Eve

Christmas Eve. Every time I hear those words I imagine a scantily-clad Eve in a Santa cap, booties and a red micro-mini-skirt. No one ever talks of Christmas Adam though. Wouldn't it have sucked in paradise to not have Christmas? I couldn't imagine growing up as little Adam and not experiencing the bliss of holiday suspense, of waking up before dawn wanting nothing but to open presents.

Soon we will take a trip to the airport to pickup a good friend from Vancouver and then off to wine country we'll go. We've rented a house for the festivities, equipped with a jacuzzi and a pool, a beautiful kitchen and all the trappings of polished modernity. There will be wine and merriment; music making; sumptuous feasts prepared by our chef de partie, Mr. Terry D; story telling and laughter.

There are moments lately when I want to write, yet when I do, each letter turns into a struggle. How this happens I'm not sure, but it frustrates me beyond belief. Early on, when I first started writing, things happened naturally and with ease - but no longer. Some people say that you need to stop thinking, just write; censor yourself later. Knowing this doesn't help me though, and I critique every word to the point of stilted strangulation. Yes, the first step is awareness, realizing you have a problem, but overcoming this problem is another story entirely. In fact, knowing you have a problem potentially makes things worse because you begin to distrust yourself. Security in your ability is crucial as a writer; it is where confidence comes from. By my own standards a degree of confidence has been lost - I have become more self critical and my writing has suffered. Letters fall from my mind in little constipated clumps. Unending indecision prevails, unraveling the narrative. Exorcism is what I need.

I trust the ghost of Christmas future
will handle everything.