The Ghost of Christmas Past

Today I've been thinking about Christmases from my childhood and some of my most bittersweet experiences.

One Christmas eve my family (my parents and my younger sister, Phyllis) had gone to Garnett to visit my Aunt Aura Lee and Uncle Nappy. They had one child--our beloved Cousin Rosemary. She was the youngest of us three.

Roads were miserable in those days and as luck would have it we got snowed in. What normally would have been a treat--spending all night with the Galloways--was a miserable experience for me. I didn't sleep well.

For of course Santa Claus would by-pass us. When he found we were not at home sleeping in our beds, a whole year of being good would go to waste. Phiz and I had redoubled our efforts when it came close to Christmas.

Finally Christmas morning came and when we awoke Santa had showered gifts on Cousin Rosemary. She was an only child and Phiz and I thought such largess was really uncalled for. She was not that good! Honestly, the things we could tell Santa. If we were inclined to snitch, which we were not.

The snow was over and we were able to drive home. My heart pounded the closer we came to our farm. We dashed into the house and crest-fallen realized that the worst had happened. Santa had indeed by-passed us.

Then my father found a note. We gathered around while he read it. Santa explained that he was worried about the safety of our presents since the house was cold and dark. He wished us a merry Christmas and urged us to check the woodshed because he certainly hadn't forgotten us. Daddy immediately led us out to the woodshed and much to our joy there were two identical precious dolls, each in their own high chairs.

Our joy was unbounded. Especially since our good behavior had not gone unnoticed. My faith in Santa and the goodness of the Universe was restored.

Until it wasn't.

Lone Elm was a very small community. Grades 1-3 were in the same room. As Christmas approached the next year there was a vicious rumor afloat that there was no Santa Claus. It was really just our parents. I think it was started by the truly offensive big kids in the third grade.

It finally made sense to me. I simply could not understand why Santa treated one miserably poor family so cruelly when they were good as gold. They got gifts like tooth paste and a pair of socks. The despicable daughters in another family who were not good were lavished with all kinds of treats. It was nearly intolerable when school resumed after Christmas to hear them tell of all they had found under their tree.

But seared on my memory was the shocked sobbing of one of the daughters in the poor family when she realized if Santa was truly her own parents there was no hope. They were already doing the best they good.

For me, understanding the tragedy of loss of hope, and my initiation into complexity was one of the most important lessons of childhood.

I think of that, the weeks when our church helps host homeless families. I was shocked when one of the fathers had three jobs, but housing was still beyond his reach.

Churches redouble their efforts during the Christmas season to let families know that someone cares. May Christmas always be a time of generosity when communities give food and special presents to struggling families.

And give the gift of hope to those who need it most!

Merry Christmas from Charlotte Hinger.

Generating Hope

Usually I'm a January Junkie. I love the beginning of a new year and fresh starts. My pervasive post-election depression is fading although there is no good reason to be optimistic about our political climate.

However, each day is one day closer to spring and I'm reminded that one of the most essential components for a writer is hope. The whole industry depends on little worker bees who are willing to spend a couple of years working faithfully on a product that might not make it to the marketplace.

Until we have iron-clad contracts or are a mega-star we have no guarantee that a publisher will produce our book, that the bookstore will stock it, or that the public will purchase it. Certainly we don't have a clue as to whether our books will get reviews, win awards, or that we will make some money.

Other than military expeditions, I don't think there is any occupation where there is a greater investment of blood, sweat, and tears where the odds are stacked against success.

The only rationale for writing books is love of the process, joy in creation, and because we can't help ourselves.

I've started my fifth mystery for Poisoned Pen Press. I'm thrilled with the two good reviews I've gotten from Kirkus Reviews and Publisher's Weekly for Fractured Families, my fourth mystery, which will be released in March. The book is a bit odd so I'm also surprised by the glowing critical reception.

But most of all I am genuinely relieved and surprised that after a difficult harrowing year my enchantment with research and my love of making plots work has magically emerged again. I honestly believe a book will simply come together if I faithfully plug away day after day.

Most of all I'm always surprised by the "gift" character that appears fairly early. This character knows what the book is about even if I don't. In Fractured Families it was a tragic little handicapped unloved child who kept a Commonplace book.

And so my beloved fellow Type M'ers and all of our fans and readers to begin this new year have hope for your writing, your friends and families, and our countries.