With apologies to Charles Dickens, or perhaps his ghost, I've written a story for you writers and aspiring writers that may bear some passing resemblance to the master's best-known story. I post it here for you with my best wishes and with the anticipation of another year of trying to write what only we can write. It's not easy, but what helps is the realization that there's nothing else we would rather do. And now I yield the stage, or at least the post, to the protagonist of...
A WRITERLY CHRISTMAS CAROL
It was nearly Christmas and Wood B. Writer was in his usual bad mood.
A man with the name of a good cause printed on his shirt asked, “Sir, would you write a short article for our charity newsletter?"
“Are there no articles in the public domain?” Wood B. snarled. “Are there no posts you can copy from someone’s blog? Anyway, I don’t have even a minute of spare time!”
He rushed on.
That night he fell asleep while watching “Dancing With the Pop Idol Cupcake Makers.” It was the very important weekly elimination episode.
Suddenly he awoke with a start. Before him hovered a ghostly figure, a light shining from its head.
“They did warn me about acid flashbacks,” Wood B. muttered, “but I didn’t think it would take this long to happen.”
“I am the ghost of Christmas Past,” the spectre announced, “and I’ve come to remind you of what once was!”
“I’m not into nostalgia,” Wood B. said, but the ghost took him anyway and together they flew through the sky. “You must save a fortune on airfares,” Wood B. said.
Below them they saw a group of children. "Hey, that's me!" Wood B. cried. "I recognize that terrible haircut. My mother used to cut my hair. Talk about humiliation!"
“Never mind the haircut, listen to what the younger you is saying!” the ghost ordered. “Listen to the dream you have abandoned.”
His younger self held a beloved book, tattered from many readings. The boy was telling his little friends, “I’m going to be a writer when I grow up! I love reading stories and someday I’m going to make up stories other people love to read!”
A tear trickled down Wood B’s face. “I’m crying about the haircut!” he said.
The ghost knew better.
Suddenly Wood B. found himself back in his chair at home. “I missed the elimination! Was it Paris Hilton or Katy Price that failed the frosting test,” he wondered. “I must have dozed off and had a nightmare.”
But a moment later another spectre appeared to him. This one was huge. “You must have trouble buying clothes,” Wood B. said. “Do you go to a specialist shop?”
The ghost frowned. “Finding shoes is even harder, but I’m not here to discuss my wardrobe. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!”
“Ghost of which Christmas present? Don’t tell me—you’re the ghost of those terrible socks I got last year from my neighbor. Look, I had to throw them away, who in his right mind would wear socks that color?”
The spirit shook his head and sighed. “This confuses people every time. I’m the Ghost of Christmas now—present as in the present. Get it?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Wood B said. “How can you be the ghost of something that still exists?”
The ghost gave Wood B. a slap to the side of the head. “You’re seeing a ghost and you want to discuss logic? Shut up and look at this!”
In front of Wood B. was a view of the entire globe and it was accompanied by an almost deafening sound.
“I’m missing the ““Dancing With the Pop Idol Cupcake Makers” after-show," Wood B. shouted. "They always interview the loser. And what’s that noise?!”
“You are hearing the sound of the keyboards of the hundreds of thousands of people who do find the time to write!” the ghost said. “Most of them are just as busy as you but they have not forsaken their dream.”
“I’m going to write someday,” Wood B. said defensively. “Just not in the present. In the future.”
“The next ghost is in charge of that,” said the ghost of Christmas Present. “By the way, you know that haircut you had in the past? The one you have in the present isn’t that much better.”
Before Wood B. could answer, the spectre was gone. And before Wood B. could catch the start of the plus-one broadcast of his favorite show, a third ghost appeared before him.
“Don’t any of you people ever knock?” Wood B. said. “I'm busy!”
“Yes, and you shall stay busy until your dying day!” said the third spectre, who wore a black hooded robe.
“That’s a very unsettling look,” Wood B. said. “If you have to go with black, how about a black t-shirt and jeans. It worked for Steve Jobs.”
“Quiet, mortal!” the spirit said, and identified himself as the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He added, “And now we will look at the Christmas after your demise!”
“Do we have to?” Wood B. asked. “I’m thinking if we go into the future to see who wins this reality show I could place a bet and—“
“Silence, fleshling!” the ghost roared. “Look down, see your legacy!”
“You’re very dramatic and you have an amazingly deep voice,” Wood B. said. “Have you ever considered going into musical theatre?”
“I tried out for ‘Cats’ but I didn’t get a call-back. Anyway, I appreciate the compliment but this is not about me.” The spirit pointed a bony finger. “View the future!” he boomed. “You know,” he said, “I’m pretty sure if James Earl Jones hadn’t been available I would have gotten Darth Vader. What a life-changer that would have been! Not that I’m alive.”
“You’re right, this is not about you,” Wood B. said. He looked down. He saw the charity collector and a waitress in a cafe, having a chat.
The charity collector was saying, “Do you think it’s OK for a man to get Botox? Because these frown lines are making me look older. Or filler injections, what do you think of those?”
“What does that have to do with me?” Wood B. asked.
“Nobody has time for the establishing scene any more,” the ghost grumbled. “OK, OK, I’ll fast-forward.”
Now the charity collector was telling the waitress, ““That grumpy guy, Wood B., kicked the bucket the other week. He used to come in here, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, no loss,” said the waitress. “You know what he used to tell me? He used to say he was going to write a novel someday!”
They both laughed as though this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“I’m glad I never left her a tip,” Wood B. said. But his lip was trembling. “Look, ghost, is that how the future has to turn out?”
“Not if you change your ways,” the ghost said. “There is still time for you to write your novel.”
“Thank goodness!” Wood B. said. “I will do it! I will stop watching so much television and I will write what only I can write!”
In the blink of an eye he found himself back home. He began work on his novel that very night! Knowing that it can really help if you have support and guidance, he enrolled in Jurgen Wolff’s “Writing Breakthrough Strategy Program,” which lasted for sixty wonderful days of online lessons, biweekly phone calls, and other almost magical resources. He’d found the details at http://www.WritingBreakthroughStrategy.com
In a mere few months he finished his novel! He sent it to an agent, who read it and told him that although it was well written, the whole three ghosts thing had been done and the book needed a different angle.
So Wood B. threw in some vampires and self-published his book. He priced it at $.99 and sold many, many copies, completing the transition from procrastinator to successful author. He still didn’t give to charity or leave tips, but come on, one character arc is enough.
The End
