Number-one bestselling author
I told him
that I was
half way through
my current novel,
that I had
written a bunch
of poems and
short stories. He
nodded, looking serious.
“I don’t see how you can write so much. You’re always going out.”
He was a
person that lived
in my building,
but he was
also a photographer.
I shrugged nonchalantly.
“Well, I have to go to work. It pays the bills.”
He looked smug
for a second
before he said:
“So you’re not a writer.”
“I’m sorry?”
I was confused.
“What do you mean?”
His look of
smugness intensified and
he actually laughed.
“Well, anyone that doesn’t support themselves with their writing is not a writer. It’s merely a hobby.”
I was stunned
at his rudeness.
“Do you support yourself with your photography?”
If possible, he
looked even more
smug. His smile
was like a
streak of oil
across his face.
“I do actually.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
His smile faltered
a little bit.
“I do well enough.”
He said, but
there was a
bluster to his
statement. I looked
him right in
the eye, not
backing down from
his smug stare.
“Let me make something perfectly clear. Whether or not I support myself with my writing doesn’t make me any less of a writer. The same goes for all artists, musicians and even photographers.”
“Yes, but-“
I cut him
off. I didn’t
want to hear
anything else he
had to say.
“Writing is what I’m most passionate about. It’s how I live, how I breathe, how I survive. That is why I’m a writer, though and through. And you know what? It’s only a matter of time before I am doing what I love for a living.”
I watched him
deflate a little
bit, a stooping
of the shoulders.
I walked away
from him and
went back into
my apartment to
do what I
love most and
with every word
I put down
on paper, I
found more of
myself waiting there
to bleed through
the page.
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when we don’t
even need to
speak, when words
aren’t necessary. Every
gesture is inductive
of words that
don’t need to
be spoken aloud.
When we’re going
down the stairs,
he gives me
his arm. With
that action, he
tells me silently:
“I’ll support you.”
When I lose
my balance and
he catches me,
he’s really whispering:
“I got you.”
When he holds
my hand in
public while we
walk down the
street, what he’s
really saying is:
“I’m proud to be with you.”
When he reads
something I’ve written
and sees me
inside the words,
what he’s really saying is
“I know you.”
And when he
holds me close,
his heart beating
so close to
mine, what he’s
really saying is:
“I love you.”
Though I don’t
have to tell
him, to utter
what he already
knows, I do.
“I love you, too.”
a dark tunnel.
I knew that
I didn’t want
to be there,
that there was
no light within.
You took my
hand and said:
“Don’t worry. Watch what happens when I do this.”
You paused for
a moment and
then you said:
“I love you.”
A light flared
along the wall
of the tunnel,
showing us where
the exit lay.
We walked on
until the light
began to fade
and I clutched
your hand harder.
“You’re so beautiful.”
You said to
me and the
light flared again,
showing us the
way. We raced
onward until the
light began to
fade once more.
“Don’t be scared.”
You said softly.
“It’ll be okay as long as we’re together. I love you so much.”
The light flared
again and under
it’s blue pulse
I looked at
you, at your
beauty that shone
from the inside
out. I looked
into your eyes,
leaned in close
to kiss you.
“I love you, too.”
The light increased
until it was
nearly blinding, but
we could still
see each other,
could still feel
the light we’d
created inside ourselves.
The light didn’t
dim this time,
but stayed glorious,
changing from a
soft muted blue
allowing us to
see in the
dark into a
light so wonderful,
so pure, it
was like we
had created the
sun. You took
hold of my
hand and led
me out of
the tunnel and
towards the future.
After being jilted at the altar when her husband to be failed to show for the ceremony, Sybil has been in a bit of a downward spiral. She has been messing up at work and is depressed and lonely, sure that her life as she knew it is over.
The only thing that has brought her any kind of joy is her knitting. There’s nothing more satisfying or comforting than the click clack of knitting, of being able to create something from nothing. She’s always been crazy about all kinds of knit craft. It brings her to a happy place when nothing else can.
When Sybil makes a disastrous mistake at work that could cost Sybil her job, she takes off to visit her best friend Cher. She’s just taken on the position of bar maid at the Duck and Puddle in the picturesque postcard town of Tinledale. It’s the perfect place to escape all of her problems.
What she doesn’t expect to find in such a small village is a shop that caters to all of her knitting desires! Except that Hettie’s House of Habberdahsery is in need of a spruce up! It’s run by Hettie who is having her own woes to deal with: she’s facing the possible closure of her beloved store. Customers have dropped off and sales are almost non-existent!
When the two of them meet, Hettie is inspired by Sybil’s wacky Christmas jumper to try something different. With a bit of yarn and some knitting needles, maybe a Christmas miracle is possible…
I am constantly wowed by Alexandra Brown’s books and this one is my favourite of her books to date. It’s a warm hearted novel full of characters you will grow to love as the book progresses. There’s Lawrence, the owner of the B and B, Cher and her boyfriend Sonny who run the pub, Hetie and Sybil and many more. What I love about Alexandra’s characters is that, by the end of the novel, they’re your friends.
Sybil is a winning protagonist who is on a journey of self-discovery and I cheered for her the whole novel through. It was a delight to watch her shed her insecurities and emerge as the woman she was always meant to be.
What I loved most about this book was the depth and heart that it was written with. It never comes across as saccharine and the characters are dealing with real issues and problems that others will recognize. There is no duex ex machina to save the day, but instead the miracle occurs within the characters themselves.
Also a delight is the fact that you don’t have to know anything about knitting to enjoy the novel, but Alexandra somehow makes the act of knitting exciting. So exciting in fact that I’ve pulled out the scarf I started years ago and have resumed knitting it. I feel like I’m taking part in the Knit and Natter at Hetties, so wonderful is the spell that Alexandra weaves with The Great Christmas Knit Off!
With The Great Christmas Knit Off, Alexandra has really out done herself. You instantly feel as if you’re reading a Christmas classic. It’s got everything you could want in a Christmas read: great characters, heartache turned to joy, a miracle or two plus enough knitted jumpers to make even the biggest Christmas grinch happy! It’s an absolute joy from start to finish and I can’t wait to read it again!
Do yourself a favour this Christmas and read The Great Christmas Knit Off! Knit one, pearl two….