A Christmas Poem for the Cynical 'Twas the day before Christmas, when all through my house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; (because no one lives here but me) The stockings were hung on the shelves with great care, Making me grieve over the dogs that were no longer here; The Pekes had all peed and thrown up in their beds; While visions of chew hooves and liver danced in their heads; I, in my jeans and my sloppy sweatshirt too, Had just cleaned the floor when I stepped in dog poo, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Parted the curtains and threw up the sash. The clouds threw a shadow on the mud – yep, no snow, And made dark and gray all objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But thirty-two turkeys and an eight month-old can of root beer. A sad reminder of him whom I’d lost And the fact that we were, I suppose, star-crossed. The Turkeys fluttered and pecked at the can But then a car came and they all ran. The little old driver was so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. This was supposed to be paradise I told him twice, Where I could live out my life Knowing peace and not strife. But talking to turkeys gets old really quick So I hoped that he whom I'd lost would soon come back (that dick). He whistled and shouted and called me by name Then wagged his finger at me in great shame. “If you wish to have peace not unhappiness or strife You must live alone for the rest of your life. It only takes two people together in a room For there to be nothing but gloom and doom. Families sit at tables pretending to love But after food and some wine, they willing don a glove They bicker and they fight, Dredge up old grievances that smite Until everyone wonders why they chose to come And vow that next year they won’t be so dumb. So be happy alone, Don’t cry or moan Love your dogs and your words And those big gawky birds You don’t need family or friends or that prick You will be happy again in no time quick. I have to go now; this is my present to you I hope you now have a clue About lovers and family and friends That pretend That Christmas is nothing but peace and joy, Oh boy... And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, into the car he rose; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight-- "Christmas – Ugh, Bah Humbug to all!"

This is an interesting article about the type of relationship I describe in my novel, The Tale of Lucia Grandi, the Early Years. The author says discussing this type of relationship is still taboo and I think it perhaps is given that some of the reactions I got from readers of my novel surprised me. These same readers have no trouble reading novels about rapes and murders but at the same time they found my story about an unloving, cold and distant mother and its effects on her spirited daughter very disturbing. http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/tech-support/201304/daughters-unloving-mothers-7-common-wounds

All writers write with the intent of being read, especially by people who understand and like what they have written. However, most of us know that not every reader will like a particular work. The major part of an author's marketing is to find her audience, that is those readers who will want to read a book and who not only will understand what the author is trying to say, but will like it as well. But this doesn't always happen, even among readers who have been long time fans of a particular author. Is this then a failure on the part of the writer? Has she simply failed to do her job? Or has the reader not approached the work with an open mind and the necessary objectivity. Years ago, when Woody Allen released his film, "Interiors" many critics complained that it was "too serious", it lacked the usual Woody Allen humor and wry perspective that they had gotten used to in his films. Yet that is precisely what Mr. Allen intended - he wanted to explore deep and universal issues in the tradition of idol, Igmar Bergman, without using the self deprecating humor he had become known for. Not only did critics not understand this, but they chided him heavily for it. So it is with writers and readers (who often play the part of critic). Whenever I approach a book, I try to understand what the author's intent was and judge it accordingly. I may not like the book, even if the author fulfilled the intent perfectly, for "liking" something is so subjective. But I try not to read into it anything the author didn't intend.