Gadzooks! Methinks ’tis Yuletide.
Dear Kids and all Writers,
Need inspiration for writing? Check out this true story . . .
As I was decorating my home for the holidays recently, my mind transported me back to the late 1990s. My daughter was in high school then. Despite it being a weekend that December day and so close to the holidays, she had a writing assignment that was giving her fits. She burst out of her bedroom and flopped down on the living room sofa.
“Lucky you,” she said to me angrily. “You get to decorate the Christmas tree while I have to write this dumb paper for my English class.”
“What’s the topic?” I asked.
“Would you believe that I have to write about an object or a feeling as if I were William Shakespeare? You know, in his language called “Early Modern English.” Doesn’t sound too modern to me with all the thee’s and thou’s he tossed around in his plays.”
Before I could say anything, she continued. “And what’s worse, I can’t come up with a topic. And what’s even worse, I’d rather be decorating the tree with you!”
“Well . . . then . . . why not . . . write about that? I replied with a smile.
“About what?”
“About how upset you feel because you’d rather be decorating the Christmas tree with pretty lights and ornaments. You would be describing both an object and a feeling!”
Without another word, my daughter disappeared into her bedroom. Within thirty minutes, she was back, mission accomplished and ready to help decorate!
I laughed as she read her essay to me: “Hark, methinks I spy yon Yuletide tree! Drat! Such pleasures as I donning it with festive fobs is not written in fiery stars . . .” and so on, until I thought the Bard of Avon was sitting in the living room, describing the bright scene!
But best of all, she actually had fun writing the piece once she had an idea. Her laughter as she read was heartwarming for us both.
So get a clue, writers. Sometimes, your next idea might be right in front of you. Listen to your feelings. Look nearby for opportunities. “Gadzooks! Methinks I spy a writer taking up thy quill . . . ”