Today, I was skimming through my Creepy Crazy Christmas series of books, looking for a suitable story to submit to my local writing group’s upcoming Christmas anthology. Been kinda brain-dead after the completion of my latest two books: THREE HEARTS (the story of my son’s last days with a rare heart cancer and the aftermath) and MOSES AND ME (an uplifting story, I hope, about me, a senior who’s hated dogs her entire life but then suddenly decides to get one–book available the week of August 25).
Okay, to be honest, I only have four books in the Creepy Crazy Christmas series. I began the books in December 2012 and wrote the last one in 2015. I don’t know why I quit; I wish I hadn’t. That’s nine or ten books I could’ve had by now. They’re thin books, about a hundred pages each, with up to approximately twelve stories each.
While skimming, I ended up reading a few. Couldn’t remember most of them. But, egotistically, I enjoyed each one. Made me think I should combine the four skinny books into one healthy book for Christmas 2025. I’m seriously thinking of doing so.
They’re quirky, wacky, weird, funny, sarcastic stories (perhaps some a bit morbid). But I think they’re fun to read. They’ll take your mind off the troubles of the world. Maybe…
Anyhow, I thought the “Afterword” in the first book was pretty interesting. And hilarious. I’d forgotten I wrote it. It was published on my blog (in 2012, I guess), but I’m reprinting it again.
The four books are titled: Creepy Crazy Christmas, Creepy Crude Christmas, Creepy Customary Christmas, and Creepy Cheery Christmas. But don’t buy them! Wait until I combine the four books into one (hopefully by December 1, 2025). You’ll get more value for your buck! Stay tuned…
In the meantime, read my Afterword in Creepy Crazy Christmas. I hope it’s a teaser, that you’ll be interested in a purchase (hey, they’d make great Christmas gifts, too!). I hope you think it’s as hilarious as I do. (Or am I demented???)
Afterword to Creepy Crazy Christmas
December 2012
I’ve never been more surprised—maybe feeling more shock and disappointment—than I was last night (December 5). I wasn’t that upset, however, not in the throes of a screaming hissy fit or weeping endless tears into a pillow. Just puzzled and in a state of utter disbelief.
Later, though, the whole situation became rip-roaring funny, and I literally had tears cascading down my cheeks and a belly I thought would explode from the pain. Literally! (Although maybe it was one of those instances where you “had to be there” to understand the laughs.)
For the past week or so, I’d been working on a book of short stories, which I titled Creepy Crazy Christmas. I’m not sure what possessed me to even start such a book, but I think I began with the intention of writing one not-so-nice Christmas story because I was feeling sorry for myself about having to remain home over the holidays instead of travelling down south, and I felt like bashing Christmas. Although I knew how wrong that was, my fingers had a mind of their own, and before I knew it, I had eight stories drafted, which I fine-tuned to perfection. (I trashed one other that was about half done, thinking I’d re-do it for the book’s sequel to come out Christmas 2013. Yep, I didn’t even have that first book done and I was planning the follow-up!)
Finally—done! My masterpiece! Eight short stories, approximately 13,000 words total, all of which take place during the Christmas season and follow several Christmases of the wacky and warped Grimes family.
While writing them, I never laughed so hard in my life, and every time I re-read them, I’d laugh again (and still do), and I’m not normally a raucously laughter-type person. I couldn’t wait to share them—with someone, anyone!
Angel, a writing buddy, crafted a gorgeous cover, using a sly Santa pic I had found online, so I was all set with a wonderful but wacky book with a fantastic cover.
I had approached Tom*, another writing bud, to edit the stories for me, and then at the last minute, decided they were good enough the way they were. (Yep, I was going against the grain of all writers who KNOW they should have their work edited before publication, but I thought they were THAT good!) He offered to read the stories, however, so I sent them off to him. In the meantime, Hubby arrived home from work, and when he found out what I was doing, he excitedly asked if he could read them.
I was flattered! Hubby has never read any of my writings, other than a few poems. He has asked but never followed through, so it’s a bit odd he keeps telling me to give up prose and concentrate on poetry. How can he tell me to give up writing stories when he hasn’t read any?
So I downloaded my Creepy Crazy Christmas book to my tablet and Hubby began reading, while I watched him with bated breath, waiting for his words of praise and astonishment at my great accomplishment. It WAS my masterpiece, after all!
Well…he finished the first story—just barely—and wanted to quit.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s all this about chickens and turkeys with their heads cut off?”
“But that first story is just the lead-in,” I said. “You have to keep reading. The stories are kinda intertwined. And you have to read carefully, or you’ll miss stuff.”
He hesitantly started the second story.
“You’re skimming,” I said. “I told you that you have to read carefully. You’ll miss the little innuendos and foreshadowing if you don’t.”
“But this is painful.”
Painful? “Well, keep going. They get better.” (They didn’t really get better because they were so good to begin with, but I had to tell him something to keep his interest!)
Before he reached the third story, I had heard more “painful” phrases and words like “boring” and “dumb” and “no purpose.” When he reached the fourth story, he threw the tablet at me. “I can’t continue.”
What! “Why not? They’re my stories. Don’t you want to read your wife’s stories?”
“But they’re painful to read. I don’t get them. They’re just a jumble of words,” he said.
“They’re quirky stories,” I said. “They’re odd and wacky and funny and sarcastic, and a little warped. I spent a lot of time writing them.” I truly believed Hubby didn’t know what he was talking about. “I know they’re not your type of stories, but just finish. There are some good ones coming up.”
He grudgingly accepted the tablet back, but I knew his heart wasn’t really in it.
“I don’t understand this one. Who’d do something like that?”
“It’s Krampus. He’s a real fictional character in Europe somewhere. He’s like Santa, but bad. He steals little kids at night and eats them, but I changed my guy’s name to Grampus,” I said. (Does Hubby get the gist—Grampus, Grampy?)
“Never heard of him. And what’s with these mice? I don’t get that one at all. None of them make sense.”
“Did you understand Winnie and the stuffing?” I asked.
He threw the tablet at me again before he got to the sixth story. “But you need to read the sprite story,” I said. “You must have heard about Elf on the Shelf?” (He hadn’t.) “It’s a kid’s book. My story was written from reviews I read about that book, but I called my little guy Sprite. Sprite of the Night.”
When it sunk in my thick skull that he truly hated them—each and every one of them—I was devastated. I had visions of this book becoming a best seller and bringing in a ton of money. Perhaps Hubby was more disappointed than I because I think he expected great things from me and wanted to shower the praise on me, but couldn’t. To appease myself, I sent off an email to Tom to give him an FYI that Hubby hated them, positive I’d receive immediate accolades in return.
Instead, when Tom’s email arrived, his first words loomed at me: “Cathy, Hubby is right.” He went on to say: “Creepy Crazy Christmas is not at all ready for prime time. In fact, the only story among the eight that feels complete is ‘Winnie’s Christmas Goodies.’ I’ve read all the stories and found seven out of eight half-baked. Not that I couldn’t see potential in what you, I think, are trying to do. Dicken’s Pickwick Papers comes to mind, but your Grimes family is batshit crazy compared to the simply eccentric Pickwicks. So, let me dare to point out the Grimes tales are salvageable, but only with patient design and outlining, not what appears to presently be a quick put-together simply for the author’s entertainment. Take six to seven months of the coming year to rework these Grimes family stories and add many more to build to a full book of their bizarre lives and adventures.”
I trusted Tom’s opinion, so I had to believe him, but the worst part was I had to tell Hubby he was right. You’d have to know my husband to understand how difficult this would be for me. He’s a guy who believes he’s right all the time, no matter if someone definitively proves him wrong, so this would just add more ego to his already swelled head. When I told him about the email, he laughed, of course, and when I began reading Tom’s email out loud to him, I started crying. And then my stomach hurt. Yes, I was laughing—at me, and the whole situation became one hilarious laughing fit. All evening long I had been saying, “I just don’t believe you didn’t like them,” or “This was my masterpiece,” and “It took me a whole week to write these.” And: “They’re so cute and perfect,” and “I just don’t understand why no one likes them.” (You get the drift.)
Later, I said to Hubby: “What about the part of Tom’s email where he suggests I spend six or seven more months on them?”
Hubby replied, “Trash them now. Don’t waste another second of your precious life on them.”
What?
I felt it necessary to write to Tom again: “I’m stunned at your email. Didn’t you get the little snide remarks to Jimmy from the parents, especially the mother? How cruel they were? But subtly? And how incidents from one story were brought into another? And the sarcasm, and how “Sprite of the Night” is a play on Elf on the Shelf. And Krampus IS a fictional character somewhere in Europe that kids think is real.”
Part of his reply: “Yep, I got all of those things, but wit and sarcasm, while entertaining, are not enough to buttress a story with. And writing fiction is no game won simply because the writer is impressed with his or her self-apparent brilliance. A week is rarely sufficient time to generate a ‘masterpiece’. You have shown you can write 5-star short stories. You have also shown you can write garbage but love it anyway simply because you wrote it…”
Oh jeepers! Now he thinks I’m tooting my own horn and thinks I’m a jerk because he thinks I think I’m perfect. Or, even worse, I’m as wacky as the Grimes family.
I read that email to Hubby, too, and we both had another great laugh. Then I left my warm bed to send the file to Sheila*, another writing friend. Surely she’d like it?
The next morning, I received Sheila’s reply, which was just as devastating. She couldn’t follow the first story unless the husband was in the dressing. (Yes, he was—maybe.) The second was too sad for her, and I had author intrusion in the third. The fourth would scare little kids to death, and she wanted to know if Jimmy would appear in other stories. (Yes, he would since there were four more after that one in which he was the star! And it’s not a kid’s book, so no worries there!) She wanted to know if the rats got Winnie. (No, they weren’t rats, they were mice!) She didn’t “get” the ending of Sprite’s story. She asked: “Where did his parents go? And why would they put pictures of a sprite on display?” At the end of her email, she stated: “This is one messed up family. They treat each other awful.” She ended with a “good luck.”
Okay, I can read between her lines; she’s just nicer than the two guys, that’s for sure.
In one of my Facebook writing groups, I’d been piling on the messages asking for suggestions and explaining my book so people would understand it better, and one guy suggested I was on a media blitz. “Is this some kind of marketing strategy?” he asked. “There’s so much buzz around these stories that I can’t wait to read them. Just tell me where to go so I can start reading.”
Yay! There’s one reader dying to read my work! But, is he being sarcastic?
I offered my book (free of charge) to other readers for comments and received several takers. (And I said to Hubby, “How am I going to make any money if I keep giving my book away for free?” Hubby laughed, again.)
If nothing else, this whole fiasco has been therapeutic since I haven’t laughed this much in years; however, I still love these stories and still want to publish them. Perhaps I’m as warped as the Grimes family!
But I think I’m over my slump and actually in the Christmas spirit. And that’s a good thing!
*Names changed to protect the guilty
Writing Wicket 