Remember the Magic of Santa?

Kyle, Emma, and Jessica, smiling over a home made Christmas tree cake.  Photo taken by Elena Lewis.  I took a picture of a picture to add to this story.

I believed in Santa until I was 13.  Too long, I know.

So was I just a gullible kid?  Well yes, but it was more than naivety.  I kept believing in Santa because I liked how it felt to believe in him.  The child like wonder and sense of possibility made me feel special.

As a quiet, nervous child (and adult) I spend a lot of time trying not to be noticed.  Attention= …bad things.  But lack of attention has its own frustrations.  I spent a long time watching children get credit for deeds I did every day without a hint of recognition.  Other children and adults may never see me, but Santa did.  He is always watching, and I was on his good list, so someone somewhere knew about all my hard work and valued it.

And those bad kids that seemed to get away with every cruel thing.  You know the ones with ugly smiles, taunting words, and a thoughtless push.  Well, they’d get coal.  Something to say, “I know what you did and I know deep down, you aren’t good.”

As I aged, there were doubts, but I wanted Santa, so I created stories and games that helped preserve him for me and my siblings past the natural expiration date such belief holds.

We did normal things, like write letters to Santa or stay up late and try to catch him in the act.

One year we came home to plastic reindeer toys under our pillows and our parents said “It’s so late, Santa must have stopped by, realized you weren’t home, and left this to warn you you needed to be in bed by the time he stops by again if you want Christmas presents.”

I think my parents wanted us to go to sleep quick, but this visit had the opposite effect on me.  I was alive with possibility.  How does Santa map his trip?  Does he stop by the same time each year?  Why couldn’t he leave the toys for us if we were not home?  The stories!

That year I added to our childish Santa myth.  We stayed up late, but in our room with the lights off.  Each bump and shake of our old house was Santa and the reindeer on the roof.  Did he know we were home but not asleep yet?  Was he waiting for us to get in bed and close our eyes?

Next year I instigated the “Santa’s Helper” program.  All three of us became “elves in training” without own special sleigh bells.  The point of the program was to spread cheer and good will through selfless deeds like reaching out to charities, being considerate to each other, and looking for kids less fortunate to do something kind for them.  The secret part of the club involved a bunch of secret missions from Santa we had to fulfill, and different signs we were closer to our goal of “elf.”  I claimed a secret communication with Santa through “phone calls” and “notes.”

How did me faking a secret agent like program where Santa was the “Charlie” of our “Charlie’s Angels” like group keep my belief in Santa?  As the person who made it all up, I should know it’s fake right?  But that’s the beauty of a child’s brain.  I could be aware both that I was making it all up and also believe there is a Santa and I was doing his work.

My goal as an Urban Fantasy writer is to bring you back to that time when Santa could have been real.  An adult “Santa’s Helper” club.

How do I manage that?

In “Follow Me: Tattered Veils” ground the story with a strong sense of place.  You can visit all the locations mentioned in Huntsville, Alabama.  All lies need truth in them right?

But I’m dedicated to the experience.  I commit to a sense of seasonal time too.  “Follow Me: Tattered Veils” begins in January and ends on Halloween.  As seasons change and time passes, I reference temperature, weather, and even which flowers bloom. Where and when the characters remain constant so readers feel confident in their sense of place.

My characters are everyday humans filled with flaws Joe and Jane everyman has.  They struggle with money, job satisfaction, friendships, and addictions.  Not a major or minor character stands without a rounded soul, capable of being on Santa’s “naughty or nice list.”

I introduce more fantastic elements gradually.  It starts with religion, an element of magic many adults accept, but I build from there to less “real” experiences.

I hope by the end of the journey your sense of reality undergoes changes and you’re left wondering.  Is there more in this world than the mundane?  Could Santa or something like him be real and is he always lurking just beyond our perception?

Like this, there's a whole series!  Check out  Closet Monsters: Gone too Far?and Garden Gnomes and other Evils for more childhood stories. ^_^

Looking for more posts about the writing and publishing process?  Check out more posts on my novel publication process: Going Through Copy Edits, 1st Daft vs 2nd Draft, Goal Planning: Getting Through the First Draft, My Character Looks Nothing Like My MC, Cover Art: Turth in Advertising, and Post Book Launch: Reflections.  

Want to know more about my novel?   Check out my series where I find similarities between my novel and other popular media.  Hopefully it gives you a better idea whether there are elements in my book you may enjoy.  Lost Girl Comparison, American Gods Comparison, and The O.A. Comparison.

MY BOOK IS AVAILABLE AT AMAZON!!!  Please go look at "Follow Me: Tattered Veils" and see if it might be a story that interests you.

Want more information?  Check out my website jessicadonegan.com and subscribe for updates.

Artisans and Images that Just Aren't True

(from openclipart.org j4p4n's collection)

"I hate calling myself an artisan," the woman tells me.

I smile and nod because I think I understand.  Her ego is properly sized.  Calling oneself an artist of any kind seems pretentious to her.  It's an old story I'm ready to hear again even as I envy her the creative freedom, her ability to work from home, and the liberation from someone else's schedule set.

"I hardly call working on the same thing over and over again for 14 hours at a time an artisan thing," she continues.

My world halts.  The gears of the world pause for a moment as I consider her words.  It's never occurred to me that artisan could be the same as a small scale sweat shop.  I never considered that seamstresses or woodworkers even chose to make the same piece over and over again until it lost whatever little bit of soul it might have once had for the creator.

And I wonder is she as positively happy as I'd assumed anyone would be if they were "following their passion" or "had a skill that the market would support her to pursue".   As a thinker, a writer, and a researcher, I often envy others skills.  Even people just societally considered half a step above me like the artisan.   They after all, they can do what they love full time.  They must be deeply engrossed while I'm here behind the coffee bar handing off lattes and listening to small children tantrum while flustered mothers try to shop.

I'm so bored and quietly miserable--but here's the stay at home artisan in front of me and she's lonely and isolated.  Her hands hurt and her parents worry about her--just like mine.  She doesn't have time to explore interesting projects she'd like.  She just follows trends and has to keep making what is selling.  Yeah there are no screaming children and the rude people buying her stuff are in a store away from her--but she goes days without seeing another soul beyond her husband.  She's so busy at home that she can't cook a fresh meal.  Hot pockets are their go to lunch dinner and breakfast.

And I look at her--really look at her.  She's unkempt.  Her colored hair has about 5 inches of growth, it's falling down from it's low bun into a loose unruly mess.  Her black zip up sweat shirt is tattered, covered  in frayed edges, loose strings and random stains. There are bags under her clean make up free face.  Her build is sturdy but her husband stays close--is she about to fall over on her feet exhausted?

I see suddenly that we could be in the same place.  I write and I research for me and for art (which is so presumptuous to put down it makes me nervous to type) .  It's not my bread and butter.  How amazing would it be if one day  I wrote something took off and made money--but it's a distant dream.  I don't alter my writing to make it more marketable, not really.

Did she start the same way, making things because she loved it?  Did one or two things take off--forcing her to keep making more and more of the same thing over and over again because that's what people wanted?

This is how capitalism destroys us.  Here she is living what should be a dream, and other than scale, the work hours and some of the conditions are little better than sweat shops.  Does she work this hard to keep up with demand or because she needs to sell this much to keep herself a float?  Is this how she wants to live deep down and she's just hunting for some sympathy from me?

And here I am brewing her coffee and smiling all the while.  I'm only half listening to her, my mind is off in deep thoughts about what else I'll write for various blogs and whether or not my main character in my novel should show vulnerability and weakness.  I have her drawn up as an distrusting fight first kind of woman.  She's dragged along by her friends into a host of environments she finds distasteful--and I'm wondering if she needs to fall, even as she protests, to some of the dangers inherent in the scene.  Part of me doesn't want to open her up to the loss of control--as that's largely what I like about her--and part of me feels like it's so inevitable that people lose control in that the point of her succumbing would make that impact loudly and dramatically.

And how is me working on these elements in a book inherently less valuable than standing around in a coffee shop making small talk about the weather and other peoples' jobs?   Does everyone else in the system not feel as small and constricted as I do?

These are the questions we should be asking our culture and our society.  Are the things we value in line with what the culture demands for survival?  How do we define value or work?  What does it take to be more than a corporate cog--if one so desired--and is it feasible?