“On the twelfth day before Christmas my true love gave to me…”
Twelves days till Christmas. Twelve days. The reindeer are stamping in their stables, choir boys are rushing to get to practice, and people are walking on the snowy streets window shopping and buying more tinsel.
And while you’re shopping about, don’t forget the writers. You may not see them around, because they find cold weather a good excuse to just stay indoors and write, but they still exist, and they like to see a full stocking as well.
What do they want? *puts on glasses and pulls out scroll from pocket that unravels for a mile at my feet*
Every writer has to drink something. Coffee, Tea, etc. I like water most of the time. For a writer, there is nothing better than an endless supply of such drink. In fact, if you can find a cup that refills itself, that would be perfect. This way a writer never has to get up from their desk.
A vacation to a small cabin in the middle of nowhere (beach, mountains, wherever you would like). This way we can find somewhere quiet where we can finish our book. But be warned: We may never come back.
For the writer that is querying or submitting work, nothing would be better than to give them an acceptance letter.
CAUTION: Your writer may scream, break into a dance, or panic and blast themselves to Bermuda.
A tonic that cures writer’s block by the spoonful. You may have to wander through the wild and into some ancient city to find it, but your writer will be most grateful.
And of course books, note books, pens, a castle, cloaks, and a large mansion on the moor are also all appropriate gifts to give your writer.
So, *takes off glasses, rolls up scroll, and looks at watch* I’d better get going, I have some Christmas shopping to do, and if I don’t do it my elves might go on strike.
Farewell.
Header Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash
Bernadette Benda 
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