I need to tell you about the time I got into a fistfight with Santa Claus.
Yes, THE Santa Claus. No, I wasn’t high on mushrooms. This actually happened. (wink)
So there I am, 3 AM, typing away in my murder shed like any normal person would be, when this red-suited jackass literally slides down my non-existent chimney (I HAVE CENTRAL HEATING, YOU PRESUMPTUOUS PRICK) and has the absolute AUDACITY to tell me I need to “slow down and embrace the holiday spirit.”
“Stephen,” he says, all jolly and shit, “you’re working too hard. Take a break. Watch some Hallmark movies.”
I look up from my seventh cup of coffee and fourth deadline of the day. “Listen here, you seasonal home invader, these words aren’t going to write themselves.”
“But it’s Christmas!” His elves chime in from somewhere behind him. (Side note: elves are assholes.)
“Christmas doesn’t pay the mortgage, you toy-making terrorists!”
That’s when Santa made his fatal mistake. He tried to unplug my laptop.
Next thing I know, we’re throwing down in the Mcdonald’s parking lot at 3:45 AM. A crowd of insomniacs and third-shift workers gathered around us, placing bets.
“Ho ho h- OOF!” Santa wheezes as I connect with his jolly belly.
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND,” I yell, ducking a surprisingly quick right hook. “THE INTERNET NEEDS MY UNHINGED RANTS ABOUT PROPER COMMA USAGE!”
“But the magic of Christ- JESUS, THAT’S MY SPLEEN!”
“THE ONLY MAGIC I BELIEVE IN IS CAFFEINE AND CONSISTENCY!”
Twenty minutes later, we’re both sitting on the curb, bloody and bruised. Santa’s nursing a black eye, I’m holding a bag of frozen Mcnuggets to my jaw, and we’re sharing a plate of lukewarm mozzarella sticks.
“You know,” Santa says, “you could at least take Christmas Day off.”
“Look, Kris,” I say, dunking a cheese stick in marinara, “Here’s the thing about writing. There is no magic. No muse. No mystical Christmas spirit that’s going to write these emails, stories and books for me. It’s just ass in chair, hands on keyboard, day after fucking day.”
“But-“
“Discipline trumps motivation every time. You think I always WANT to write? Hell no. But I do it anyway. Because that’s how you get better. That’s how you build an audience. That’s how you keep the promises you make to your readers.”
Santa sighs, steals one of my cheese sticks. “You’re not going to take time off, are you?”
“Nope. But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll leave out bourbon instead of milk this year.”
“…deal.”
So listen up. There’s no magic formula. No special time of year to take off. Just you, your words, and the daily grind. Feed the beast. Keep the momentum. Write when you don’t want to. Write when the world tells you to slow down. Write when Santa himself tries to unplug your laptop.
Because at the end of the day, the only person who can write your stories is you. And they’re waiting to be told.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to ice my knuckles and finish this chapter before the sun rises.
Stephen Walker
P.S. Yes, I fought Santa without pants. As one does.