Christmas-Writers block 2.0

Pt 1 https://stumblingfillies.blogspot.com/2022/12/alternate-christmas-writers-block.html

Part 2:

As the Australian summer heat clung to the air, the young writer—let’s call her Lila—lay sprawled across her bed, the crumpled letter to Santa still clutched in her hand. Her room was a haze of cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes, the typewriter sitting silent but triumphant on the desk. The letter, riddled with typos and raw honesty, was her first victory over the writer’s block that had plagued her since November. Though she was out cold, a faint smile curved her lips, as if her dreams were already weaving the naughty Christmas tale she’d begun.

---

It was Christmas Eve, and the night air was warm, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and distant barbecues. Lila’s small apartment was a mess of empty bottles, scattered papers, and half-burned weed cigarettes. She’d managed to drag herself out of bed earlier, still buzzing from the night before, and had mailed the letter to Santa in a fit of drunken resolve. “Why not?” she’d slurred to herself, giggling as she stuffed it into a red envelope and dropped it into the postbox down the street. Now, she was back at it—another bottle of Jack Daniels open, a fresh joint smoldering between her fingers. Her green lace bra was barely hanging on, one strap dangling off her shoulder, her red shorts riding low as she swayed to a slow, sultry tune playing from her phone.

Lila was determined to stay awake for Santa. She’d scrawled a new note, this one on a napkin, and left it on the kitchen counter next to a plate of slightly burnt cookies: *“Sanna, cum find me. Bring the good stuff. XOXO.”* She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected—maybe nothing, maybe just a laugh—but the fantasy of Santa showing up with a sack full of booze, weed, and story ideas had her buzzing with anticipation. She took another long drag, exhaling a cloud that curled in the moonlight streaming through her open window.

As midnight approached, the air grew strangely cooler, a faint jingle cutting through the hum of cicadas outside. Lila blinked, her vision blurry but alert enough to notice the shift. She sat up, nearly spilling her whiskey, and squinted at the window. The curtains fluttered, though there was no breeze. Her heart gave a little lurch—not fear, but something electric, like the spark before a story takes shape.

“Ho, ho, ho,” came a low, rumbling voice, not quite the jolly boom she’d imagined but rougher, with a hint of mischief. A figure stepped through the window—not climbing, not struggling, just *appearing*—as if the laws of physics had taken a holiday. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard that was more salt-and-pepper than snow-white. His red coat was unbuttoned, revealing a fitted black shirt underneath, and his boots left faint traces of frost on her hardwood floor despite the summer heat. In one hand, he held a sack; in the other, a bottle of something dark and potent-looking.

Lila’s jaw dropped, her joint nearly falling from her lips. “S-Santa?” she stammered, her voice a mix of disbelief and whiskey-soaked glee.

“Call me Nick,” he said, his eyes glinting with a knowing smirk. “Got your letter, Lila. Gotta say, it’s been a while since I’ve seen one so… *colorful*.” He set the sack down with a heavy thud, and she swore she heard the clink of glass bottles inside. “You’ve been naughty, but I’m not here to judge. Sounds like you need a muse more than a lump of coal.”

Lila giggled, swaying slightly as she stood, her bra strap slipping again. She didn’t bother fixing it this time. “You read my letter? The whole… drunk, high, typo mess?”

“Every word,” Nick said, stepping closer. He smelled like pine, whiskey, and something faintly smoky, like a bonfire on a winter night. “You’re a writer, Lila. A damn good one, from what I hear about those awards. But you’re stuck, aren’t you?”

She nodded, her cheeks flushing—not just from the booze. “Yeah. It’s like… the stories are there, but they’re locked up. I thought maybe you’d… I dunno, bring me a magic fix or something.”

Nick chuckled, a deep sound that sent a shiver through her. He reached into his sack and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, its edges worn but glowing faintly, as if kissed by starlight. “No magic fixes, kid. But this might help. It’s a storybook—*your* storybook. Write in it, and the ideas will flow.”

—--

In the morning, Lila stretched languidly on her bed, the Australian summer sun streaming through the curtains, painting her room in golden hues. Her head throbbed faintly from the whiskey, and the lingering scent of weed clung to her skin, but she felt alive—electric, even. The leather-bound notebook Nick had left her sat open on the desk, its pages filled with prose that burned with a raw, uninhibited energy she hadn’t tapped in months. She didn’t remember writing it, but the words were unmistakably hers, laced with a sensuality and boldness that made her cheeks flush as she read them. The bourbon bottle and wooden box of weed were still there, and she quickly poured herself a shot, a rather large one.

She swung her legs off the bed, her shorts still riding low, her bra straps tangled from last night’s escapades. The crumpled letter to Santa lay discarded on the floor, and she picked it up, smoothing it out with a grin. “Well, damn, Nick,” she muttered to herself, “you *did* deliver.” Her eyes flicked to the notebook again, and a spark of inspiration flared. Whatever had happened last night—whether Nick was real or a whiskey-fueled hallucination—had cracked open something inside her. The writer’s block was gone, and her fingers itched to keep going.

Lila lit a fresh joint, the smoke curling around her as she settled at the typewriter. The notebook’s words were a starting point, but she wanted to weave them into something bigger, something that captured the wild, surreal magic of last night. She took a sip from a glass of bourbon she’d poured absentmindedly, her bra strap slipping again as she leaned forward, and began to type.

The story poured out of her like a river breaking free from a dam. It was a tale of a writer—much like herself—lost in a haze of liquor and smoke, summoning a rogue Santa who was less jolly old saint and more devilish muse. In her story, this Santa, with his rugged charm and knowing smirk, didn’t just bring gifts; he brought *temptation*, offering her a deal: endless inspiration in exchange for a night of reckless abandon. The writer in her story, drunk on courage and desire, accepted, and the night became a blur of passion and prose, each fueling the other until the lines between reality and fiction dissolved.