The Tale of Aberdnezer Scrooge

Once upon a time, an authorosaurus sat writing at his desk. It was cold, bleak, biting labor: withal a foggy brain: and he could not hear the dinosaurs outside go wheezing up and down because he was too preoccupied in his work.

The egg-shaped lights on his tree flickered, reminding him that it was past his normal past bedtime. Just one more sentence… he thought, but slowly his eyes began to close despite the blue light shining in his eyes from his laptop screen.

All of a sudden, he awoke with a start from the banging. “Robbers!” He assumed, thinking someone must be breaking in to steal one of his story ideas.

Grabbing his phone, he used the camera light to see down the hall and walk past all the creepy portraits of his fossilized relatives.

He gasped as a ghostly sight appeared (after, of course, taking a selfie with the ghost and posting it on FB because that’s the logical first reflex upon seeing a ghost).

Barley vanished in a cloud of ink and Aberdnezer stomped off to bed.

“Writing—bah humbook!” he huffed, not thinking any more about it (yes, for your information, I…I mean, Aberdnezer, sleeps with his glasses on).

An hour later, a spritely little raptor shook him awake. “Can’t a dinosaur get a good night’s sleep anymore?” Aberdnezer grumbled. “Of course not,” the spirit replied, “You’re a writer.”

The spirit whisked him off into the early years of his writing career, back when he was writing happily in ignorance, unimpeded by structure, character arcs, and rejection letters. “Aw, those were the days,” Aberdnezer sighed, “even though I had no idea what I was doing.”

The spirit took him back and Aberdnezer crawled into bed with a thought of inspiration.

The boisterous spirit of the present soon interrupted his thoughts, thus making him forget the brilliant idea before he wrote it down.

“I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself in such a rut.” Aberdnezer gasped, watching his present self claw at the laptop and stare at a blank screen.

The spirit returned a chattering Aberdnezer back to his bedside. The clock ticked. In a few moments, his writerly future would be known. Will my book be published? What if no one likes it? What if I’m a nameless nobody who won’t become famous until after I’m dead? What if I do get published and then I have to MARKET it?!

The clock struck midnight and Aberdnezer knew this was it because everything important happens at midnight.

He gulped.

He gulped again two seconds later. He gulped five minutes later. He gulped again ten minutes later. He kept gulping until he could gulp no longer.

“Why! Why isn’t he coming?” he pleaded, getting down on his knees as the sun was just starting to come up. A little dinosaur scurried by his window.

“Hey, what day is it?” Aberdnezer yelled, opening the window.

“Why, you don’t know? Why, it’s a writing day!” The dinosaur whistled, stomping off, so Aberdnezer sat down and wrote.

The End.

In case you’re unintelligent today, the moral of the story is: don’t let your fear of tomorrow’s failures keep you from today’s successes and don’t go to asleep while staring at a computer screen.

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