The year was 1924. Santa Claus was still on his sleigh, delivering presents to good little girls and boys on Christmas Eve. But something was different about this year. This was the first time that Santa had ever been told that he needed to learn to write. His boss, Mr. Claus, a very stern man, sat down with him one snowy night and showed him a newspaper article about how to write effectively.
“See here,” said Mr. Claus. “You have to write very well for people to take you seriously as a writer. For example, this article says that you should use ‘thorough’ and ‘absolute’ and ‘entirely’ and ‘not a single’…”
Santa looked confused. “This is all very confusing,” he said. “What are these words that I am supposed to use? I never learned to write. Do you mean that I should learn to make my letters longer or something? Is ‘thorough’ a synonym for ‘long’ or for ‘detailed’ or for ‘complete’ or what?”
“No,” said Mr. Claus. “Thorough means ‘using all the proper utensils or tools required for a job’ – so you want to make sure that you use all the necessary tools to write the best story possible. Like the ‘quill’ described in this article, the slant-horned Scrivener penguin or the feathered friend, the typewriter.”
“But there must be some mistake,” said Santa. “I love writing stories. It’s my hobby. I would not want to spend all my time doing something else. Why do I have to make money? Can’t I just write and publish my stories?”
“No,” said Mr. Claus. “You see, it takes a lot of hard work to be a professional writer. You can’t just write what you want and call yourself a writer! You need to learn the ropes. This is your first step.”
“What are these other steps?” asked Santa, eagerly.
“The next step is to become a member of the American literature society,” said Mr. Claus. “Then, you should get a job at a newspaper – preferably a women’s club or a children’s magazine. But above all, you must learn to write editorials for the newspaper.”
“Why should I do all of this?” asked Santa. “What is the purpose of all this? What difference will it make?”
“To become a good professional writer,” said Mr. Claus. “To make a living. To be able to support yourself as you pursue your dream. These are the reasons that you must do this.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Santa. “You are just going to teach me how to write, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Claus, gently. “You see, Santa, in order to be a professional writer, you first need to be able to write well. This is something that you need to learn. Without it, you cannot become anything else.”
“What do you mean?” asked Santa.
“Well,” said Mr. Claus. “These are the basics of any profession. You can’t just walk in the door and automatically start pitching stories. You have to prove yourself first.”
“Prove myself?” asked Santa. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“By showing that you can write well,” said Mr. Claus. “You have to learn how to write well, how to use language carefully and effectively, and how to connect with readers. Only then can you start becoming a writer.”
“But, Mr. Claus,” said Santa. “I love to write. I think that my hobby is poetry. I have hundreds of poems that I have written over the years. I just love the sound of it – it flows so easily.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Claus. “But you cannot just write for the sake of it. You have to learn how to write best. Learn to connect with readers. Learn to write effectively. Then, you can start having fun. You can start making up stories. You can write whatever you want. Just don’t let anyone else edit it or proofread it. If you want to be a professional writer, you have to learn to be objective and critical. Learn to analyze stories. Learn to find the faults in other people’s work. Then, you can start fixing them. When you are done, you can show them what you have done and they will be very grateful. It’s a long and arduous road to becoming a professional writer, Santa. But now, you have the tools to start paving the way. Don’t give up!”
That night, Santa went home and got down his old worn-out quill. He sat down at the kitchen table, dipped it in ink, and started to write. By the time that he had finished, his hand was aching, and his stomach was rumbling. He got up and went to the pantry to get himself a glass of milk. As he was pouring the milk into his glass, he heard a soft knock at the door.
“Yes?” he said, as he pulled the milk carton out of the pantry.
A small voice said: “Merry Christmas.” At first, he thought that it was one of Mr. Claus’s toys, playing a trick. But then the voice spoke again. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” said Santa, as he stepped aside to make way for the small visitor. “What is it that you want?”
The little girl, whose name was Natasha, walked into the kitchen and looked at Santa with big, sparkling eyes, her cheeks rosy from the cold. She was very pretty, this little girl, with her mass of wavy hair and her rosy, pouty lips. She had a small, slender figure, with short legs and long arms. Natashka was not a typically Russian name; her parents were, in fact, Polish. But it was the traditional name for the daughter of a Russian peasant. Small and plump and with dimples, she was the picture of innocence and joy.
“What a pretty girl,” said Santa, as he reached for a strand of hair that had escaped from her upswept bun and brushed it against her cheek. “What is your name, little one?”
“Natasha,” she said, with a smile.
“No,” said Santa, giving her an encouraging pat on the head. “What is your name?”
“Natasha,” she repeated. “But my friends call me Tina.”
“Okay,” said Santa, feeling a bit miffed. “Tina it is. Well, what can I get you, Tina?”
“Well,” said Tina, looking at him with those big, beautiful eyes. “I was just wondering if…if you needed any help in any way, Santa.”
“Why would you want to help me?” asked Santa. He was a bit taken aback. He hadn’t expected to be asked this. He figured that, since he was Santa, she would just automatically know that he would be able to help her. But, no, apparently, not. Why would she want to help him? Or, perhaps, he thought, she wants to help all the Santas. There are always so many Santas around Christmastime. He could never keep track of all their names. Maybe, she wants to help him sort through his tremendous gift collection. He could see her, kneeling down with a pile of bags in front of him, struggling to keep track of all the gifts that Santa had for everyone on his list. He would have to get himself a gift list soon. He hadn’t gotten around to doing that yet. Too many presents to wrap. Too many children, and they all wanted different things.