So, every year I bug Hal and the kids about writing a Christmas poem, story or song.
And every year I'm pretty much the only one who comes through with something. It's starting to get embarrassing. In fact, I'm starting to re-think the whole thing. So far I've had no inspiration whatsoever. Maybe it's the stress of trying to keep afloat with both houses and having the big family Christmas Eve party here this year. My mom has pretty much relinquished all hostess duties indefinitely. I'm starting to think I shouldn't let her off the hook so easily.
I really am in a pretty good mood in general, so I don't know what the problem is. Of course, some of my best work is written as a result of less than ideal circumstances. One of my favorites was written during Sacrament meeting, a day or so before Christmas. I'd scrawled it on a little tiny notebook when I should have been listening to the meeting. You can read it here if you're wondering what kind of literary masterpiece I could have possibly created. (Yep, I'm not holding my breath for any Nobel prizes for literature any time soon.)
So, maybe I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop to see what kind of calamities await us this year that I can write about. Ah, the pessimism rears its ugly head once again. Am I one of those people you hear about who can only be happy when they're miserable? Boy I hope not!
Maybe I should just give up on the poetry and write a song. You know, with all my musical talent and all. (Not.)
Well, a stocking just fell off of the front of the mantel and crashed to the ground. You think I can work something up around that?
At least it's a start.
(If I would have been lucky, it would have caught on fire. I bet I could write a really good poem about that.)