A big fat publishing contract:
For my family's sake, of course. Not at all for my personal satisfaction or ego aggrandizement.
Food delivery in my area
I live in the country, Santa. We do have one pizza delivery place-- but it's in a gas station. Gas station pizza does not feed brilliance. Thai delivery does.
A mute button for my children.
I love them. I really, truly do. And I work from home because I want to spend time with them. But could you use some of that North Pole magic to make their quiet time and my inspiration line up?
Mini-Edward, Jasper, etc.
Think of the epic blog posts I could write, Santa! EPIC!
(photo credit here)
Agh, not these guys!
Better. Because I don't have a muse! Other people's characters talk to them! They dream about them! Why doesn't this happen to me, Santa?!? Am I defective as a writer in some way?
Books! Lots of books!
But not a Kindle.* I don't know why, Santa. It just seems... wrong. It seems to be my last remaining Luddite holdout.
And... a photographic memory. To avoid those awkward "fumbling for my notebook in the middle of a conversation" or "scribbling on the shower wall with bath crayon" moments.
Thanks Santa. You're the best. I promise not to write you into any of my novels as the bad guy or give anyone questionable the name "Nick."
*I don't really have anything against the Kindle. I didn't want an iPod either, and now I love it. Don't sue me, Amazon.