(Somehow, saying this vaguely reminds me of “Tub Thumping” by Chumba Wumba. Which is GREAT.)
So, in this, my inaugural post for Pub Hub, I’d like to share a little bit of poetry. It’s sorta mine. Mostly not. Mostly it’s just drivel written to the theme/meter of “Twas The Night Before Christmas.” Since, yanno, it’s the night before Christmas.
But I pause – not to reflect on the year. That shit’s for next week.
No, I pause to take a breath, wipe my brow, and dive right back in. Because that’s what this poem, my friends, is all about. It’s a scrappy, knuckle-scraped little ditty about something all of us know too well.
And if you don’t yet? Well, just you wait. Because this privilege – this writing-related gift – well, it spares none of us. Not even Stephen King.*
*Okay, maybe it spares Stephen King. But, no matter!
Thus, I give you –
Twas the Night Before a Deadline
Twas the night before a Deadline
And all through the night
You can hear the click of the keys
As you continue to type.
The unreliable narrators are warring again,
While visions of breached contracts dance in your brain;
And setting and plot and man versus man?
Well, all of it feels like an overwhelming pain.
When suddenly there on the page you can see,
That nightmare we dread – timeline inconsistency!
Away to the plot map you fly in a rage,
Tear open the Word Doc and skim down each page.
How could you have missed these details? So few are the same!
You’ve barely even managed to remember your own name!
When, what do you find with your luck, so damn rotten,
But a revised draft of that plot map that you’d completely forgotten!
A glance at the clock and you just want to cry,
It’s long past midnight and you can’t shut your eyes.
You realize your brain is as exhausted as can be
But you must persevere, must continue, must not sleep.
"Now, TYPE! now, REVISE! now, DO IT AGAIN!
On TO THE NEXT PAGE! On TO THE NEXT TEN!
To the beginning of the chapter! to the end of them all!
Now write away! Write away! write away all!"
As the Visine bottle empties and the coffee disappears,
You meet each new obstacle with a few less tears.
You’ve managed to get to the end of Part Two!
If you make it to Three, you’re not totally screwed!
And then, in a twinkling, your fingers are inspired
And fly over the keys like they’re not even tired .
As you stare at your hands, things were turning around…
Annnnd then your three year-old came in with a bound.
He was dressed in his jammies, from his head to his toes,
But his clothes were all covered with something, well, gross;
He was crying – more like screaming – as he stamped his feet
And he looked like demon in pajamas with feet.
His eyes – filled with tears! his nose all runny!
His wailing was so loud, it’s not even funny!
You managed to run to his side and soothe him
All the while knowing you were losing precious momentum.
But such is the life of the working writer -
We slave and we toil, then cook dinner and change diapers.
There is rarely an office to which we can run
And instead we dig in and try to spin stories from home.
Once the little one is clean and back in his bed
You go down the stairs, just shaking your head.
You could brew some more coffee, you could try jumping jacks
You could wake up your sweetie for some time in the sack.
But that deadline, that damn deadline – why did you wait so long?
You knew it was coming! It was coming all along!
And now here you sit, with nowhere to run,
Imagining how things will turn out if you can’t get it done…
BEEP BEEP BEEP goes the alarm clock and you’re up in a flash!
You look around you, remembering the dream you just had.
Then, a sigh of relief. An exhale. A big fat “YAY!”
For that torturous deadline? Well, you’ve still got one more day.
MERRY MERRY my new friends J