This time of year, wherever we turn, we encounter something that helps fill us with the holiday spirit. Whether it be decorations, music, TV movies, or maybe just a friendlier, lighter spirit among those we meet, there’s no escaping that we’re in the midst of the many popular holidays jammed into the last weeks of the year: Thanksgiving, Hannukah, Winter Solstice, Christmas, Kwanzaa, and New Year’s Eve/Day, just to name a few. No wonder we’re exhausted by January!
Still, this is perhaps the easiest time of year to think about writing a holiday story. But what is it that makes a story a holiday story?
When I saw the movie Die Hard listed as one of the top Christmas stories, I was curious. I had never seen it, but with that kind of recommendation, I gave it a try. I was, frankly, disappointed. It’s a Bruce Willis action movie, exciting, and set at Christmas, but for me, it missed the mark for a true “Christmas story.” I’ve since learned that this is a long-standing debate among viewers.
That got me thinking about what elements would have made it seem more like a holiday story instead of just a story set at a holiday.
After some thought—and a lot of holiday story reading—I think there are four criteria that, working together, make a story a holiday story.
This epiphany (another holiday!) comes at a good time. The Bethlehem Writers Roundtable is about to open its annual SHORT STORY AWARD competition on January 1. The theme for 2024 is . . . drumroll . . . HOLIDAY STORIES!
They are looking for short stories of 2000 words or fewer on any holiday between U.S. Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day to compete for:
For more information, see the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable site at: https://bwgwritersroundtable.com/short-story-award-2/
Best of luck to all who enter, and . . .
Happy Holidays!
by diane sismour
tonight wasn’t to end this way.
i imagined her saying, no.
to turn away a life together, but she hadn’t.
we celebrate with champagne; the bubbles make her happy.
light as air, she calls her soul, springing to the music.
her red dress flares as a tulip, cupping her body.
tonight wasn’t to end this way.
skinny dipping in the neighbor’s hot tub. snowflakes melting
above us, her skin glistening whiter than the crystals,
shimmering in the streetlight at my touch.
tonight wasn’t to end this way.
her skin soft next to mine, paler than the moon waning above.
her soft snores vibrate my heart as a violin stroked gently.
tonight wasn’t to end this way.
singing a melody meant for our child. a hand on her still small belly, her scent a blend of ocean and oils smoothed over her limbs warm and tan.
tonight wasn’t to end this way
her robe covers translucent skin, stretched and thin. stomach
bulging, tight and still. no kicks, no movement, monitors
peeping, wires attached to places I kissed this morning.
tonight wasn’t to end this way
if only she had said, no, to hear me say goodbye.
Okay, I know it isn’t officially Autumn until September 22, but the kids are back in school, pumpkin spice everything is available again, and I have even seen a few trees with leaves that are starting to turn. Close enough for me.
Fall is my favorite season of the year. I don’t much enjoy the heat of summer, so the cooler days and sometimes almost-nippy nights fill me with anticipation.
From now until the end of the year, there is one happy event after another: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve, and several family birthdays. These holidays and their traditions mark the passage of our annual orbit of the sun. Before I know it, that “holiday feeling” inspires me to start singing It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. (Why did that allergy medicine have to use that as their advertising jingle?) No matter. For me it is the most wonderful time of the year.
Along with the change of seasons comes a spate of vendor fairs where I, along with some of my writing colleagues from the Bethlehem Writers Group, go to market our themed Sweet, Funny, and Strange® anthologies (including our award-winning first anthology: A Christmas Sampler: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales, and our award winning second anthology: Once Around the Sun: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales for All Seasons.) Meeting and talking with shoppers as they go from table to table picking up gifts for loved ones (while tasting traditional baked goods and beverages) adds to the fun of the season.
We even have some exciting news to share about our most recent title, An Element of Mystery: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales of Intrigue. It was named a finalist for two international book awards: the Next Generation Indie Book Award and the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award. We’re honored by the recognition and pleased to put these medals on our book cover.
I also have a new novelette to peddle this fall. It’s entitled Apple, Table, Penny . . . Murder and tells of recently widowed Suzy Kemp who decides to downsize to an independent-living apartment in a retirement community. But when she goes in for her final health screening, she becomes confused and is abruptly confined to a memory care unit . . . with no way out. What’s worse, she suspects the late-night departure of another resident has a sinister cause. No one takes her suspicions seriously, so she’s determined to investigate on her own, to uncover what happened to her neighbor and to prove she hasn’t lost her mind. (And it’s set around Thanksgiving!) It’s available at online retailers, for order through brick-and-mortar stores, and, of course, at our vendor fairs.
Another of our members, Emily P. W. Murphy, has also recently published a delightful children’s book about being true to yourself. It’s entitled The Princess of Booray and is available anywhere you can find Apple, Table, Penny . . . Murder.
One more thing I look forward to this fall is that in November, for the first time, my BWG colleague Marianne H. Donley and I will be teaching a class on “Writing a Holiday Story” through the Aged to Perfection Chapter of Romance Writers of America. We look forward to sharing the fun of writing stories about a variety of holidays in different genres.
Meanwhile, we’re preparing to start Bethlehem Writers Group’s annual Short Story Award competition at the beginning of 2024. And this year’s theme? Serendipitously, it’s Holiday Stories! We’re looking for stories of 2000 words or fewer that incorporate any holiday from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day, inclusive. The holiday must be an important element of the story. The winner will receive $250 plus the publication in either our upcoming anthology, Season’s Readings: More Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales, or in our literary journal, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable. Second and third place winners receive $100 or $50 respectively and an offer of publication in Roundtable. The competition opens on January 1 and runs through March 31. Check the Roundtable website for more information. We’re really looking forward to reading all those holiday-inspired stories.
Also, I’m writing my own holiday story for the anthology and wondering how long it will be before we see those first few snowflakes flutter to the ground. Anticipation? It’s the best thing about this season.
I hope you, too, anticipate a very pleasant Fall and holiday season.
The following poem commemorates my emotions at the death of my beloved father and the fact that at the time of his death, he thought of others as he did all throughout his life. My father was an organ donor and fittingly donated his corneas so someone could see through my father’s eyes. I love and miss you Dad, enjoy a little light reading. Jeff Baird My Father’s Eyes From long ago, memories fill my mind: I would watch and learn. Sometimes it was hard to follow in his footsteps: He demanded a lot from himself and from me. Sometimes I would not understand: At the time I didn’t know My Father’s Eyes. Slowly I grew and became a man: Many times, I would become hesitant and frightened. Something always kept me going: He was so good at providing for me. I didn’t realize my safety net was always there: Slowly but surely, My Father’s Eyes opened. I cheered, I failed: I laughed, I cried. But always in the background I could hear: That’s ok # 1 son of mine. My Father’s Eyes opened wide. My eyes cry often these days: As I look back and remember. With fondness and love: With sadness and sorrow. But it’s become clear: These are my Father’s Eyes. Through the grief that weighs me down: And the sorrow that clouds my mind. A light appears: My job is clear. My son, My Daughter, My life, My Father’s Eyes, Are one and the same.
The Dog Days of Summer isn’t just an expression that indicates summer days so hot dogs are driven mad. It’s an actual astronomical event when, Sirius, the dog star rises in conjunction with the sun. The Dog Days are listed as starting on July 3rd and continuing through August 11th.
In my family, the Dog Days of Summer marked the beginning of birthday season. I have three brothers and three sisters. Then there are my children, nieces and nephews, in-laws (or as we insist out-laws) and now the grandchildren and grandnieces and grandnephews. A significant number of them have birthdays in July and August.
Birthdays around our place were always a bit different. With so many relatives we seldom had friends to our birthday celebrations. We rarely severed cake but rather baked from scratch (including the crust) birthday pie. There were favorites – quite a few apple pies, pumpkin (made three days ahead of the feast and refrigerated to the proper coldness), lemon meringue, peach, and rhubarb for my mother.
And when my mémère (French for grandma) was alive, if it was your birthday, you got your nose buttered. It was supposed to make you side through the year to your next birthday.
Now Mémère assured us this was an old French custom, but I never met any other family who practiced nose buttering–even the few friend of mine when we were growing up who also had a mémère and
So, a few years ago I googled it. Sure enough, other families butter noses, but the articles I read listed the custom is either Scottish or Irish. I suspect Mémère would be upset by these claims as she was very proud of her French ancestry even though the family arrived in the New World well before there was a United States. She and Pépère spoke French at home, and my dad and his siblings didn’t learn English until they went to school.
I must admit that she frequently got things wrong. For example, she was also very proud of being born on June 13th and every year would tell us that she just missed being born on Friday the 13th (it happened to be a Saturday that year because it was a leap year). But when she died my aunts found her birth certificate. She wasn’t born on June 13th, that was the day she was baptized. She was really born two days earlier and forever celebrated her birthday on the wrong day.
My aunts were upset, but I would like to think Mémère would not have cared if she had ever noticed. She was happy to have a pie baked by my mom, and she would laugh her head off when we would sneak up and butter her nose so she could slide through another year.
Does your family have different birthday customs? What are they?
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