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| Jo Murphey The Murphey Saga |
Twas the night before Christmas, nothing could be brighter
Only one creature was stirring, and that was the writer.
My fingers were clicking the keyboard with care.
In hopes the new novel wouldn’t leave cupboards bare.
While I furiously worked on the prose in my head.
With husband snoring loudly enough to wake the dead,
Had no idea the consternation he caused, or my dread.
When out of the monitor popped characters in distress,
I juggled them all like bills before the Congress.
My imagination ran wild within my brain,
My eyes bleary with severe eye strain.
The voices and dialogs filled my mind.
Homework, I thought was the way out of this bind.
When the sparkle of muse hit me, my thoughts did clear.
Deadlines approached and grew near.
"Complete this darn thing," I muttered in disdain.
The words I typed began the page to stain.
Furiously I work on the plot lines and subs,
If it was easy it could be done by any poor slubs.
Come on brain, get it in gear.
There is after all, nothing to fear.
Only agents and publishers who might say no,
But you can always self-publish this, you know?
Now syntax! Now grammar! Now characters and scenes!
On sentences! On paragraphs! On ink and paper reams!
To the end of the page I write with fingers flying,
Now, the end of the chapter I am spying.
As the midnight oil is burning low,
Eyes unfocused, outside a rooster's crow,
I finally type the words, “The end”
With aching back I stretch and bend.
"It is finished," I cried with exhausted breath.
I have often wondered if it would be of my death.
But it is finished I said again just above a whisper,
And sighed and nursed a fingertip blister.
One hundred thousand words says the word count on the screen.
This novel will be the best from an author not so green.
Tomorrow is Christmas and this is the best present yet,
It’ll be a best seller I hope and I bet.
A little break is needed to settle the brain cells,
But in weeks ahead, the editing tells.
Not! to whoever said that editing was fun?
It’s not really finished until this is done.
Then it’s on to marketing and selling the book,
It has a definite cliffhanging hook.
It’s great I say, with unabashed pride.
No, you say without being snide.
Social marketing is the ticket
Get me out of this sticky wicket.
I tweet, post, blog, and promote
Until I’m overloaded and broke.
I yell from the rafters, “Please buy my book.”
“Please won’t you have just a little look?”
Finally a sale has me up on cloud nine
Only to be dashed when it’s review time.
Such is the life of an indie author do tell.
There are moments you fall under a spell.
I’ll ride the sales to stardom and fame,
Or sell a few copies, nobody knows my name.
A flash in the pan or a mainstay for sure,
Only time will tell if my future's secure.
Many hats I will wear along the way.
I am a writer and I’m here to stay.
Keep writing my friends and you will know,
That success takes tenacity and is definitely slow.
Keep learning the craft, there is always something new
It will hit you right out of the blue.
I speak from experience, this much is true.
Of lessons I imbue, life stories long overdue.
Indie writer forever, this is in question.
Publishers right now have too many concessions.
To a prosperous new year I wish to you all.
Congratulations, you have answered the call.
To be a great writer, you must learn the tricks.
May any hardships that befall you never stick.
It is my Christmas wish that you all be merry
Forget failure tasting like a sour cherry.
Be healthy, be happy and be of good cheer
After all coming up is a new year.
Keep writing and loving the Lord.
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