Tis the season to sparkle… or at least try to without knocking over the Christmas tree. In my defense (and the cat, the dogs, and the hubby) it’s in a high traffic area and hard to NOT hit when walking by or playing fetch with the pups. .
Every December I tell myself this is the year I’ll glide gracefully into the holidays—holiday cards mailed early if I send them at all, gifts wrapped before midnight on Christmas Eve, though I usually get that done fairly early, and not a single cookie burned. Can’t say that happens often. And every December, the universe says, “Aw, sweetie… no.”
But honestly? I kind of love the chaos. It’s the cozy-mystery-writer in me. A little holiday mayhem keeps things interesting.
Every year I open my ornament boxes to discover several missing. Usually ones I bought mid-season or after a season. Every year I blame the same two suspects: Meatball, who definitely looks guilty even when she’s asleep. Me, because I put things in a safe place and then never see them again.
This year, though? A glittery snowflake reappeared in the middle of the hallway at 3 a.m. like it walked there itself. I’m not saying the house is haunted, but if a ghost wants to take over the wrapping duties, I wouldn’t complain. Of course, Meatball does run laps around the house nightly, and every morning ornaments are off the tree and rolled into spaces ghosts might even have trouble accessing.
I baked cookies last week and only two turned out shaped like bloated Santa and battered reindeer. I call that improvement! My family pretends not to notice, but I see the hesitation before they take a bite—like they’re thinking, Is this oatmeal or did she veggies into it like that one time?
To be fair, they’ve lived with an author who once spent an hour arguing with herself about whether poisoned cocoa is too cliché. It is. Mostly. If you’re wondering.
I do believe in the sacred tradition of holiday movies. Specifically:
Bonus points if there’s a dog in a festive bandana. I’m not made of stone.
Look, the holidays aren’t always perfect. Neither are any of us. Some years we’re thriving; others we’re surviving on cocoa and a whole lot of prayer and determination. But every year, without fail, I’m reminded how lucky I am to have a community of readers who love stories full of charm, chaos, mystery, warmth, and the occasional cat with an attitude problem.
So whether you’re baking, shopping, hiding from your to-do list, or trying to remember where you put that one ornament from 1998, I hope this season brings you peace, joy, and at least one moment that feels downright magical.
And hey… if anything weird happens with your decorations, don’t look at me. I write fiction. I don’t summon it.
Happy Holidays, my friends.
May your days be merry, bright, and only mildly mysterious.
