by Michael Winship

This has been a difficult Christmas season. The ongoing Writers Guild strike meant moving a lot of the usual Yuletide ya-ya to the back burner. Parties and shopping yielded to picket lines, meetings and conference calls.

As I wrote in a letter to the members of the Writers Guild, East, “It’s tough as hell to be on strike during the holidays. Not only are we staging outdoor pickets and other events in the throes of winter’s cold, we’re without work and paychecks at a moment when gift giving and good times are very much on the minds of everyone around us, especially our friends and loved ones.”

But I hit the wall late Friday afternoon. I was lacking in anything much resembling Christmas spirit and felt in danger of having the holiday entirely pass me by. Two strike-related phone calls too many — one on the house phone, the other, simultaneously, on the cell — sent me over the edge.

And so, in the interest of mental health, all else was forsaken and, unilaterally and preemptively, Christmas was declared. In the last 72 hours before the day itself, I managed to jam buying, wrapping and mailing gifts; sending out cards; picking up a wreath; quaffing cider and eggnog; multiple playings of the “Christmas with the Rat Pack” CD; and screening “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “White Christmas” and “The Bishop’s Wife,” the latter twice.
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