Control: A Very Control Christmas…

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I, Dalton Lewis, am at Christmas. Technically, it’s Christmas Eve. Everything is going great — right? Everything is perfect in existence. My nephew sits at the dinner table with me, my dad and mom, my sister, and her husband. My nephew is in high school. He likes — no, loves — baseball and has a girlfriend. He’s infinitely better at high school than I ever was. He’s kind and giving and helpful and shows up for family events and is kind to us.

My sister just turned fifty — and she brought a salad. She made a vinaigrette dressing with olive oil and vinegar and mustard and tossed it on the salad after getting here. She has been promoted at work and manages the assistants instead of just being an assistant. It was embarrassing for her to be an assistant when she was the smartest, most talented person that I knew. I hate life for not realizing that she should be running countries or saving cities with her mind. She does something now; I honestly don’t know what she does at work. The company sells medical products. I expected her to save galaxies someday when we were younger and didn’t realize that the real world would not allow for that — reality sucks sometimes.

We are eating Christmas Eve dinner. My mom has worked way, way too hard to make this happen. My mom’s flaw — she cares so much that it hurts her to feel that much. She worked like crazy on Christmas dinner, on the presentation afterwards, and on the dessert cookies. She made scalloped potatoes, turkey, ham, and gravy. I put the gravy on the turkey and the ham. The turkey had butter put on it — an entire stick of butter to make it taste delicious. Then afterwards we had two types of cookies — one with cinnamon and one chocolate cookies with chocolate chips in them. I ate one or two too many cookies — I am afraid to say. I will have to work out more in the next year.

After dinner she read to us a description of her diary of my sister’s wedding. She hadn’t talked about it much and wanted my nephew to hear about it and see some pictures of the ceremony. Then we played an old board game that we liked — although this board game didn’t have a board. It just had cards. My mom won the game — it was a game of intellect, and she used to be a librarian and was a smart person indeed.

As for me?

It’s a bit of a melancholy Christmas.

I’m very busy writing novels, fan fiction, and blog entries, and hating myself because the writing isn’t paying for my life. I sit around the table, thinking about how my life doesn’t have world-ending dramatic tension or life-altering love stories. I also realize that I don’t need that — not right now, anyway. I need to write and read and have friends and play strategy games and have a life. I’ll be honest — I want to write a classic. I want to write an unforgettable novel that everyone loves and raves about. That’s the goal.

My dad is at the table, too, and this might be his last Christmas.

My dad has never once, in the forty-six and nine-tenths years of my life, raised his voice at me. He has always been nice and giving and friendly and encouraging. We watch movies together. He is the cool dad. This is by design. He coached tennis for many years and tried to help his students to learn to believe in themselves. My wonderful dad is near the end of his life. He has Parkinson’s and cannot stand on his own any longer.

Later.

Everyone is in the other room. We are trading presents. I got a cast-iron skillet and a broiler. I can broil things and I can put stuff from a stovetop pot into the oven now. I didn’t know I needed those things but enjoy having them. My dad got a mug with my sister and her son pictured on it. My mom got cooking hardware. I got my nephew and my sister comic books to read — they might read them and they might not. I don’t know. I tried to give them something fun to read. I used to give people books to read, and no one read them. Now I give them graphic novels.

The next day.

Philip and I will go to see a scary movie tonight. It is Christmas. I will exchange gifts with my mom and dad today. I exchanged gifts with my sister and her husband and nephew yesterday. I play video games and look at my sales numbers for my novels.

Unacceptable.

I haven’t written good enough novels. I need to write a higher quality of book.

I look at the reviews for my latest book.

There aren’t many.

No one read it.

Ouch.

I need to do better.

I promise: in the next year, I will figure this out. I will do better.

I will write a classic soon.

Thanks, and take care, friends.