The thing about writing a Christmas book is that it generally gets written in spring or summer. Writers of festive offerings are like fashion designers, always working a couple of seasons ahead. I remember writing my last Christmas book, It’s That Time of Year, when it definitely wasn’t that time of year.
I had met my editor towards the end of February, shortly after I’d finished the final edits for The Restaurant, which was scheduled for publication in June of that year. In the course of our chat, whose purpose had been to put The Restaurant officially to bed and to discuss a possible premise for the following year’s summer read, my editor remarked that it was a shame I had no Christmas book coming out that year, because it had been a few years since my last, and readers always loved a story set at Christmas. Just threw it out there, in between sips of tea. Yes, I agreed, it would have been lovely. A beat passed. I might have taken a sip from my own tea. She might have lifted the second half of her sandwich. And then, for whatever reason – I have no idea – I said, equally casually, that maybe I could consider a short Christmas book, given the lateness of the hour.
I knew from I’ll be home for Christmas, my first seasonal offering a few years previously, that anything destined for the Christmas bookshelves would need to be ready for printing by the end of September at the very latest, having gone through the usual milestones – first draft, edits, proof checks – and here we were on the edge of March, with not even a single idea to toss around between us. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. My editor’s eyes lit up and stayed lit right through my pathetic attempts to row back on my foolish impulse, and when we parted shortly afterwards, it was on the understanding that I would give it some serious consideration, with my editor remaining quietly convinced – I could see it – that I would agree to give it a go.
I had no notion of agreeing. The idea was ridiculous – what on earth had I been thinking? I should be putting my feet up for at least a month while I tossed possible next ideas around in my head, with no real urgency. Unfortunately for me, the world had other ideas. On the TV news that evening I listened to reports of a new virus in China that was making its way westward, and causing the WHO to sit up and take notice. A week or so later, while I was trying to come up with convincing arguments against the wisdom of writing a Christmas book, Covid-19 was declared a pandemic, and Leo Varadkar told us all to go home and stay there until further notice. I live with three cats and no humans. I thought about weeks, possibly months, of sitting at home with nobody to talk to, and no book on the immediate horizon to keep me busy, and I decided to take lockdown as a sign.
I emailed my editor to say I’d write a Christmas book – and guess what? Once the decision was made, It’s That Time of Year took shape frighteningly quickly. With virtually no distractions the plot pretty much wrote itself, and within a month I was halfway through the first draft – a hitherto unheard-of rate of progress for me. Mind you, the writing process for this one was pretty surreal. You may remember (if you can bear to remember) that we enjoyed near-perfect weather during that first lockdown, so I would glance up from an account of snow falling silently all night, or someone crunching their way across a frost-covered lawn, and I’d look out at blue skies and blazing sunshine, and it would take me a few confusing seconds to make sense of it. By May I’d submitted the first draft. By October the book was out of my hands and on the way to the bookshops – and happily, we were free to shop again.
But seasonal misalignment notwithstanding, I do love writing a Christmas tale. It just feels more special than a book set at any other time of year, or one not particularly focused on the December celebrations. I love the excuse, even in early spring or midsummer, to immerse myself in the Yuletide magic, in the same way that I delighted, back when I was a teacher of little kiddies, in the approach of Christmas, and the dawning excitement in my little charges.
In A Winter to Remember, my latest Christmas book (written between Jan and June), the story begins in September and runs until Christmas Day, and it’s a sort-of sequel to The Restaurant, with a couple of characters from The Book Club thrown into the mix (but readers don’t have to have read either to enjoy it). It’s not practical, with my writing commitments, to produce a Christmas book every year, but I suspect I’ll find the time, before too many more Christmases have gone by, to sit down in February or March and begin directing my thoughts towards pine trees and puddings, in advance of making a start on another Yuletide offering. In the meantime, happy Christmas!
(c) Roisin Meaney
About A Winter to Remember:
Emily Feeney has always loved the festive season, so when she invites some of her favourite people to Christmas dinner at her restaurant, she has an afternoon of delicious fare and seasonal fun in mind. But as the big day draws near, her plans start to look a bit uncertain . . .
Her partner Bill is preoccupied by family worries, and both he and Emily have been skirting around a big unanswered question. When events finally force Emily to issue an ultimatum, Bill must choose between the two women he loves.
Tom and Lil have moved into the apartment above Emily’s restaurant, hoping to put the past behind them while they plan their summer wedding. Little do they know that an unexpected arrival in town is about to make the past a lot harder to forget.
And Emily’s best friend Heather has surprise visitors too: the mother she left behind as a teen, who now needs Heather’s help, and a man she thought she’d never see again. Maybe it’s finally time to give each of them a second chance?
As Emily’s prospective guests navigate their way through the holiday season, their lives become more and more complicated. Will they all find themselves around the table together on Christmas Day?
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