Christmas is my absolute favourite time of year. The best way I can describe my feelings about it is to mention the German Christmas market that comes to my town every year – dark nights lit with fairy lights, cold air and hot mulled wine and music and presents. As my day job has mandatory leave over the Christmas period, it also means I can wake up, see snow outside and know I don’t have to go out. It’s perfect.
So why, I wonder, have I never written a holiday story?
It’s not that there aren’t opportunities. Every year there are Christmas anthologies with varying slants. And it’s not as though there isn’t fodder for my imagination. I can think of dozens of Christmas-related sex scenes involving candy canes, tinsel or gifts under the tree. Heck, even Santa might like a quick one in between dropping off presents. It must be a long night for him.
I think it’s just that my brain is weird. All my ideas seem to come out of left field. My husband is used to bizarre queries about plot points, or being urgently told while I’m driving “I’ve had an idea! Text me the word ‘bullet’ so I don’t forget!” The shiny happy Christmas vision I hold somehow doesn’t translate into stories, which generally require conflict to have human interest.
So I’m not doing a Christmas story this year. But I’m working on three different projects right now, so the New Year should be a good one in literary terms.
Merry Christmas, and may you get all you want under the tree!
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