Back when I worked at a newspaper in Oregon, I used to joke with a newsroom colleague about sharing the muse as weekly deadlines loomed. “Aren’t you done yet?” I pleaded with the same urgency as someone hopping on one foot outside a locked bathroom door. “Hurry up. I really gotta go … finish my story.”

We didn’t need the divine intervention of a Greek goddess. That’s because there’s nothing so effective as a ticking clock to inspire reporters to file copy. The mere prospect of missing deadlines constitutes an anathema.

But now that I’m a recovering journalist — retired, that is — I no longer face drop-dead deadlines. I like to share pages with the eclectic and supportive writing group with which I meet on Monday evenings. Otherwise, there’s seldom a requirement to perform on demand. I’m blessed to enjoy a more leisurely and, presumably, thoughtful approach to writing fiction. And cursed with the realization I’m sometimes uninspired to do so. At this very moment I should be slogging through the middle third of my latest novel. Instead, I’m working on a blog about inspiration. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Writing can be a creative, engaging and glorious undertaking. There’s nothing more rewarding than crafting a well-written sentence that reveals human truth. Writing can also be an exasperating, debilitating and damned difficult enterprise.

My perspectives are hardly unique. Paul Gallico, another journalist who evolved into a novelist, described both the challenges of writing and desired result of the process. “It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader.” Problem is, I abhor bloodshed. Especially my own.

Eavesdrop on any conversation among writers or peruse their social media and prepare for a fusillade of laments. My favorite? The confessions writers would endure almost anything to avoid confronting a blank computer screen or empty sheet of paper. Reschedule my root canal for this afternoon? Sure. But why not right away? I can be there in 10 minutes. It’s not that daunting to clean the entire house from top to bottom. Not compared to starting a new work in progress.

Here’s the irony. I’ve discovered the hard way I can’t wait for inspiration to strike. If I do, it won’t. No lightbulbs switch on in my head. Trust me. I’ve seen it in there. It’s a dark, desert highway along which no novel thought grows.

It’s been my experience if inspiration ever does occur, it’s far more likely to drop by unannounced. To come like fog on little cat feet. Think “Back to the Future” and how Dr. Emmett Brown slipped while hanging a clock in his bathroom. He hit his head on the sink and came up with the idea for the flux capacitor, which makes time travel possible.

What’s a writer to do? Short of staging household accidents.

My brilliant and beautiful fiancée — who doubles as my brilliant and beautiful writing coach — offers this no-nonsense antidote: butts in seats. She leads presentations on the subject, in fact. Get your butt in a seat and get to work. Write something. Anything. Her point: get started, build on the momentum and relish the success that follows. The prolific inventor Thomas Edison similarly calculated the composition of genius at 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.

Here’s what’s equally important. Don’t succumb to the distraction your writing isn’t yet perfect. That the three words that best describe the effort are stink, stank, stunk. No less successful an author than Anne Lamont admitted in her book “Bird by Bird” the only way she ever accomplished anything was to write really, really shitty first drafts. Almost all good writing, she insisted, begins with terrible first efforts. But in starting somewhere, persistent writers invariably reach their desired destinations.

Who knows? Perhaps a muse will intervene after all. Although that was never my fortune working at the newspaper in Oregon or one single, solitary moment since. Maybe muses are fickle that way.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to plop back into my seat, grit my teeth and return to work on my novel. Sure, that work might reek of mediocrity. I hope nonetheless a word or two could merit salvage.

I’m thrilled my short story titled “Pizza Girl” will be published in the 2026 Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers anthology. It’s an honor to be included among such an excellent and admirable group of authors, and I can’t wait to read this remarkable collection. I remain so grateful for all RMFW does in nurturing the craft of writers along all the stages of their creative journeys. Thank you. Thank you very much.

I’ve longed admired the “The Gift of the Magi,” the short story written by O. Henry and published in 1905. The story tells how a young wife and husband deal with the challenge of buying secret Christmas gifts for each other with little money. The ironic twist at the end reinforces the moral: Sacrifice in the name of love is far more precious than watch chains and decorative combs.

To continue a tradition of writing short holiday stories based on the works of favorite authors, here’s my take on “The Gift of the Magi.” With posthumous apologies to O. Henry. I hope you enjoy it. I hope more you enjoy a merry Christmas and happy new year that brings you every good thing.

Something Worthy

Della stifled a sob as the tow truck yanked her car from a corner of the parking lot where it had been rooted for years. The car trailed the truck for a block west down the street in front of her shabby Denver apartment building and followed right at the stop sign. Tears blurred her last look, then the car was gone in the dwindling twilight of a frigid January evening. Gone forever.

The decrepit old car was more a dust-covered home to stray cats than a means of transportation. It refused to start, much less run, the balding tires nearly flat on the bottoms. Cherry red paint faded to Pepto-Bismol pink, the white vinyl upholstery cracked and ripped. Nonetheless, the car was the last tangible link to her dead father, at one time his pride and joy. Della felt the disconnection in the pit of her stomach.

The Polaroid photograph she held in her hand pictured her dad washing his 1964 Mustang convertible in the driveway in front of the suburban house in which she was raised two decades ago. Shirtless and tanned, her father’s brown hair hung nearly to his bare shoulders and glistened in the summer sun. A smile stretched wide beneath his thick mustache. That happy moment was captured a year before she was born and many years more before the bad times. The drinking. The divorce. The cancer that turned the man she was once certain was the strongest in the world into a shriveled caricature, then drained the last of his life from him.

Della always intended to restore her father’s beloved Mustang to its original glory, but could never afford the undertaking. She was grateful for steady work that enabled her and her husband Jim to pay for rent and groceries, but there was little left over. If they scrimped, maybe an Uber Eats delivery and a candlelight dinner served on their thrift store kitchen table. Their latest Christmas was no less meager for a young couple with more love than money.

Della wiped the tears off her cheek with the back of her hand, then smiled. She took solace in that love. More in the surprise she’d finally reveal when Jim came home after his shift tonight. Not another inexpensive token of her love, but the kind of amazing gift she’d yearned to give him since their wedding three years ago. Something worthy. She’d considered it for months, and everything fell perfectly into place over the past week. Like it was meant to be. She turned to look again at that last place she’d seen her father’s car. A garish sunset illuminated orange clouds in the blue sky. She interpreted the scene as a promising omen.

#

Jim alternately whistled and grunted as he completed his last task for the day: hauling boxes of televisions stored in the back of the Denver electronics store to a gigantic display at the front of the store. The boxes contained TVs almost as wide as movie theater screens. With the Super Bowl less than two weeks away, he expected most of the boxes would migrate into the homes of well-heeled customers with the means to watch the game in style. Demand for bigger and better TVs always surged this time of year. But even more so because the Denver Broncos would play for the championship.

Jim grinned as he pushed the last of the boxes into place. He understood exactly what Broncos fans anticipated because he counted himself among the faithful. Jubilant as a young boy when the Broncos won the Super Bowl in 2016, frustrated as a teen-ager when the team failed to make the playoffs for the next eight years, now exultant as a young man at their resurgence. He was too young to remember the halcyon days of John Elway and back-to-back Super Bowl titles, but recalled every moment of the magical September Sunday his father took him to a game. The green grass on the field and the orange that filled the stadium. The smell of popcorn and hamburgers. The thunderous roar of the crowd.

Peyton Manning threw seven touchdown passes that Sunday. Jim still had the Manning jersey his dad bought him to wear. Too big for a 12-year-old, but just right for a 24-year-old who pulled it out of his closet on game days to don as a fitting talisman.

Jim heaved a sigh. He wished he could afford a bigger TV to watch the Broncos. Better still, a trip to the Super Bowl and the opportunity to savor that magic again on an even bigger stage. The biggest stage. If he watched the Super Bowl at all this year, it would be on the TVs at the store. He talked the manager into allotting him extra shifts, but only if he agreed to work Super Bowl weekend, too. The manager had just walked by to remind him of the arrangement — and what would happen if Jim broke his promise.

Jim had worked all the shifts he could get over the past three years, although he resented every minute away from his bride. All that time would be worth it, though, when his plans for the money he’d earned were realized. Plans he’d finalized and would finally reveal to Della tonight. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on her beautiful face. At last he’d be able to give her the gift he’d wanted to give her since their wedding. Something worthy.

He glanced again at his tarnished gold pocket watch. It was absurd anachronism in an age of smartwatches, but it had belonged to his father and grandfather. Plus, it kept good time. Soon, he thought. Less than an hour now.

#

Della and Jim met the front door of their cramped apartment in their usual way, but with unusual enthusiasm. A passionate kiss followed by a heartfelt hug. The tighter she squeezed him, the tighter he squeezed her. Neither questioned the reason for the long embrace. They both believed they knew the answer.

Della finally let go and gazed at Jim. Her moist eyes sparkled in the dim light. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She pointed to a white envelope on the kitchen table with Jim’s name written on front in her flowing cursive handwriting. “Open it up.”

Jim’s eyebrows arched as his mouth dropped. “A surprise? That’s funny, cause I’ve got a surprise for you.” He pulled a white envelope from his jacket pocket with Della’s name printed on front in his messy scrawl. He handed her the envelope. “Open it up.”

“What should we do?” Della asked. “Open them together?”

Jim nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Della tore open the envelope and unfolded the papers inside. It was work order for the off-frame restoration of her father’s Mustang. A lengthy list detailed all the parts, materials and labor that would be required for the project.

She looked up at her husband and shook her head. “You can’t do this.”

Jim smiled. “Course I can. It’s all arranged. I’ve been making payments for years. Couple more weeks of extra shifts, and the balance will be paid off. Can’t wait for you to give me a ride after it’s all fixed up.”

Della shook her head again. “You don’t understand. I just sold Dad’s car to a collector I found on the internet. He had it towed away an hour ago.”

Jim jerked back. “Sold your dad’s car? Why would you sell your dad’s car?”

Della pointed to the envelope in her husband’s hand. He’d ripped the top open, but had yet to remove the contents. “Read.”

He did. The itineraries for airline flights between Denver and San Francisco. The reservation for a hotel in Santa Clara. And, finally, the confirmation of the purchase of one ticket to Super Bowl LX at Levi’s Stadium.

Jim gasped. “Oh my God. I don’t believe it. You did this for me?”

“Sorry I only had enough money for one ticket. But I want you to go and have the best time ever. Go and cheer for your Broncos.”

Jim slumped into one of the mismatched chairs that sat around the kitchen table. The pages fell from his hands to the floor. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can. It’s all arranged.”

“You don’t understand. I promised the manager I’d work that weekend. Part of a deal to get extra work to pay for the restoration. You know how he is. If I go back on my word, he’ll can me.”

Della sat cross-legged on the worn carpeting beside Jim’s chair. Her head rested on his lap while he stroked the long hair that fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters.

After a long while, she spoke. “I never told you how much I resented all the time you spend at the store. All the weekends. I was worried you’d rather be there at work than home with me. I had no idea what you were doing … . Thank you.”

Jim shook his head. “I know how much your dad’s car meant to you … . Thank you.”

Della sighed. “So what do we do know?”

“Any way you can get your car back?”

“Not now.”

“Get your money back from the airline and the hotel. Sell the ticket. I’ll get my money back from the repair shop.”

“Then what?” Della asked. “What about our gifts?”

Jim shrugged. “We don’t have to decide on anything right away. We’ll talk about it. We’ll talk so something like this never happens again.”

“Talk?” Della asked.

“Yeah. Talk. And listen. Like it means something. Cause it does.”

“So you’re saying we give each other the gift of talk?” Della asked.

Jim reached down and gently turned Della’s face to his. “The gift of understanding,” he answered. “Something worthy.”