The Christmas Letter

It has been exceedingly hard to write lately. I'm sure you have noticed (especially my bereft Yahoo readers...sorry). I get brief glimpses of inspiration. If I am lucky, I have a scrap of paper, or an old envelope, or a sticky with dirt plastered to the back. And I write. Or scribble. Or jot down an idea, pretending that after this moment, it will not be lost to me forever. If I am not lucky, I miss it. And then the waiting ensues.

My brain is tired, my heart is tired. My brain is functioning at work though, and for that I am glad. It is a wonderful distraction from reality.

Nevertheless all of the above, it is time once again to write the Christmas letter. An annual tradition, which I love. A tradition started by my Dad. Making it that much harder to accomplish. What the hell am I supposed to say? Hmm, was tortured at my job, then lost my job, went broke, Daddy died, dog almost died but then didn't, Merry Fucking Christmas! If you like that approach, well, let's call it a day.

For the rest of you friends and family, you'll have to wait for the sweet, poetic version. It very well may come in a flash after three things take place: 1) the battery for my laptop comes, thus fixing all of its problems (let a girl dream - it's Christmas), 2) I get my desk cleaned off (again, the dream...), and 3) I have a steaming mug of holiday tea (or maybe a Jack and Coke) to inspire my fingers to type. And then there's the finding of the perfect year's poem for the back of the letter. Oh, dear.

Aside: Several of you dear blog junkies may like to receive the Christmas letter this year (???)...let me know, and email me your address. No online letters for this traditional gal. Only requirements are that you are not a creepy stalker (and you know who you are), and you promise not to post my address and phone number on the Internet - ahem. Fourteen year old boys posing as middle-aged or thirtysomethings who just loooove all my inane insights need not apply.

Love you as always. And yes, I mean you.

~Ally