stimulus soon would be there.


The words were not flowing, no dialogue said,

While visions of  better books danced in my head.

And husband asked, “When?” And I said, “Don’t know.

I’ve got pages and chapters still left to go.”


When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter

I sprang from my laptop to see what’s the matter.

Away to the counter I flew like a flash,

Tore open the wrappers and snarfed all the stash.


The moon on the beast of the new-fallen show

The depths of the bottom we writers will go.

When what to my thundering thighs should appear,

But six empty plates of neighborly cheer.


With a Diet Coke chaser, so icy and quick,

Came the illusion of  writing so lively with wit.

More rabid than weasels the words how they came,

And I laughed as I wrote them—to my endless shame.


“Now Gaiman, now Meyers, now King, and Dean Koontz,

Gabaldon, Pattersen, you guys with the loot,

My books are on shelves and great reads to boot!

It’s time to move over, c’mon y’all—scoot!”


Like bad reviews before these wild words fly,

When they meet with reality, sugar crash is nigh.

So back to my laptop my fingers they flew

Enough with this poem—I’ve real writing to do!

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