So. Mild panic.
I have been asked to write a Christmas novel.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas and this time of year. I love the merriment, the food, the drink, and the sheer joy in the small faces of my children. I’m not so keen on Christmas decorations (my husband and I get caught in our yearly debate on real trees vs fake trees, and tinsel vs tinsel-free) and I’m not so keen on the crowds of people in every town centre, and nor am I keen on the cost (I have a six-year-old and lego is expensive). But while I’m not keen on the aesthetics, I very much enjoy the traditions and emotions of this time of year.
But writing about it? Hmm.
I’ve never attempted a Christmas novel or even a story before. Why would I? I write historical romance novels set in the period before Christmas trees were even a thing. There was no Santa with his red-nosed reindeer. There were no turkeys, brined or otherwise. The gentle sounds of Bing Crosby crooning ‘White Christmas’ did not float across the Regency drawing room.
But I’ve been asked to write one, and I’m never one to back down from a challenge. So, I’ve pushed my other projects to one side and have given myself four months to write a 80,000 word Christmas book (for publication in 2019, when the new Star Wars comes out, at which point I will be living in the cinema and hardly blogging at all). So, I need to to write 20,000 words in January, or 1000 words a working day. This is doable, provided (and this is a big provided) that I can get the plotting/story and conflict right.
Wish me luck?
I plan on buying lots of mince pies and Christmas food in the January sales, to keep me in the mood over the spring. My husband will be delighted… my waistline not so much.