Dear Santa From Edd

A letter to the big the guy from Edd.


Dear Santa,

Here we are again. At odds, at Christmas. Much like the years prior and the years to come. A lot has happened since my last letter of which I pretty much bitched you out for never getting me what I asked for. In the past year, I have had ups and downs. Made new friends and lost a few. I even released two anthologies in which I hope several thousand people go buy for the horror readers on their shopping lists. I have grown my company, I have grown my beard a few times and shaved it all off as well. I have even seen some old friends and hung out with them for far too little time. But why am I telling you all of this?

Well, because not one thing was a direct result of you being present. You see from the time I was small, I knew that if I wanted something, I needed to get my ass up and work for it. Year after year of believing in something, or in your case, someone… only to be let down again and again, will do that to a young man. And come to think of it, I am no longer a young man.

So, now what do I do with Christmas? I don’t wait. I just give a gift when the mood strikes. You see Santa, you have made Christmas all about how much money someone will spend in a few months and then later on credit card repayments via interest charges – to buy affection, admiration, or respect. I don’t roll that way. I could care less if someone gives a rat’s ass about anything I have or pay for from the hard-earned money we have.

Speaking of working, shouldn’t you be there with the little elves in your sweatshop? Oh, wait… I’m sorry… you call that a workshop, don’t you? I mean all year, the letters pour in, you read them and then dictate to them to make this or that toy. Do you ever make them yourself? Or are you just the jolly fat man who gets all the credit for making a delivery? UPS, FedEx, USPS, and others don’t get that recognition and they do it all day every day. So, what gives there? You may as well be Colonel Sanders, and no, not that creepy ass Reba McEntire version. (Shutters).

Realistically, I don’t want you gone. That would be unfair. I just wish that you would’ve kept all the letters I sent and actually got me one of the gifts “from Santa” that weren’t placed on my mom, nor my dad, or grandparents to purchase. I wish every kid out there that still believes gets that one gift and restores my faith in Christmas as it has been ruined by commercial bullcrap for well over three… almost four decades now.

I remember waking up Christmas morning and expecting to see one, just one, gift from you but since I was sneaky as hell, I always found the gifts hidden prior so I knew the things wrapped with your name attached were not actually from you. I suppose I grew up far too fast. And now, I am just a bitter over-the-hill man who does truly wish he had something to believe in.

So, with that being said here is what I want for Christmas Santa, if you are actually there and can find it in your heart to forgive an old man who has done nothing for you in the past few decades.

  1. I want to see all of our troops come home, preferably in one piece and safely.
  2. I want to see my nieces and nephews believe in you until their dying day due to a miracle on our street, not just 34th.
  3. I want my wife to be content with our lives.
  4. I want my dad to get healthier and be more like the virile man he once was.
  5. I want my mom to keep the newfound happiness in her life.
  6. I want my siblings to have a fruitful new year.
  7. I want my children, all of them – both biological and ones I claim – to know that I love them and I will do anything I can to help them in any way.
  8. I want all of my authors at BWP to sell well into the thousands.
  9. I want TBK and staff to be happy, joyous, and not too drunk at the Christmas parties they’ll attend.
  10. I want all of my extended family to have a prosperous new year.

If we can somehow do that in their lives, even some of it… I will let you off the hook and believe in you once again. Yeah, that is an ultimatum but I do not expect it all. Say ten percent. It’s up to you, big guy. Can you handle it? One miracle. Make someone else’s dreams come true. That is your business, right?

As for me, I actually don’t need anything. A few less pounds but look who I am talking to, right?

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year.

Edd Sowder

AKA Frank Cross, The Grinch, Eddeneezer Scrooge (long lost cousin of Ebenezer).


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Edd Sowder

Most people know Edd as the overactive and imaginative husband of novelist Kindra Sowder, or as the person the boss at TBK brings on the show that cusses a shit ton. He is a self-admitted asshole most of the time. Little is known of his writing prowess as he keeps it quietly to himself most of the time by helping other, far better authors with his editing skills on their novels… that being said, nothing read in the posts TBK allows him to have are edited professionally. Edd is not an idiot by any means but he has stayed in Holiday Inn Expresses at times. He prefers the country life and escapes to his family farm from time to time in Tennessee where he admits to having little to no cell phone coverage and loving it. He lives in South Carolina where he is chained to his desk most days and into the wee hours of the morning. Every now and again, he is able to fidget the lock enough to break loose and run amok amongst the common folk.
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