A poem for the holidays

Well. We're nearing the end of the year and I have to say I'm not too upset with how mine worked out in the writing arena. For all the good luck I've had, I also owe some thanks to people. For me, a kind word of encouragement or a blurb to help get the word out about my books or a read of some of my stuff means an awful lot to me. It helps more than you can imagine, and I was lucky this year to have so many gracious and generous and kind people helping me out. I wish I was a wealthy woman so I could buy iPods or something else commercial to thank everyone online who's been so good to me. But I can't. So instead, I hope my pals will settle for this. (And, if you're not name-checked in here, please forgive me, but perhaps your name is "Hofferbransime" and I couldn't rhyme it. But I still dig you!)

The Holiday Cyberpoem from Susan


'Twas the night before Christmas and my new release,
Aunt Nance rang me up, sending greetings to her niece.
When I hug up with her, I looked out the window,
And was saddened to see the hard blowing snow.
So I picked up a shovel and headed outside,
My back was quite sore and I just could have cried.
Inside was ready with a tree that was trimmed,
Cookies were baked and the lights were all dimmed.
But friends would be coming and they needed a path,
So I figured I'd shovel and then we'd have drinks and a laugh.

I put on my scarf, was quite warmly bundled,
And off to the curb I reluctantly trundled.
Then from a short distance I heard a loud crash,
I thought my new neighbors were having a bash.
But their place was all quiet, it was really quite dark,
And then from above, I saw a great spark.
Up near my chimney a blur of red filled the sky
I squinted and huffed, couldn't believe my own eye.
Up on my roof there was a guy and his laugh filled the air,
Confused and disturbed, I shouted, "The hell you doing up there?"

I know you may not believe when I say what came next,
but trust me and listen, and don't be impatient or vexed.
With a swirl of the wind he came down and landed by me,
and he glanced in my window and said, "What a lovely tree."
"Thanks so much," I told him and gave him a smile,
This dude had a sleigh, I approved of his style.
With the sleigh was a reindeer, looking cuddly and furry.
But he clomped with one hoof, as he was in a hurry.
"Listen to me," Santa, he said it quite loudly,
"You've had a nice year." And at that, I beamed proudly.
He was right, it was true, three books I'd had pubbed,
And one award I had won, nothing had flubbed.

Marina, Lucy and Lisa, their stories I'd told.
One more about Eva, I hope to get sold.
Fate had been kind, I'd really been lucky,
With that sort of year, who cares if the weather was sucky?
Then Santa surprised me, as he stated his case,
It felt like a great big merry slap in the face.
"You're naughty," he said, "and that's not all, there's much more,
"You're a gambler, a drinker, and a bit of a whore.
"But I've come anyhow, because you're really quite brash,
"To take down your wishes, which I'll grant in a flash."

It's been a good year, oh yes, that's quite true,
But as much as to luck, I owe it to you.
I did lots of writing, this I know well,
But without helpful readers, it wouldn't be swell.
The wind got quite cold as the moon hung down low,
Santa was waiting, and he said, "Come on now. Ho Ho."
Family and friends, those I'll take care of in person,
But those far away, I had to thank before the storm worsened.
So to Santa I said, "A kind word or a read, those things I hold dear,
So I want to send out some greetings to those who helped me this year."

The reindeer it snorted and the fat man nodded okay,
And then they listened intently as I started to say:
Ms. Barris is a sweetie, a lovely, whipsmart young dear,
I got turned on to her prose just this past year.
To keep me on course, she sent me a book from across the pond
She's so talented that I dig her, even though she's a blonde.
What a guy, what a pal, what a reader, what a friend,
To Capone, sincerest thanks are the best I can send.
What can I say, Don reads all my stuff, even the porn
Here's to an agent for his novel, Like I'd Never Been Born.


William Reese Hamilton is a fine, classy dear fellow,
His writing is electric, but his demeanor is mellow.
He's helped me put out lots of bad literary fires,
Let's hope next year sees print for The Oldfield Wires.
Beverly Jackson is lovely I'll tell you right now,
This year saw Ink Pot take its final bow.
There's a dame on the rise, her name is Gwendolyn Mintz,
Her prose is fantastic and won't make you wince.
Myfanwy is remarkable, really quite grand,
Hansen started a new 'zine, let's strike up the band!

For Ellen Meister, lovely lady, I wish for you the same as I wish for myself:
A visit from George, the ex-Batman, he'd make one sexy-bitch of an elf.
Ah but I hope you excuse my pervy, self-serving digressions
Truly, next year will bring a smash success for your Secret Confessions.
Biff Mitchell's a wild one, a crazy guy, and he's no lazy slug
In 2005 he survived a triathalon and published The War Bug.
Edward Moore landed pubs in anthologies and even some 'zines,
and he's offered me help by various means.
Renee Nicholson creates prose with some bite,
and now she's teaching the students all how to write!

Tripp's had some success that deserves some salutin',
his prose is so classy, but never high-falutin'.
So read some Tripp Reade, as he's read stuff for me,
and wish him good luck obtaining his Master's degree.
Fred Schoeneman's a pal, though sometimes I wonder if he's been smoking crack,
he's a veteran, a reader, and writer, and he's all in support of the war in Iraq.
He oughta have a high-paying gig and it's something I'd mourn
if in 2006 we didn't see shelf-time for his incredible novel called Army Porn.
Justin Holt, I'm so glad I met him, that's my good luck,
And special thanks for kind words to the grand one called Chuck.


GC Smith is a jolly, good ole southern boy,
he deserves hearty praise and a year full of joy.
His poems can be a happy addiction,
Just our good luck we find him weekly in Quiction.
A poet, novelist, screenwriter, and plenty more,
Matt St. Amand is certainly never a bore.
This year he released his collection of satire, Homunculus,
that he's not wealthy from writing is truly ridiculous!
Lisa Renee Jones and Randy Kirkpatrick were my emissaries of PR,
and what lovely, classy, hardworking people, the both of them are.


My books were handled by Magic Carpet, Mundania, and Zumaya,
I'm so proud of each company, they're superb, and that's not a lie-a.
'Zines like Ruthie's and Clean Sheets pub prose with some spice
and this year to me they have been exceptionally nice.
And now to the folks who give us scribes quite a kick,
Let's hear it for reviewers, they're all very slick.
Whether we find them online or in a print mag,
they give us great blurbs and reasons to brag.
Here's one I know, let's call him Mick,
But take care of them all, won't you St. Nick?
Last but not least, to all the readers, my sincere thanks galore.
My only wish is that next year, I can gain a few more.
So readers and reviewers, let's give them a snap,
and if that's not your style, you're welcome to clap.

Santa stopped me right there as he held up a hand,
Said, "Your thanks will be heard across cyberland."
That thought made me happy, it did make me tingle,
and then the reindeer snorted, his harness did jingle.
Santa declared, and he said it with might,
"Thanks are fine, but I came to grant wishes tonight.
"So say what you want, and say it quite loud,
"And then I'll do what I can for this literary crowd."
So I sucked in a breath and chose to go quick,
Because these iambic couplets were making me sick.

For all the fellows, my wish is nice but shallow, every last bit,
I wish you more GQ spreads that show off Jen Aniston's left tit.
For all the ladies, well, much as we'd like it, we can't all have Vince Vaughn.
But I hope you've got a great man, and that he's got a nice schlong.

I thought those were nice but also quite lame.
I had to think bigger, think bolder, think fortune and fame.
It took me a moment, but then it was perfectly clear,
I knew the perfect wish for all the writers here.
When I had it mind, I shouted and let out a squeal,
"The same thing for everyone -- a six figure book deal!"

So then Santa declared, "Susan, you're such a fool!"
I'd heard it before, but from him it seemed sort of cruel.
Silly wishes I made and for that I tried to repent.
But the jolly one sighed heavy as his patience was spent.
Then his cheer faded off, it drained rather quickly,
I got sort of scared and swallowed quite thickly.
I could tell that his patience was starting to fray,
I was ready to give in, let him have things his way.
And then, it was so rude, a reindeer poked me with his antler,
Santa said, "Bad wishes are one thing. But your holiday rhyming sucks. You're no Adam Sandler."

The reindeer nudged me again and I was afraid I would fall,
so I knew it was time to wrap this up once and for all.
So these are my final wishes: To everyone, be of good cheer,
To the writers I wish you prime pubs all through next year!
To reviewers and readers, I bless you some more,
Happy Holidays forever to you and to yours.
I hope you have a have a great time with those you love bestly,
And that your holiday is even gayer than Carson Kressley.
May your days be cheerful and burdens be light,
Thanks for reading my books, and this lame poem tonight.
It took patience and timing and caused me some stress,
But the result leaves me pleased, but also perplexed.
Blame it on cheer, or call it good luck,
I made through this whole story without saying "fuck"!

Santa eyed me again and I could sense his disdain,
then the reindeer snorted and nudged, but he didn't complain.
Santa said, "I'll give you one for yourself before I head on my way,"
And then he winked at me once and hopped on his sleigh.
The thought made me heady and caused me to smile,
I didn't bother to lie or cover with guile.
I wished big and wished bright, with all of my nerve,
and then I shouted it loudly with plenty of verve.
"I'd work hard on a screenplay and never be lazy,
if you'd get me a film option from Martin Scorsese!"