Christmas Cookies and Holiday Joy (short story)

Sarah inhaled the fragrances of cinnamon and sugar and the chocolate chips melting into gooey deliciousness in the oven. Homey smells. Christmas smells.

She wanted to sit, relax, to inhale more than smells. She wanted the peace of the season to wash over her, still her racing mind and ease her fractured soul. But if she stopped moving, sorrow would overwhelm. She knew it. Had given in last Christmas. And again on his birthday. She’d been unable to resist the lure of peace on those two days.

But peace had eluded her. And instead grief had stolen into her home, into her mind and heart. And she’d cried out her anger and sorrow and loss, collapsing on her kitchen floor in a tangle of oven mitts and tears and memories. And standing again, facing life again, had been nearly impossible.

She reached for the oven door just before the timer buzzed, and pulled out the tray of perfect cookies. His favorite. She baked them every year. He couldn’t get enough. And she’d watch as he devoured one after another, following every third bite or so with a gulp of cold milk. And he’d grin, crumbs clinging to his lips, knowing she got a kick out of his passion for home-baked cookies made just for him.

She scoured the kitchen; focusing on making perfect and whole those things she had control over. And pushed far from her mind the events she couldn’t influence or change. But she left the cookies mounded on wax paper since Mac liked them that way. Liked reaching across the counter and plucking one or two or five whenever he wanted them.

The reflection from the tree beckoned her to the living room and the large glass windows that framed it. She’d stop for only a moment, her heart promised her head. Just a brief passage of time to watch the snowfall, to admire the twinkling lights as they pushed against the darkness both inside and out. Just a moment . . .

When the clocked chimed nine, Sarah jumped. Then smiled. Silly to feel guilty over losing herself in memories of her husband. She wouldn’t break down this Christmas. She’d learned that lesson. Plus, the news had been better this year. The better news being they’d actually heard news. The first reliable report since her captain had gone missing sixteen months earlier.

Chaplain Anderson had called in October. One of the Resolute Seven—prisoners held for over four months in a no-name cave in Afghanistan—had mentioned Mac—someone who sounded like Mac, please God—in his briefing. So this year she’d added hope to her arsenal of determination and faith and prayers. This year she wouldn’t give in to despair.

She pressed her fingers against the cold glass. Closed her eyes and lowered her head.

“Keep him warm tonight. Please. Hold him in Your arms since he doesn’t have mine. Fill his heart with Your love, with my devotion. And give him Your peace.”

Sarah leaned against her hand and stared into the night. So quiet. So pure.


So lonely.

“And please hold me. Because I’m afraid I can’t hold on any longer.”

She returned to the kitchen. In the near dark she pulled milk from the fridge and poured a tall glass. She piled cookies on a plate and arranged plate and milk on the reindeer placemat at the head of the table. She fussed with a linen napkin, flattening it again and again until she realized what she was doing and yanked her hands away. Enough of that. She still had presents to wrap, gifts for her brother’s family. She turned. And blinked.

The front door was opening, three men stepping through.

Chaplain Anderson, removing his hat. Colonel Ryan, Mac’s CO, holding the arm of another man. That other man dangling a key from his fingers.

The third man lifted his head at her gasp. Then grinned. And then he was rushing to her and squeezing her and kissing her face.

“Sarah. My God, Sarah.”

And then Sarah was on her knees, holding Mac, holding a dream, and kissing him back. Touching him everywhere. Crying and laughing and shaking so much she thought she’d finally snapped and lost her mind.

But when Mac pulled back and grasped her face between his hands, when she could see his eyes and into his soul, she knew he was not imagined but real and in their home.

In her arms.

She stared in wonder for a timeless instant, then sobs burst from her chest and she burrowed into Mac, clutching him, trying to breathe, trying to think. Trying not to feel because the emotions were stretching her beyond her limits and shattering her mind.

“I smell cookies.” That was the colonel.

Mac laughed. He laughed. Sarah gripped him even tighter.

“Sir, those are my cookies. All mine. I’ve been dreaming of them for days. And I’m sorry to say, you won’t get a single taste.”

Sarah wiped her face against Mac’s coat. Trust her man to get to the heart of any matter.

“Sarah? You ready to stand now? I wanna get this coat off and hold you properly.”

“Major, I believe this is where Chaplain Anderson and I bid you goodnight. And Merry Christmas.”

Sarah scrambled to her feet, pulling at Mac, searching his face. Thin. Lined. Hers. “How? When?” She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in an uneven breath. He was still there when she opened her eyes. “Major?” She twisted to look at Colonel Ryan, but turned immediately back to Mac. “I was just asking God to hold you, since I couldn’t. And now you’re here. You’re here.”

Mac saluted the other men as they eased out the door, but didn’t turn from Sarah. “He held me, baby. Every day I felt His protection and your love entwined, binding me in strength and hope.” He stepped close to her and again wrapped her face in his palms. His hands were shaking. “Tonight we hold each other.”

She lifted her hands to his where they framed her cheeks. His gaze was locked on her face. “Why didn’t you call? Have you seen a doctor? What happened? Mac . . . What happened?”

He leaned his forehead against hers, still unwilling to relax his hold. “I needed to be with you before the news broke, baby. I need you at my side to get through the rest of this. To he—” His voice broke and he hauled her against his chest.

“I’m here always. Forever.”

“I know,” he whispered against her neck. “And that’s what saw me through.” His entire body shook, vibrating against hers. “I didn’t break, Sarah. Not once. Not until a couple of Special Forces guys hauled me out. And then I cried like a baby.”

“Mac . . . ”

“My Sarah.” His lips feathered over hers. “Merry Christmas, wife.”

She slid her arms inside his coat and dug her fingers into his back. “Merry Christmas, major. I love you.” She closed her eyes. Thank You. For holding him. For bringing him home. For returning my heart.


My pleasure, Sarah. My very great pleasure. Merry Christmas to you and peace to this home.

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Beth Hill writes fiction and loves words. She thinks that being a writer is the most satisfying and best job, hobby, career, and/or addiction one can pursue.

Beth loves the joys of Christmas.

You can reach Beth at her website, Read Write and Edit

Lakeshore Christmas And Cookies

My guest today, is Romance Author, Susan Wiggs. I've been reading Susan's books since 1990. Susan has written such a variety of books over her long career, historicals, women's fiction, and contemporary romance. Susan makes no bones about the fact she is a militant romance writer and I have to say, I'm glad of that. :-)

Susan's topic today is Christmas and a subject dear to my heart, cookies. I love collecting cookie recipes and experimenting with different ones. Of course, it must be done with appropriate music...

I made a lot of key discoveries while writing Lakeshore Christmas. One is that everybody–and I mean everybody–associates the holidays with a particular flavor, be it cinnamon, anise seed, ginger, chocolate, marzipan...you name it. The flavors of the season reach back deep into our roots, triggering sentiments and emotions we like to savor like a rich butter cookie with a cup of tea.

This caused a bit of a dilemma when it came to creating the very special holiday cookie recipes that appear in Lakeshore Christmas. I ended up testing dozens of options, offered to me by friends, family, librarians and booksellers–and sometimes the choices were as excruciating as my resistance to sweets. How can the Silver Palate cookies edge out Aunt Martha’s Molasses Stars?

This led to another little epiphany about the holidays. I finally figured out exactly why the Cookie Exchange came into being. It’s a way of sharing your special flavors with friends. My way of sharing is through my books, and for this novel in particular, I had an embarrassment of riches. Tons of glorious recipes, dripping with butter and sprinkled with sugar. So many that I couldn’t include them all–which is why I’m glad for this opportunity to share a few more. Here are some wonderful, amazing cookie recipes that didn’t quite make the cut, but they’re still worth baking up a batch.

I’m also eager to share something else with you. From my own childhood come rich memories of baking with my family in very specific ways. We had to use the wavy-tree cookie cutter, and the rainbow-colored nonpareils...and we absolutely, positively had to have music playing in the background. We played records on my parents’ totally mod stereo, everything from the Nutcracker Suite and Handel’s Messiah to Brown Sugar by the Rolling Stones and Peaches en Regalia by the Mothers of Invention. So in addition to providing you with cookie recipes, I’ve included song suggestions for your listening pleasure while you bake.

Of course, since this is a Susan Wiggs book, there’s a world of difference between the main characters, so I had to create two different playlists. Maureen is the town librarian and a complete traditionalist when it comes to Christmas. Her nemesis–and the one man she can’t resist–is Eddie Haven, who lives up to his bad-boy reputation right down to the music he chooses.

• In honor of Maureen, I’ve put together this iMix: http://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewIMix?id=325424201
  
• and this one for Eddie. http://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewIMix?id=325424108

Yet this novel is more than a love story featuring food, friends and family. Lakeshore Christmas is also a passionate drama involving something near and dear to my heart–the public library. I don’t have to tell you that this most precious of institutions is facing serious economic troubles. In the novel, the cookie exchange is held to benefit Avalon’s own public library, keeping it open for generations to come.

So I’ll end with a big idea: Bake some cookies. Save a library. Save the world.

• What flavors and scents do you associate with the holidays?

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Classic Christmas Cookies

"If there is no joyous way to give a festive gift, give cookies." –Maureen Davenport, in Lakeshore Christmas

3 cups flour
3 t baking powder
1/2 t salt
1 cup sugar
6 T butter, softened
6 T shortening
3 eggs separated
1 1/2 t. almond extract
1/4 c orange juice

• Preheat oven to 350° F. Combine flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in butter and shortening until dough resembles coarse meal. Mix in egg yolks.
  
  
• In a clean bowl, beat egg whites and almond extract with mixer until soft peaks form. Fold whites into dough. Mix in orange juice.
  
  
• Turn out dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead briefly. Roll out dough to about 1/2 inch thick. Cut into shapes.
  
  
• Create "cookie paint" with egg yolks mixed with food coloring, and paint to decorate. Sprinkle with sugar and nonpareils.
  
  
• Bake until edges are lightly browned–7 to 10 minutes. Store in an airtight container.

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Susan Wiggs's life is all about family, friends...and fiction. She lives at the water's edge on an island in Puget Sound, and she commutes to her writers' group in a 17-foot motorboat. She serves as author liaison for Field's End, a literary community on Bainbridge Island, Washington, bringing inspiration and instruction from the world's top authors to her seaside community. (See http://www.fieldsend.org/) She's been featured in the national media, including NPR's "Talk of the Nation," and is a popular speaker locally and nationally.

According to Publishers Weekly, Wiggs writes with "refreshingly honest emotion," and the Salem Statesman Journal adds that she is "one of our best observers of stories of the heart [who] knows how to capture emotion on virtually every page of every book." Booklist characterizes her books as "real and true and unforgettable." She is the recipient of three RITA (sm) awards and four starred reviews from Publishers Weekly for her books. The Winter Lodge and Passing Through Paradise have appeared on PW’s annual "Best Of" lists. Several of her books have been listed as top Booksense picks and optioned as feature films. Her novels have been translated into more than two dozen languages and have made national bestseller lists, including the USA Today, Washington Post and New York Times lists.

The author is a former teacher, a Harvard graduate, an avid hiker, an amateur photographer, a good skier and terrible golfer, yet her favorite form of exercise is curling up with a good book. Readers can learn more on the web at www.susanwiggs.com and on her lively blog at www.susanwiggs.wordpress.com.

The Gift

In keeping with the spirit of the season, I've collected some short stories from several writing friends. I will be posting them through out the next two weeks. They range from funny to touching. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have.

My guest today is Rand Phares. I've read many of his stories and love them. I want to share one he wrote last year entitled:

The Gift.

Abbot Timothy and Brother Samuel stood just inside the main doors of the monastery, swirling snow filling the dark night around them.

Samuel adjusted his hood and leaned closer to the abbot. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?"

The abbot shook his head. "No, Samuel. I have one last chore before I can leave. I'll be along shortly, before the town road becomes impassable. You go on ahead before they've run out of room at the inn."

Samuel frowned and peered across the courtyard at the monastery's church, its windows lit with a wavering glow. "A pity it's come to this, after all our years of service."

The abbot laid a hand on Samuel's chest. "Though the abbeys are being dissolved and we're being evicted, you can always hold to your faith and continue that service here, in your heart." He turned to the doors, slid aside a wooden bar, and—with Samuel's help—tugged the doors open.

Samuel adjusted his robe. "You're sure you won't come with me?”

The abbot nodded. "Go."

Samuel went through the doorway, hesitated for a moment, then continued on, his dark form melting into the storm. A moment later, drifting snow covered his footprints and it was as if he'd never been there.

The abbot shook his head. The king's decree had arrived a week ago: The Order was dissolved, its members to renounce their ways and leave the monastery no later than Christmas Eve. Tonight. The monastery, its grounds, and its treasures would revert to the people. Even now, two of the king's men were in the counting room, reviewing the monastery's records.

One by one, the monasteries of the land were being dissolved, taken over by local governments, monies and lands distributed to those in power. Monks had been expelled, left to fend for themselves, which meant hardship and death more often than not. Friendship toward fellow man seemed to have dissolved in the face of hard times and the king's decree.

As abbot, he would be the last to leave. How had the others fared? Emanuel, the infirmarian? Ethan, the sacrist? What of the troubled brothers, especially James, gifted with a lyre, but unable to form a single sentence?

Where would he himself go? He had no family, no friends outside the monastery. Would he simply starve, sharing the same fate as the others? After all this time surrounded by these walls, he did not look forward to leaving. The king's decree guaranteed a lonely, destitute, and painful end beyond the monastery.

He shut and barred the doors, then turned and looked at the church, at the rise of its steeple. Was its symbolic gesture toward heaven still meaningful in these times? Across the length of the roof sat the silent bell tower, oddly enough even taller than the steeple. He knew it spoke of a long-ago time when the monastery—sitting atop a two-hundred foot cliff overlooking a great road—had served as a lookout against enemy hordes sweeping in from the north.

He stared at the bell tower until his eyes stung.

So lonely . . .

So high . . .

So . . .

Painful? Perhaps not.

The tower stared down at him.

Will you follow the path the king has set down for you? Or is there another?

He blinked, rubbed his eyes with icy fingers, and looked back at the barred doors.

The king's path lay beyond.

He stared at the doors for a long moment. Then, his mind made up, he crossed himself, turned away, and trudged off through the snow toward the church.

Snow had piled against the great door leading into the church, and the door complained as the abbot struggled to open it. He stepped into the front nave, escaping the storm, but not the bone-wearying cold.

With the door shut behind him, he made his way toward the choir at the back of the church, eyes adjusting to the thin light of candles burning in side chapels. A statue of the Saviour seemed to shift slightly in the flickering light as he neared. He crossed himself and started off toward the dark door near the east transept; the door that led to the bell tower.

He reached for the door's latch, but a coughing sound stopped him. He turned and found a robed figure sitting in the choir pews. Why had he not noticed? Wasn't everyone supposed to be gone by now? This was certainly not one of the king's tallymen, with their fine purple tunics.

"Can I help you?" the abbot asked.

The figure stood and tossed back his hood. A thin young man, dark hair, bearded, but not someone the abbot recognized.

"Are you Abbot Timothy?" the man asked.

"Yes. And you are . . . ?"

"Forgive me, abbot. I'm Sebastian. Innkeeper Thomas sent me with a sack of food for your journey." He held up a dark bag. "Some mutton, cheese, a small flask of wine."

The abbot looked at the bag. "That's quite kind of Thomas. And kind of you, of course, for bringing it here in this storm. Tell me, how did you get in? We keep the main gate locked."

"I slipped in when one of the brothers was leaving."

"I see." The abbot gestured toward the bag. "Well, thank Thomas for me."

He put a hand on the latch beside him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to extinguish the chapel candles before I leave. You'd better let yourself out and return to the inn before you become stranded."

"The snow is blowing very hard. You've no fear of being stranded yourself?"

The abbot glanced at the latch in his hand, then back at Sebastion. "I won't be long. You'd best not wait."

"That door leads to the bell tower?"

"Yes.”

"Are there many candles in the tower?"

The abbot frowned. He opened his mouth to reply, but Sebastian waved a hand. "Forgive my impertinence, abbot."

He looked around at the statuary and tapestries. "It's a pity the church is being stripped of its treasures. But isn't it a greater travesty that the countryside is being stripped of its faith?"

The abbot sighed. Would this young man not leave? "Yes, it's true, what you say about the country. But when I step outside these walls, the king says I'm no longer a man of God. So my days of worrying about the country's faith are over."

"That may be, but what about your vow of service to Our Lord? True faith is difficult to drive from a man's heart, even in the face of kingly decrees."

Sebastian nodded at the tower door. "Are you like the countryside, abbot? Have you been stripped of your faith?"

• The abbot blinked. Had he?

Sebastian laid a hand above his heart. "In spite of what the king says, you can always hold to your faith and continue that service in your heart."

The abbot stared at Sebastian. How did he . . . ?

Sebastian set the bag on a pew and looked up at the window. "It seems the snow has finally stopped. That should make your journey easier."

He looked back at the abbot. "One last word of advice, though." He smiled and nodded at the tower door. "Be careful putting the candles out up in the belfry. It's sure to be slippery up there, and I hear it's a long drop to the road below."

With that, Sebastian turned and walked up the nave, pausing only to cross himself at the statue of the Saviour. A moment later the shadows of the front nave swallowed him. In the snow-encased quiet of the church, the great door was particularly loud when it closed.

The abbot's gaze returned to the statue.

A thin bearded face, arms outstretched, a crown of thorns. From this angle, the candlelight made it look as if the statue stared back at him.

###

Abbot Timothy pushed open the great church door and took in the courtyard and the far shadow of the main gate. The young man had left the church after the storm died, but a silent mantle of white lay unbroken in all directions. And the air was still, wind no longer blowing snow across any newly laid footprints.

What was the hour? Was it Christmas yet?

He lifted the bag. Mutton, cheese, wine. A Christmas gift, perhaps?

He stared out at the night, and thought of the young man's words.

All of them.

And decided those had been the real gift this night.

Then, with a last glance back across the nave at the distant bell tower door, he shouldered the bag and walked out of the church. Heading toward the gate, the abbot was secure in the feeling that wherever the young man had gone, he was following.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHRISTMAS SHORT STORIES, YOU LIKE?

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Rand Phares's first foray into writing was at an early age, on a neighborhood "newspaper" he published with his brother. After a successful career in software engineering, he now focuses on psychological thrillers, and is within nanoseconds of completing his first novel, The Feast. Rand lives in NC with his family.

Kathryne Kennedy Interview

I had the opportunity to chat a bit with Kathryne Kennedy, author of Relics of Merlin, My Unfair Lady, which I reviewed recently and loved, and a new series I’m looking forward to reading, The Elven Lords.

I like books that linger in my mind long after I finish them. Stories that I can periodically pull out and again *visit* the world and characters. If I can recall the plot and characters and their names two weeks, two months later, then the author has truly written a good book. There are a few authors that do that for me and Kathryne is one of them. These are the books that go on my keeper shelf, much to my husband’s dismay, since we’ve been hauling my *keeper shelves* around all our married life. :-)


Kathryne, I’m so glad you could visit with us a bit today. At the risk of sounding all fan girlish, I have to tell you, I love your books. Your characters and world are so well crafted I feel if I could just find the door to the past, I’d be able to go and visit.

You’ve published, what a dozen books, now? Do you have a favorite?

• Err, no. I’m not that prolific. :} I’m happy to write a book a year…although I’m going for two, right now. My favorite book is always the one I’ve just finished writing, which just recently is The Fire Lord’s Lover. I’m still wrapped up with the characters and their story and it’s always sad to leave them behind. Until I start my next book. Then that one will be my favorite.

In My Unfair Lady, there aren’t any of the “magical” elements that marked many of your other historicals. What made you decided to “play it straight”, so to speak?

• I wrote My Unfair Lady prior to the Relics of Merlin (Enchanting the Lady, Double Enchantment, Enchanting the Beast) series. I have always loved historicals, and wanted to try my hand at writing one. Yet, the whole time I was writing it, I kept thinking…what if? It didn’t seem fair that only the males inherited the titles, yet, titles were originally gained by right-of-arms. So what if I could even the odds up a bit? What if there was another power besides the sword, that of magic, which a woman could wield as easily as a man. And if there was magic, how did it get there? And wouldn’t titles be based on how much magical power one wielded? And so when I finished My Unfair Lady, I had the basis for an entirely new magical world.

What was the most fun about writing this story?

• Oh, gosh, I had so much fun writing My Unfair Lady that it’s hard to find what was the most fun! Maybe Summer’s best friend Maria, teaching the monkey how to ‘eavesdrop’ properly. Or Summer’s little Chihuahua hiding under skirts and chewing the Duke’s shoes. Or Summer herself, with her outrageous honesty and unfailing courage. Or when the monkey jumped in the freezing pond and the look he gave Summer? Or the Duke and his shocked expressions…and his thing with boots?

What's special about your hero? What makes him different?

• Byron, the Duke of Monchester, is just so very guarded that he’s difficult to get to know. He is too sensitive, and because of this, he’s built up solid walls. Only someone like Summer, who is so compassionate and honest, could chip away those defenses to reveal the true man beneath that suave arrogance and sophistication. I think that I honestly grew to know Byron through Summer, and I’m sort of unsure if I would have done so without her.

Which scene in My Unfair Lady did you love writing and why?

• It actually teared me up a bit, but the one in which the little fox she rescued doesn’t survive, and the Duke helps her bury it, and despite his protestations to firmly deny it if Summer ever tells anyone of it, says a prayer over the little grave. Despite Byron’s demeanor, that one scene defined him as a man, and revealed Summer’s reliance on his love…whether she realized it at the time or not.


• And then--okay, sorry, there’s two--the scene at the end of the book where they are each trying to seduce the other without knowing it. Now, that was such a joy to write!

Like many of us, you’ve had a rough year. How are you able to continue writing when under stress? What does your writing bring to your life?

• I don’t know what happened this year. It was just one horrible thing after another. It was almost as if God said, “Let’s see how much she can take before she cracks.” The major reason I made it through the year was having my writing to focus on. There were times when it was difficult to write, of course. But most of the time, I could bury myself in my magical world and leave all the trauma of my real life behind me. My writing brings me such joy, along with all the readers who are kind enough to share it with me, that I don’t know how I could manage to continue without it.

I can relate that whole one thing after another...

What can we expect from you next? Can you discuss your new series at all?

• Absolutely! I am so very excited about The Elven Lords…and very much infatuated with the heroes these wicked elven have created in this new world.

BOOK ONE: THE FIRE LORD’S LOVER
Fighting for control of a Georgian England that is split into seven domains, elven warlords use their human slaves to breed an endless supply of soldiers for their armies.

Dominic Raikes, the half-blood son of the Elven Lord himself, is one such warrior. Betrothed to Lady Cassandra, who has been raised in a convent to keep her pure, he little suspects that she’s been secretly trained as an assassin to murder his father.

Dominic and Cassandra soon discover that each one is not what they seem, but the price of trust may be their very lives, and the destruction of the magical realm each is desperately trying to save…

This sounds like a fabulous story. I can’t wait to read it. I’ve noticed your paranormals are mainly “magical” in content and set in the past. What draws you to writing your magical stories set in Georgian, Regency, and Victorian periods?

• I love all of those eras, of course. :} I love tweaking history and imagining a different world changed by magic. I can experience all of the pageantry, drama, and glorious richness of the past and take it even one step further with magic.

This Series will be released when?

• Book one, The Fire Lord’s Lover, is scheduled for release July 2010. And although they don’t have the cover up yet (you’re previewing it here), it’s already available for pre-order on Amazon. Very cool. :}

Wow, pre-order already? Very cool, indeed.

Finally, anything special you’re doing for the holidays? Do you guys have any special traditions?

• We do…we did…but I’m not sure how things will be this year. I can tell you that I have personally resolved to cherish every person in my family from this point onward. And all of my friends. Because life is ever changing and these times may not come again.

Kathryne, thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to be here and answer my questions.

• My absolute pleasure, Sia. You are one of those persons I cherish. :}

Thank you, Kathryne, what a lovely thing to hear. Here's to 2010. May it be a great year for us both! :-)

• Question: What makes a book magical enough for you so you put it on your *keeper shelf*?

Kathryne will be giving away a copy of her book to a commenter today.

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Kathryne Kennedy is a college graduate and business owner, and is a multipublished, award-winning author of magical romances. She’s lived in Guam, Okinawa, and several states in the U.S., and currently lives in Arizona with her wonderful family—which includes two very tiny Chihuahuas.

She welcomes readers to visit her website where she has ongoing contests at: http://www.kathrynekennedy.com/

Holiday Stress and the Writer

My guest today, is Romantic Suspense Author, Gina Robinson. Her books are engaging, dialog and characters usually make me laugh. She also builds good suspense. Gina's books are always a fun read.

I like Gina's topic today. Life brings us much stress to begin with, doesn't it? We all need time to de-stress and catch our balance again. If you're a writer, stress can even be harder to deal with, especially as you are now writing to deadlines. I like Gina's take on December and de-stressing. I think I'm going to borrow it. :-)


Just nine more days until Christmas! Has the holiday stress hit you yet? Have you finished your shopping? Done your baking? Mailed your Christmas cards? Put up the tree and the outdoor lights? And, oh, yeah, have you written anything lately?

Whoa! You can stress yourself silly worrying about balancing life, the holidays, and your writing. Here’s how I deal with the added holiday pressure:

First, I’ve accepted that December simply isn’t as productive a month for me as the other eleven, page count-wise, at least. I no longer beat myself up over it. Instead, I embrace it. Knowing I’ll struggle to make my normal daily outputs, I lower my December page count goals and figure them into my yearly writing plan. Be realistic and set reasonable December goals. If you don’t, the guilt will creep back in. And who needs that?

Second, I realize writing can be done anywhere, including in my head. So while I’m not at my computer as much as usual, I’m thinking, plotting, and daydreaming as my mom calls it. From time to time I’ll jot down an idea I don’t want to forget. When January rolls around and I hit the writing full force again, the story should flow right out of my head through my fingers and onto the page. That’s the plan, anyway.

Third, I use holiday activities to hone my skills and recharge. I love the Christmas season. To me, it has a special magic and meaning. The short hours of daylight where I live, the pleasant slant of the low set sun when it shines, and the joy of the season fill me again with childlike hope and wonder. I try to forget reality and let myself dream, really dream big about all the things I’d like to happen with my writing and my life. Just like I used to when I was a kid dreaming about what Santa would bring. This dreaming nourishes my positivity and can-do spirit, which will be so necessary as the new year and reality sets in. So use the magic of the season to recharge yourself, which will help your artistic self thrive.

I love attending holiday parties and gatherings where I connect with family, friends, colleagues—many of whom I don’t see on a regular basis or as often as I’d like. I meet interesting new people I wouldn’t get to know under ordinary circumstances. Hearing about others’ experiences, listening to the way they speak, and observing their mannerisms sharpens my characterization skills. What is it that makes this person so likeable? How has this person managed to survive all that life’s thrown at them this past year? What is it about the way this guy tells a story that makes him the life of the party? So you see, attending parties and social events is writing, too, in a December way.

Fourth, I express my artistic nature in other ways. I love to bake, but most of the year I’m pressed for time. Plus I have a sweet tooth and can’t afford to eat the fruit of my labors like I used to. But this time of year, I indulge in my love of baking. Working in a different medium feeds all parts of the creative spirit.

Finally, I watch all my favorite Christmas movies and there are a ton of them. Every year I think about what makes these stories classics, at least for me. How did the authors of these stories move me? What about these stories makes me want to watch them year after year? Again, I’m honing my craft while enjoying myself.

This season, enjoy yourself rather than beat yourself up. Refill your well for the new year ahead.

• Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all!



• How do you refill your creativity? Do you use the holidays to unwind and recapture your child like wonder of things, so you're fresh for the New year?
  

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Gina Robinson is a native Pacific Northwesterner. She lives in the Greater Seattle area with her husband and children. Gina believes that laughter heals and a sense of humor makes life richer. She brings that philosophy to the way she writes her novels.

4 Stars! Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine"Robinson delivers an entertaining story of stalking, spying, secret identities and hidden agendas."

Susan Mobely, Romantic Times BOOKreviews

• Back Cover Blurb:

Sleepless In Seattle

Reilly Peterson’s been many things in her thirty-two years: an athlete, a model, a sportswear executive. Her ex-boyfriend, however, has done a good job of making Reilly something she’s never been—scared. Now Reilly’s ready to protect herself with more than her sharp tongue. Fantasy Spy Camp’s Seattle-based Urban Ops division will train her to survive using everything from her bare hands to a submachine gun. But when she gets an eyeful of fellow camper Van Keller, all Reilly wants is to chill out, partner up and go deep undercover...

Gina's Website She loves visitors and you can read an excerpt of the book on this site.