22/12/2002 - 2:02 p.m.

Old Christmas Morning

All of the rampant holiday spirit I had two weeks ago has dwindled and died. Today is the 22nd. It's a Sunday, which means there's no post, so there's nothing to look forward to until at least 8:00, and that probably won't happen either.

For some reason, however, this is a fit mood for scriptwriting. There are coarse rocks of ideas tumbling through my head that may eventually turn into jewels, but I don't know. My first play was begun in the fifth grade at just this time of year, but never finished. I had just seen The Best Christmas Pageant Ever and so started to write a cross between it and The Polar Express. Needless to say it was terrible. I could finish it and sell it to ABC for one of their Disney specials, that's how bad it was.

I keep being asked what I want for Christmas and I wish people would stop asking. The things I want can't be wrapped in boxes and tied with bows. That's absolutely true. I could say, oh sure, get me some CDs and DVDs, and some more books, but I could get all of those things myself. Like always, I want those things that I cannot get for myself, things that I cannot be given by well meaning relations.

There are so many things I could be prompted to write, but I shouldn't like to have to take them back later. Sometimes, it is terribly dangerous to sit at the keyboard and pour out my thoughts to a largely unknown public. This is one of those times.

Look for better news after the Christmas.