You know those festive year-in-review recaps that start “Dear Family and Friends”? The letters that land in snail-mail boxes accompanied by a nice photo of the senders in their pajamas in front of a perfectly lit tree or out in the freshly fallen (or Photoshopped) snow? You know the ones. The script goes on for pages of best-foot-forward, accomplish-y stuff.
This is not one of those letters.
Dear Readers,
We hope this letter finds you well, but it probably won’t.
You’re likely stressing out of your head because it’s December 23rd with five Gatherings to attend. Or you're on Gathering #3 and twitching like a titmouse before a tomcat.
Or you’ve landed on this page during post-Gathering decompression—and you’re still twitching like a titmouse despite it being the middle of January.
Here at the writing office of B. A. Paul, chaos and anarchy reigned in 2024. Sometime this spring, a black hole opened and sucked away our lofty production goals. The twitching and glitching have produced enough energy to light the runways at JFK International.
Come to think of it, that’s about when Zeppo went missing. All his interplanetary travel and UFO communication stuff (he’s trying to keep in touch with his grandmothers and their two pet unicorns). Zeppo ran off to Vegas and returned with a friend. Like, a girlfriend friend. A sweet little dove named Destiney. Zeppo! You wild cockatoo! That’s double the Biscoff and double the mashed potato offerings each week. The pair finds interesting things to snack on, though, and I appreciate their calm company.
This happy little feathery fiasco aside, things spiraled from there.
Yeah, we got a novel finished. It’ll be out in 2025. Yeah, we wrote some short stories; those, too, will see the light of day next year. Yeah, we kept the blog alive, despite multiple staff members requesting time off that project (including the Author).
Yeah, we did some cool writing trips and learned some stuff.
All of that’s well and good, but let’s face it. Who reads Christmas Letters for the good news? Well, some folks, maybe. Most folks read Christmas Letters to poke fun and get the gossip, right? To glimpse at the muddy days in between the milestones?
Well…
The worst of it started when I missed a staff meeting coordinated by the feline trio and found myself in hot water with the Unionized Feline Labor Association (who knew there was such a thing?). I had to tighten Tuna Feast in Gravy portions and times, reduce working hours to accommodate Naps #3 through 7, and promise to only glitch once—maybe twice—in a workweek.
This strained my sessions with Couch Lady because there’s only so much terrain we can cover in one chunk. What she can’t fix in sixty minutes falls to Malachi. And he can’t even with his duties when I glitch more than once—maybe twice—in a week with my partially functioning, one remaining brain cell.
When I glitch, the Jiggle Dragons sit on my desk, not jiggling, because no words can be found for them to dance to. They’re patient little fellas, though, and I appreciate how low-maintenance they are. And that they let me stretch, beat, and squish them when I’m working out micro-spasms of anxiety.
I’ve been in trouble with the Unionized Feline Labor folks since Spring. They’ve assigned me my very own case manager. Amara and Stella file forms in triplicate twice a week—with their razor toes fully extended, I might add. The ink doesn’t dry before the next threat of strike or sanctions comes through.
Trudi, Office Goose in charge of marketing, malfunctioned this summer and refused to wear anything but her bikini to work for months—months. I begged her to change into something different. Anything. She demanded the tailoring of an astronaut suit, stressing her personal seamstress all the way out.
Trudi spent weeks in the space suit, stressing Malachi because how can Trudi have an entire wardrobe and he’s not even allowed to lick any of the lightbulbs? Or have a pony? (Thank goodness Zeppo, Destiny, and the Jiggle Dragons do not request wardrobes. Or ponies.)
My concrete goose hasn’t done any promos—she claims she’s suffering from marketer’s block. Trudi declares her blocks are harder to break out of than any other being’s blocks, including mine. I told her she could wear whatever she wanted if she returned to work. She declared bikinis help with the blocks. And that she’ll never wear another Christmas cape. Ever.
So… there you have it. Trudi will forever choose her attire, and I might get a promo out of it come January.
Little Miss Muse abandoned me just last week to work for the Tooth Fairy’s European Division. I became despondent for days, overworking Malachi yet again (more sanctions). I believed 2024 would be my last year as an author.
However, I am tickled to announce that since Little Miss despises handling young human teeth, she has returned to the cornfields of Indiana to manage this human’s misfires and malfunctions at the keyboard. She’s signed a working contract for another year, so I’m covered through the end of 2025, so long as I keep her full likeness out of photos, especially now that she’s worked with the Tooth Fairy (I will, since I’m up to my eyeballs with all those Unionized Feline Labor issues—I don’t need the Muse Police on my case, too) and stop ignoring her fabulous ideas.
I agreed, but I added that she must refrain from stealing monkey statues from resorts because not all ideas are good ideas. And ease up on the grape bubble-gum popping when I’m trying to think. Negotiations are ongoing, and the particulars will be worked out in the next few weeks.
I now feel myself looking forward with cautious optimism to 2025. In this spirit, I gathered the staff and insisted they each offer our readers personal wishes for the season and the new year.
They grumped and grumbled, hissed and spit, but finally pulled their whiskers, tutus, feathers, and scales out of, well, you don’t want to know from where, and here’s what they came up with.
We’ll start with the purest of souls and go downhill from there:
The Jiggle Dragons: Stress Managers and Word Count Watchers: Larry, Curly, and Mo Words hope this letter finds you wiggling through your issues and jiggling with joy at your accomplishments. They also hope you find something to squeeze, beat, stretch, and pull on should your issues wiggle more than you can jiggle.
Zeppo and Destiny, Interplanetary Welcoming Committee and Breakroom Snack Procurement: The feathered lovebirds hope this letter finds you covered in Biscoff Butter and mashed potatoes. They also wish for you never to stop believing in UFOs, unicorns, and the unexplained. Or, at least make 2025 your year to open up your mind and take flight.
Trudi, Office Goose in Charge of Marketing and Fashion Fowel: Trudi hopes this letter finds you wearing what makes you feel fabulous and scooting into the New Year with rock-solid ambitions.
Malachi Maxwell, Head of Moral Support and Lightbulb Licker: Malachi hopes this letter finds you licking the brightest of the bulbs before someone comes along and tells you that you can’t. He also hopes when you morally support a glitcher that you don’t end up with the glitches yourself. Glitches by proxy are the worst.
Stella Marie, Guilt Trip Coordinator and Singer/Songwriter: Stella hopes this letter finds you belting your best hits, regardless of whether you can hit the notes. She also wishes you a hairball-free holiday. Hairballs are the worst.
Amara Mino, CEO and Tracker of Tuna Time: Amara hopes this letter finds you enjoying dollops of Tuna Feast in Gravy until you bloat like a chonk. She also wishes your pens don’t run dry as you file grievances and complaints in triplicate for 2025’s violations. Dry pens are the worst.
Little Miss Muse, Purple-Winged Goddess of Glitter and B. A. Paul’s Ever-Present, Always-Been Source of All Things Creative: Little Miss hopes this letter finds you treating your muses with respect, stealing all the resort monkeys you want to steal, and getting banned from establishments that don’t understand your brand of fun. She also wishes you pursue all your impish—(Beth redacted this bit. Little Miss hopes you have the most memorable year ever.)
Beth, B. A. Paul, Slinger of Words and Wrangler of Cats, Inanimate Office Staff, and a Purple-Winged Imp: Beth hopes this letter finds you breathing deeply, embracing glitches, and scheduling as many breaks and/or Couch Person sessions as needed with glorious abandon.
She hopes the New Year will find you reading whatever brings you escape.
And healing.
And joy.
Dear Readers, most of all, the staff at B. A. Paul hope this letter leaves you smiling…
