It’s mayhem. People I must see because it’s Christmas, things I must do.

It’s only Christmas eve and I’m exhausted, but I can’t curl up and watch movies and dip back into my favourite novels… I must entertain, late, then wake up early and entertain all tomorrow and into the night.

All I really want to do is write. Bend my imagination into my world and take refuge in the things I can see with my eyes closed.

So, I’ve found a quiet spot and temporarily shut myself away, to write the words I worship. I can hear the noises of my guests downstairs, but with every word I write, I slip away to that place artists and authors go. A place of strength, of absolute voice unmitigated by the world. A place where, with each letter typed, something is born and something else put to rest. A magical place like no other I know. A place of absolute honesty, where victory and resignation are not contradictions.

There is a dog in my house. I think of the first Christmas – of that stable in Bethlehem, the cows crammed in together with their breath in plumes and the warmth of their bodies heating the cold space a little.

Life was always a whirlwind, as that picture illustrates. The urgency of impending pregnancy, no proper place to stay, the chill of a winter night.

Dear writers, I wish you peace this Christmas. But more than that, I wish you moments you can claim as yours – moments saved by words. However brief or fleeting, go to your keyboard, or pick up your pen – and create; be present in your vocation.

And God bless us all, every one.




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