‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a… writer?
This falls into the category entitled ‘Dubious’. I get ideas all the time. They tumble through my head in drips or in torrents, and I catch as many as I can and pour them into my book of things that need writing at some point. But, dear reader, not all ideas are created equal – and yes, I am talking to myself right now because no one else is looking at this.
I have an idea for a story, and that story is a Christmas story. They’ve been done to death and then some, and yet I have some hope that this story is a worthy one. But what I fear more is the commercialisation of Christmas, and the fear of my worthy story being brutalised in the pursuit of money – whether by dismissive review or desperate interferance.
All this, and I haven’t even written a word of it! I can’t help thinking about it, though. The tales we weave are a part of us whether we want them to be or not, and seeing one bastardised in the name of greed is painful.
A thought for another day, I suppose. I’ll have to flesh it out a little and see where the thread takes me.