My Magical Holiday Story

I have always been a sucker for Christmas/Holiday romance. I’m not even that into actually celebrating the holidays anymore, but give me a Holiday themed romance novel, and I am a happy woman. I have considered that this may be because the actual real holidays today seem to be lost in consumerism, stress and a persistent insistence that we must all be joyful which makes me grumpy.

I grew up celebrating Christmas, and as a child, it was super magical. I lived in Massachusetts, and we conformed to all the ideals of Christmastime. The first snow would fall in the fragrant pine forest where we lived. On a crisp winter night, we sang carols in the town square while the town tree was lit. We attended candlelit services at the old Unitarian church from the 1800’s and decorated the house. My parents were immigrants and eagerly embraced the new norms of their suburban life. Our gifts were always modest, plenty of practical things – slippers and new pajamas but one gift that was always special. A toy or cool new game. I don’t remember the things I received for Christmas, but I do remember sitting in the living room in front of the Christmas tree with the entire family.

My mother was raised in the Russian Orthodox church but went to Catholic schools in France. My father was raised a Lutheran by his Jewish father and Swedish mother in Germany because they wanted their sons to get ahead in a world that favored Christians. My parents met and fell in love in the US. We were raised in standard mainstream ways but with a sprinkling of their cultural backgrounds. I believe my father dressed up once as Santa Claus and terrified all his children. It was not repeated. We were dragged to large department stores to have our picture taken with Santa Claus. Swedish Christmas decorations appeared in our house, my mother made Swedish, French and Russian Holiday desserts, imported German Christmas cookies were purchased and on December 6th, St Nicholas Day treats appeared in our shoes.

It was only when I had my son that I realized my parents did all these things for us, their children, to make it fun, to make us excited and laugh. They were not religious people by any stretch of the imagination. But they did know that kids love when the ordinary is made extraordinary. Kids love holiday decorations, special foods, singing holiday songs and most of all, being cuddled by the fireplace with Christmas lights twinkling.

Sorcha in Snowflakes is a nod to the mad combination of traditions in a multi-cultural society because when you fall in love with someone from a slightly different background, a couple weaves together a new life. I used my upbringing and my marriage to inspire me. I love writing sexy romance, but this story just laughed at me and insisted on sweet for Sorcha and Alexander. I dedicated this story to my parents because they were loving parents in a loud, crazy family. They made me a romantic, and they made me believe in true love.

Happy Holidays. Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all.