There are days when I feel grat about being a writer. I have a book in stores. I have four books coming out next year. I’ve finished another novel that’s being shopped to editors, and a picture book that’s also being shopped around. That’s all great. Then there’s the flip side of that.
There’s I had a book published almost five years ago and nothing in-between. The money from the four non-fiction books that are coming out are already spent, and I have nothing on the horizon. No editors are biting at the line. No more money is coming in. And in an economy that already sucks, the prospect of not selling anything new is both a downer in my pocket, and a downer on my confidence in my talent.
What I need, is Christmas. Christmas is the greatest time of year. Ever. It’s happy, it smells of pine, and pie, and rum, and cookies and sugar sprinkles and cinnamon. There’s punch de creme and pasteles if you’re from Trinidad, parang if you’re from Trinidad or Venezuela, and Santa Claus if you’re under the age of 110.
People put up tacky decorations. They’re fun. The tackiest are the best. We bundle up in the car and go driving around looking for the worst ones.
Everyone’s cheerful except the shoppers. We avoid the malls like they have plague. People who aren’t shopping and have already wrapped gifts are peacefully happy anticipating the reactions of recipients.
There’s everything to like about Christmas. I want it now. I need it now. Because, gotta tell you, work sucks. And Santa doesn’t deliver jobs but he sure makes you stop thinking about them.