Posted on Monday, 18 December 2000

Dedicated to DWG Writers and Readers. May the holidays be peaceful and your time content and filled with happiness.

Few words and some carefully wrought emotions. That was all. And most of it in staccato phrases. Words saved with relish, one and two and a scribble, most of the time by ignoring work and the belligerent teachers until one's cheeks burned with the silent condemnation of ignorance that such transactions seem to imply. Less than four pages. Three times she counted it. Three pages and two paragraphs. And the next day would be her usual posting day.

There was no other course of action to take then to sit down on the chair with a small sob. So she did it. Which seems to buttress the idea that life is composed of sacrifices, sniffles, chuckles and sobs. With sniffles on top of the list.

While the writer slowly adjusted her mental attitude from the first stage of hysteria to the second of resignation, she took a look around her abode. A small room with the blinking screen dominating the desk. It didn't exactly tax one's imagination to describe the space, but the word neglected kept rising from pieces of furniture and various belongings strewn about the floor.

There was a stack of mail which has yet to be opened, a television set that went cold weeks before. Also, a rather presumptuous box with the words 'My Work' boldly written across the front.

The 'My Work' box was woefully empty, but the hope placed in it made the paper container quite heavy in all the ways it counted. However, since real life and ambition rarely collide in a friendly manner, the writer thought about scaling down her contribution to DWG and going into a more modest phase. Yet, whenever she bustled to do such momentous deed, the replies posted underneath her story made the box even heavier. Which is all very good.

She finished her bout of emotional wonderment and pulled out her keyboard. However, her attention was drawn to the window and the uninteresting, gray, winter scenery laid out before her like a spoiled feast. Tomorrow would be Christmas and she had three pages and two paragraphs which, to her estimation, didn't go far. But things she had not calculated limited her time, and she realized belatedly this was all she had to offer. Many a happy hour she planned to post something rather amazing or at least fitting her ambitions. Something that was a little bit near to being worthy of the encroaching holidays.

There were ways to make the three pages and two paragraphs look bigger. She had mastered the art many months ago since she was a rather bright person with an able hand and keen knowledge of what the computer software could offer.

Suddenly and without warning, she increased the font and reread the work. Rapidly she scrolled down, correcting minor mistakes and changing phrases, hoping it would reach four pages when she met the end.

Now there were two talents the writer possessed which she took much pride. One was her wit, the other her ability describe a scene without actually plotting down huge phrases. One or two quick, cutting sentences and she could more than amply describe the backdrop in which her characters explored. Had King Solomon been a writer, with all his treasures transformed to wit, he would still be jealous of her two very special facilities.

So the words fell, rippling and shining like a cascade of gorgeous ideas. She reached to the end of the story and without a thought the writer returned to the top for yet another heave-ho.

On went one word only to be replaced by another. And all the while the writer wrote with a brilliant sparkle in her eyes. Old ideas went fluttering out the door and new ones took place.

Suddenly she stopped at a paragraph that was dear to her heart.

"Should I keep it?" She asked her personal editor who, by fortuitous chance, resided in her mind.

"I wouldn't keep it. Let's take a look at it."

The words were read out loud.

"Twenty bucks to get rid of it." The hidden editor mumbled.

"Let's do it quickly then."

Oh, and the next few hours went sweetly by. Okay, dump the rosy metaphor. She was in the zone and the keyboard was in dire need of a break.

It was done at last. And surely it was meant for no other place than Derbyshire. It was simply elegant, not unlike a platinum ring and the words were no longer burdened with overwrought ornamentation. Quietness and value - the description was apt indeed.

When she finally counted the words, to her horror she realized it was now three pages only. The two, dear, precious paragraphs that justified her posting the chapter were chopped off. Shaved by the merciless voice and her own faithless little hands.

The initial intoxication now dissipated was replaced with common sense and she went to work. Putting in the line breaks between scenes, making sure continuity held from the last chapter, a tremendous task indeed. In fact, a mammoth task since the joy of writing comes from its creation, not making sure spell check actually worked.

Within forty minutes her work was covered with tiny, but beautifully laid out ideas and words. All which made her look wonderfully like Jane Austen. But she continued to study her posting carefully and critically. After all, the editor was a 24/7 type of guy.

"If my readers don't kill me," She said to herself, "Before they get to the second page, they'll say I was a loon for doing this. But what could I do?"

At 7 o'clock, after a large cup of coffee and a muffin she posted. She reread the chapter now prominently displayed, wondering if she should use the automatic delete button and retrieve her story. It was so short. Three pages with a plot twist that was guaranteed to upset a few die-hard Dwiggies.

"Please G-d, don't let me lose my readers."

And the readers were never late, for they seem to dwell in Austen.com with frequency that could be described as alarming. Poor readers, now and forever burdened with the love of all things Austen. There they were, needing to get off the computer, but still hoping their favorite author posted during the interval when they had to leave the computer and do an errand.

They stopped dead at the second page, their eyes fixed on the sudden turn in the story. Their expression was not one of anger, or surprise, or disapproval, or horror, or any sentiments that the writer steeled herself for. They just kept reading with that particular expression on their faces.

The writer sighed and hit the renew button.

"Don't hate me for doing what I did. I couldn't post the story as it was, especially now. Besides, I'm a writer and if you like my stories, you must have faith in me. And you can't go looking for what I wrote before. It's gone now, sold in order to pay for this offering." She nearly spoke out loud to the night-pitched room.

Then she saw the replies, steadily growing under her story and with a bravado she didn't feel, she read them.

Let us now with discreet scrutiny examine something else as she realized her readers understood what was given instead of what could have been. Three pages a week or a million a year--what is the difference? The wittiest and the smartest will give you a foolish reply should you raise the question in their presence. However, there are those who do know the answer, not because they've studied it, but because they've practiced it.

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of a writer in a room who most wisely sacrificed for someone she's never met. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts such as this writer had done is the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

This story is a reverberation of O'Henry's memorable slice of Americana.

The End.