’Twas the night before deadline, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring—except my computer mouse.
The coffee was cooling, my patience worn thin,
In hopes that inspiration soon would begin.
My characters lounged, refusing to act,
While plot holes expanded, bold and intact.
And I in my sweatpants, and my cat on my lap,
Had just settled in for a long writing trap.
When out on the desktop there arose such a clatter,
I minimized apps to see what was the matter.
Away to my outline I flew like a flash,
Only to find it was still utter trash.
The blinking cursor mocked me with a leer,
Whispering, “Writer’s block season is here.”
When what to my wandering brain should appear,
But a tiny idea shouting, “Try over here!”
With a stubborn old concept, now lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it might finally stick.
More rapid than edits the plot twists they came,
And I muttered and grumbled and called them by name:
“Now Conflict! Now Subplot! Now Theme and Revision!
On Dialogue! On Pacing! On Author Vision!
To the end of the chapter, don’t let the prose fall!
Now write away, write away, write away all!”
As pages before a critique group will fly,
Only to return with “needs work” as reply,
So back to my keyboard the ideas they flew,
With a document full of chaos—and a few gems too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from my phone
A notification that chilled me straight to the bone.
My editor emailed, as calm as can be:
“Just checking in—how’s the manuscript, can I see?”
I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
Pretending my panic was merely a quirk.
And laying my fingers atop the keys right,
I summoned the will to keep typing all night.
Then I heard myself mumble as I fought the good fight—
“Happy writing to all, and to all a good write.”
