Chapter 2, First Half

Dear Readers and Loyal Newsletter Subscribers,

As we get closer to the release on FEBRUARY 1 of Nutmeg Street: Egyptian Secrets, Book 1 in my Botanic Hill Detectives Mysteries series, I will continue offering excerpts from the story.

Last time, I featured the conclusion of Chapter 1.

So get a clue, Readers. Please let me know what you think. And don’t forget to mark your calendars and purchase my book at in paperback and/or eBook on FEBRUARY 1.

But for now, sit back and hopefully enjoy the first half of Chapter 2:


Chapter 2     “Helpful Discussions”

Rani led the pack in the chase after the masked nut, her sari flapping behind her. After a few blocks, however, she was forced to stop. Her golden bangle bracelets glinted in the early afternoon sun as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand. Her friends soon caught up with her, panting for breath and unhappily conceding defeat. They hadn’t been speedy enough to catch the trespasser, who had a good head start on them.

Several blocks away, they watched the wiry, still-disguised runner jump into the driver’s seat of a parked blue sedan. The engine roared to life, and the car screeched down the street, leaving behind only thick tread marks.

“Whoever’s behind that mask is really fit,” said Rani, hunched over and sucking in oxygen.

Lexi bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes. “That’s a great clue, Rani. Let’s hang onto it because it could help us identify the person. By the way, I’m impressed at how fast you can run in a sari.”

Rani replied, “My grandmother would kill me if she knew. The fabric’s very delicate. But more important, remind me to tell all of you later about mac ’n’ cheese. It might be another clue.”

“Huh? Mac ’n’ cheese?” Moki asked. He always tuned in when food was mentioned. “What’s that have to do with anything? Plus, you’re making me hungry.”

“I’ll tell you later. Might help us with our case,” she said with a mysterious smile, then sauntered back toward the house.

“Rani, sometimes I just don’t get you,” Moki called after her.

“Good. Mystery makes life interesting.”

The four retraced their steps to the big Craftsman-style house, and Lanny shared their bad luck with Mrs. Thornsley. “Not even a license plate number,” he said, jamming his knuckles into the palm of his hand with a loud pop. “I must be losing it.”

“No, bro,” Moki said, placing his hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “They lost it—or more likely, someone removed it. No back license plate. But at least we have a description of the car and some info about the person and the tires. That’ll be important to us and to the police.” Moki would know. His dad was a cop.

Moki called the Las Palmitas Police Department to report the crime on Mrs. Thornsley’s behalf. After hanging up he said, “According to the dispatcher, Dad’s out on a call having to do with the earthquake, but some other officers will be here very soon. Now, no worries, Mrs. T.”

The woman was pacing the floor like a caged tiger. “I just wish it was your dad coming instead. Oh, Moki, that’s silly of me. I realize he’s a busy man. It’s just . . . why are burglars and trespassers so interested in my house all of a sudden?”

“We’ll figure it out, Mrs. T,” Lexi replied. She and Rani exchanged glances. They both knew how much serious work was ahead of them.

Two officers arrived just minutes after Moki’s call, and Mrs. Thornsley breathed a sigh of relief. They took statements from all five witnesses about “Mask Face,” as Moki named the trespasser, and checked the small footprints Rani had found in the soil outside under the living room window. Lanny mentioned the shadow he had seen through the study doors, but nothing appeared disturbed on the leaf-covered ground. The officers said a squad car would cruise past the Thornsley house several times an hour for the next two days. After checking all around the property one more time, the officers left to investigate the tire marks and to question the neighbors.

“Keep all your doors and windows locked, Mrs. Thornsley, and look out the spy hole before opening the door,” one of the officers said gently.

“That’s always good advice,” the woman replied. “I’ll certainly do as you say.”

The kids made sure Mrs. Thornsley was feeling safe and composed before they left. “Don’t worry, Mrs. T. We’re on the job. We’ll keep you posted on our progress,” said Lanny. Lexi and Rani stood like bookends next to the woman.

“I know, Lanyon. Even though you’re only thirteen years old, you all have a way of instilling confidence in me. That’s why I hired you.” She led the kids to her huge front door, hugged each of them, waved good-bye, then lingered and watched them disappear up Nutmeg Street.

The squad was already mulling over their new case as the early afternoon sun warmed their faces. Finally, Rani said, “I don’t think it was an accident that the trespasser wore an Egyptian death mask.”

“Why do you say that?” Lanny asked, kicking a small stone off the sidewalk.

“It made an effective disguise, and an insensitive one at that, given what Mrs. T’s already been through. Whoever was behind that mask could be the same person who ransacked Dr. T’s study last month and returned today to continue the search.”

Moki looked at Rani and replied, “That means, if I’m following your thinking for a change, that whatever was being searched for in the study last month is still being searched for.”


Lanny stopped walking. “Maybe, or it could have just been a mean prank. As my hero, the great fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, would say, ‘Give me facts, not just sup­positions.’ We do need theories, you guys, but we can’t suppose they’re true until we have proof. Proof comes from facts. That’s the scientific method of investigation, and so far, it’s worked well for us.”

Lanny was right. Boring, but right. Ever the voice of reason, an important quality in a detective. Each of the others had to admit it to themselves as they continued walking on in silence.

Soon, Moki disrupted the quiet. “Okay, so then, let’s get serious and scientific now and talk about mac ’n’ cheese. Rani, what’s up with that, and how can it be a clue in our case?”

“It’s simple. You see, I’m a synesthete,” she replied brightly.

“A synes-what?” Moki asked. Even Lanny, always ready with a definition, looked puzzled.

“A synesthete. I have synesthesia,” she said with a broad smile.

“Oh, now that clears everything up for me,” he smirked. “Is it fatal?”

Rani grimaced. “Uh, no, Moki, but I’ll explain. Syn­es­thesia is a mixing of the senses, an extrasensory ability where one type of brain stimulation—let’s say, hearing a word or name—makes you experience something else. In my case, that something else is a taste or smell. Isn’t that cool?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Well, anyway, some synesthetes associate a word, number, or musical note with a color. Those are the most common types. I associate words and names with foods or aromas. My type of synesthesia is very rare. Four percent of the world’s population has some form of synesthesia. But less than one percent of the world’s population has my type. Lots of famous people have had synesthesia. Van Gogh, Duke Ellington, Plato, and Socrates all had it.”

“Wow!” Lexi said, then quickly frowned. “But we’ve been best friends for eight years. How come I’m only just learning this about you now?”

“I didn’t know I had it, let alone that there was a name for it. I read an article about it online recently. Then it was as if a lightbulb flashed in me. ‘Wow,’ I thought, ‘that’s me!’ I’d thought everybody associated names with food. I didn’t know it was a thing.”

“So synesthesia is an ability, not a disability?” Lanny asked looking steadily at the girl.

“Yes, and it’s automatic. I can’t turn it off, but I wouldn’t want to. It makes life more, well, delicious. Plus, it helps me remember names. And it’s like eating but without calories,” she beamed.

“So, the moment of truth. What do our names make you taste or smell?” Moki asked.

“Oh, Moki, your name makes me taste warm blueberry pie with melting vanilla ice cream.” She purposely empha­sized the food words to make Moki hungry.

“Sweet. Of course,” he replied with crossed arms and a knowing smile directed at Lexi.

“Lexi, you’re crunchy, salty pretzels, the big heart-shaped kind. Lanny, you’re sweet potatoes mashed with butter, salt, and pepper. And my name, Rani, is raw green beans.”

“So, what’s with mac ’n’ cheese, and how can that help our case?” Moki asked.

“The word mask makes me taste mac ’n’ cheese. It might be interesting to see if that sensation occurs again during our mystery,” she replied.

They walked on to Rani’s house one block away on Oleander Street, discussing other names and food associ­ations. Once at Rani’s, however, they knew they would turn to the serious business of hashing over their new case and formulating a plan of action for tomorrow. . . .

Come back next time for the conclusion of Chapter 2.

The Conclusion of Chapter 1

Dear Readers and Loyal Newsletter Subscribers,

As we get closer to the release on FEBRUARY 1 of Nutmeg Street: Egyptian Secrets, Book 1 in my Botanic Hill Detectives Mysteries series, I will continue offering excerpts from the story.

Last time, I featured the first half of Chapter 1.

So get a clue, Readers. Please let me know what you think. And don’t forget to mark your calendars and purchase my book at in paperback and/or eBook on FEBRUARY1.

But for now, sit back and hopefully enjoy the conclusion of Chapter 1:


. . . Nothing. It must have been his imagination. Or maybe Mrs. T’s next- door neighbor was passing by in his side yard. Being a detective with a tendency toward curiosity, he decided to investigate.

Setting the pieces of the sphinx down on Dr. T’s desk, he unlocked the doors and stepped outside into the mild breeze. Scanning the area, he saw no one and con­cluded the shadow could have been caused by some fluttering branches of the nearby weeping willow tree. He hesitated a moment, shrugged, and returned to the study, making certain to relock the doors. Then, he carefully picked up the sphinx pieces off the desk to show the others.

“Lanny, you better hurry before Moki eats all the cookies,” Rani shouted over her shoulder just as the boy was rejoining the group. Cookie scents wafted to his nostrils, but he didn’t have food on his mind.

Mrs. T’s eyebrows knitted together as she stared at Lanny’s hands. “What do you have there, Lanyon?” she asked. In answer, he put his palms face up to reveal his find.

“Oh, that was my husband’s paperweight. He bought it in one of his favorite dusty, old curio shops in Giza on a trip to Egypt many years ago. It must have been too near the edge of his desk and gotten jostled off during the earthquake.”

A moderate earthquake had, indeed, rumbled through their coastal resort town of Las Palmitas that very morning and snaked its way up into the group’s beautiful neighbor­hood of Botanic Hill. They were all too familiar with earthquakes in Southern California.

“How he treasured that little sphinx so.” She gently took the precious pieces from Lanny, cradling and inspecting them momentarily. “Fortunately, I think I can easily fix it.”

Lanny watched the rest of the squad finish the snacks. He turned toward Mrs. Thornsley and said, “You said you called us here today to tell us about Dr. T’s urn. Is it from the same expedition where he found the mummy mask that’s on the wall in his study?”

“Yes, Lanyon, though the mask is just a copy of the original. My husband found both objects in Egypt at the royal burial grounds in Abydos last summer along with other treasures.” The widow quickly pulled something from her pocket. “Here’s a photo he took of the urn right after it arrived in his office at the ARC last October for study and display. He estimated the urn and mask to be 5,000 years old and priceless.”

The kids crowded around the photo. “It’s beautiful with all the golden swirling lotus designs on the black enamel paint,” Lexi said. Her voice swelled with pride over Dr. Thornsley’s discovery.

“And it contained a mummified Egyptian cobra,” said Mrs. Thornsley with hiked-up eyebrows.

“Whoa!” Moki called out, abruptly removing his hand from the photo’s edge. “Why would anyone want to keep a snake, even a dead one, in a jar?” He brushed his hands as if to remove something squirmy and toxic. Snakes didn’t exist in his native Hawaiʽi. He was no fan of reptiles.

“It’s a tomb burial urn, Moki, and snakes were sacred to ancient Egyptians,” she replied.

“A ‘sacred snake’? Sorry, but those words don’t seem to go together in my head.”

The woman paused. Her face had turned ashen again, but she slowly continued. “I realize you kids might already know some of this information, but you won’t know all of it. After all, you’ve been busy solving other mysteries. You see, my husband was the last ARC employee to see the urn before it disappeared. The police couldn’t find any other suspects, so he was blamed for stealing it. He died in shame from the rumors after a long and brilliant career. Oh, how I wish now he had never gone to Egypt last year to find that urn.” She closed her eyes tightly to squeeze back any more tears and sighed. Silence engulfed the room.

Then, Mrs. Thornsley squared her slumped shoulders and went on. “Since law enforcement agencies seem to have hit a dead end in their investigations, I want to hire you four to find the urn and who really stole it, return the object to the ARC, and restore my husband’s good name.”

“Mrs. T, Lexi’s right. We’ll find out what’s going on,” Lanny replied. “In fact, we’ll gladly take the case. But the theft occurred last fall. It’s June now. Something must have happened recently to make you call us today. What was it?” He hesitated to question her. Would she dissolve in tears? Worse, would she call him “Lanyon” again? Moki delighted in teasing Lanny about his real name. But they needed to know why she had called.

“Yes, Lanyon, two things have happened. Dr. Abbott called me this morning and—”

But before the widow could continue, Rani gasped and pointed at the window. Mrs. Thornsley turned and uttered a little cry, drawing her hand up sharply to her mouth.

“What the heck!” Lexi shouted as she sprang to her feet.

Through the large front window, a face disguised by what resembled the death mask of an Egyptian pharaoh was gazing in at them. Sensing discovery, the trespasser immediately ducked away. The kids raced to the window in time to see some­one squeeze back through the dense hydrangea bushes, rocket across the manicured lawn, and jump the hedge.

“The front door!” Lexi shouted, “Go, go, go!” She headed for the door with the two guys behind her. Rani was already there, yanking it open and bolting outside ahead of everyone.

“Teach that Mask Face a lesson,” Moki hollered as he almost tripped over a footstool. “It’s not nice to look in other people’s windows.”

“I’m with you, bro,” Lanny replied. “Catch that nut!”

The four kids tore across Mrs. Thornsley’s lawn and sprang over her low hedge in their hot pursuit of the brazen, masked trespasser. At the end of the block, they cut the corner sharply, not looking back to notice the broken branches and trampled flowers they left strewn down Nutmeg Street.

Come back next time for the first half of Chapter 2.


It’s Excerpt Time! — Chapter 1, First Half

Dear Readers and Loyal Newsletter Subscribers,

Great news! Nutmeg Street: Egyptian Secrets, Book 1 in my Botanic Hill Detectives Mysteries series, releases on  . . . drum roll, please . . . FEBRUARY 1. Hallelujah!

Every Thursday this month, my blog will feature an excerpt from my book.

So get a clue, Readers. Please let me know what you think. And don’t forget to mark your calendars and purchase my book at in paperback and/or eBook on February 1.

But for now, I present to you Chapter 1, the first half:


Chapter 1       “A Mystery from Nutmeg Street”

Dead eyes, with years of curses and murder in them, stared back at thirteen-year-old Lexi Wyatt. She smiled. Lexi loved a good mummy and anything Egyptian. And a gripping mystery.

She and her friends treated Dr. Thornsley’s musty study like a shrine, with all its carefully copied treasures from Dr. T’s many Egyptian expeditions. She turned from the mummy mask on the wall to question Mrs. Thornsley but saw her twin brother, Lanny, walking toward her. He had a look Lexi knew meant her blond, brainiac brother wanted to share an important thought. Which meant he shared all his thoughts, Lexi decided, since he always had that look and considered everything he thought important.

“Lexi,” he whispered, “I just realized something. You and I are like ancient Egyptian kings and queens!”

She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if hearing his explanation was worth letting Lanny have his ego moment. Yes, she decided—if she was like Egyptian royalty, she wanted to know why. “Okay, I give. Explain.”

“Well,” he started, “Dad is a famous archaeologist, and Mom is an equally famous art historian, right? And because of them, we get access to all kinds of amazing places and people and adventures, right? We benefit from our lineage, just like princes and princesses do when they become queens and kings. See? Kings and queens–us! It’s all about lineage.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good one.” She could stand being like any royalty, but especially Egyptian.

And it wasn’t all that big a stretch, really. They did get to accompany their parents on many business trips around the world for the Antiquities Research Collective—or the ARC, as everyone in town called the “think tank” in beautiful Cortez Park. Not only did the twins’ parents work there, but so had Dr. Thornsley. Lexi dreamed of imitating the kind, brilliant man by becoming an Egyptologist herself someday. Then, she would work at the ARC as a vital member of the team of some of the world’s most renowned archaeologists and art historians.

Lanny and Lexi’s best friends, Moki Kalani and Rani Kumar, often went along on the ARC-sponsored adventures. Best of all, somehow, all their experiences with fascinating people and places ended up with them solving some mystery or other. They’d even started calling themselves detectives and taking on cases to solve. It was the best life Lexi could imagine. Those were the reasons the Wyatt twins, plus Moki and Rani, were here today, in the study of Dr. and Mrs. Thornsley’s big old house on Nutmeg Street. They were about to hear their next mystery.

But this mystery felt more serious than all the others. This one was happening because their family friend, the extraordinary Egyptologist, Dr. Thornsley, was dead.

Lexi returned to her task, addressing Mrs. Thornsley. “So you say, Mrs. T, four months ago Dr. T started getting mysterious phone calls.” Lexi gently ran her finger over a stubby pencil that had been used by Dr. Thornsley, whom she would never forget. “He’d jump up and lock the study door after saying hello. Sometimes, his voice would rise in anger, and then he’d bang down the landline receiver. Have I got that right?”

“Yes, that’s right, Alexia. The calls started last February right after Dr. Thornsley and I returned from a short trip out of town.” Mrs. Thornsley fidgeted with the old, curly telephone cord. “He changed the subject whenever I men­tioned the calls, but I . . . I think he was being threatened.”

Lexi set her hand on the widow’s shoulder, looking fondly at the kind, fashionably dressed woman who often called her “Alexia” rather than her nickname. “Don’t worry, Mrs. T. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

They always did. They had solved all their mysteries. Their first case was just last year when they were in France with the twins’ parents. By chance, they helped the French police catch two jewel thieves and a sizable hoard of diamond bracelets stolen from a Paris jewelry store. That led to the four kids uncovering a ring of international jewel thieves. The news went viral. After re­turning home to a citywide celebration in their honor, the squad officially established their Botanic Hill Detectives Agency, and the cases poured in from near and far.

But this new mystery was right in their neighbor­hood. They had to solve it, mainly for Dr. and Mrs. Thornsley.

Thirteen-year-old Rani gracefully pivoted to face Mrs. Thornsley, her gold and turquoise sari twirling just a bit. Whenever possible, she preferred wearing clothing from her native country of India. “You said something else happened here in the study, Mrs. T?” She drew a squiggle on the dusty top of Dr. Thornsley’s wooden desk.

“Actually, two more strange occurrences, Rani. Three months ago, in March, an old framed picture from this very desk went missing.” Mrs. T’s index finger jabbed deci­sively at its surface. “It showed Dr. Thornsley twenty years ago with some people I never knew from his hometown back East. When I asked him what had happened to it, he said the picture had fallen from the desk and broken. He had planned to get a new frame, but the picture never reappeared. One month later . . . he died.” Mrs. Thornsley covered her face with her hands. She worked hard to choke back some sobs. Rani came to her side and put her arm around the woman.

After a moment, she continued. “Then one afternoon last month, I came home from running errands to discover that someone had broken into this room. Nothing appeared to be missing, but this desk had been ransacked. The police found no fingerprints or other clues to lead them to a suspect.” Mrs. Thornsley could no longer control herself. Tears flooded down the furrows in her face. She fretfully wrung her tired, wrinkled hands. Lexi, always emotional, teared up, too.

Seeing the two crying, Moki looked around and ner­vously shifted his weight from one foot to the next. “Hey, uh, Mrs. T,” he asked, “what’s that I see over there on the coffee table?” The Hawaiian boy, who had moved to Southern California five years ago, pointed beyond the study door. With big eyes, Lanny silently thanked Moki for the rescue.

“Bless you, Moki,” said the woman. “You read my mind. I’ve had enough of this room for a while. Let’s go. I set out some snacks for you four in the living room. It’s been very difficult for me to spend any time in this study alone, you know, since my husband’s death in April.” Mrs. Thornsley dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and squeezed Rani’s small but strong hand.

“That makes perfect sense to me, Mrs. T,” replied Lexi, blinking back a tear while supporting Mrs. Thornsley with an arm around the woman’s small waist. The girl snapped off the wall switch to the study’s overhead light fixture with her free hand.

Moki, a confirmed foodie, bounded into the living room. His Hawaiian shirt was a blur of colors as he ran and barely missed clipping his side on the woman’s enormous grand piano. His huge brown eyes had zeroed in on a platter piled high with cookies.

Mrs. Thornsley couldn’t resist a booming laugh. “Oh, Moki. You’re like medicine for my poor, sad soul. Please, do help yourself. You’ve earned your fill.”

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” He lunged toward the platter and dug into the cookies. “Mmm, chocolate chip,” Moki said through a mouthful. “My fave.”

Lexi and Rani served everyone some of the frosty lemonade from the nearby crystal pitcher.

They stared as Moki grabbed a third large cookie. “Oinkers!” snorted Lexi.

“Huh?” he replied with crumbs cascading from his lips.

“Didn’t you have breakfast this morning?” asked Lexi.

“Sure, but that was almost two hours ago. Anyway, mysteries make me hungry,” he croaked between chomps.

No one seemed to have noticed that Lanny had remained behind in Dr. Thornsley’s study. Something had caught his eye. The room’s lighting was subdued now, and the study was as still as a tomb. Lanny felt as if he had been transported back in time to ancient Egypt. Such was the magic of this room. The only movement came from some dust particles that danced inside a splinter of sunlight stealing in through the sheer-curtained French doors behind Dr. Thornsley’s massive wooden desk.

A low cabinet beneath Lexi’s favorite mummy mask contained, among other mementos, meticulously detailed, expensive copies of assorted treasures from Dr. T’s exca­vations. There were miniature cat- and ibis-headed statues and raised cobras on pharaohs’ headdresses. In addition, Dr. Thornsley had displayed his old compass, badly scratched by desert sands, yellowed dig-site maps, and various archaeological tools. Though fascinating, he and his friends had seen these objects before in what Lexi called Dr. T’s mini museum during their frequent visits to Nutmeg Street.

What had actually grabbed Lanny’s attention was an out-of-place object on the floor to the left of Dr. T’s desk. He stooped to pick it up. It was a small sandstone sphinx. Its right forepaw had cracked off. Lanny knelt and rum­maged under the desk and soon found the broken piece, reuniting it with the maimed original already cupped in his left hand.

From his low position on the floor, Lanny thought he saw a shadow cast on the rug. He turned around quickly to glance in the direction of the French doors. . . .

Come back next time for the conclusion of Chapter 1.



My 2020 Vision

Dear Readers and Other Visionaries,

To clarify, the only time I have 2020 vision is while wearing my eyeglasses! Actually, that’s not even the kind of vision I mean here. I’m talking about my vision for the New Year, appropriately, 2020.

Some might call a vision a resolution or goal, but I prefer vision in this case because it is fun to picture it in my mind.

Simply put, I delightfully foresee my book Nutmeg Street: Egyptian Secrets, once it launches on February 1, 2020, in LOTS of kids’ hands. Like many authors, I plan to give some of my books away to kids for free. My intent as a writer is that my books might bring some of the joy, adventure, and healthy role models to kids as Nancy Drew and Phyllis A. Whitney mysteries did for my childhood.

So get a clue, Readers. I hope you have some goals, visions, or resolutions in mind for 2020. Here’s to more clarity, good adventure, joy, and peace in all our lives. Happy 2020!


A Dickens of a Christmas

Dear Readers and Holiday Revelers,

There is nothing quite like a great book to relax by the fireside during the holidays. My recommendation is A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens (1812-1870), with the unforgettable character Ebenezer Scrooge. (You can get the eBook on Amazon Kindle for $0.99. The Audible version is available for free. Wow! Merry Christmas.)

Many of you have probably seen one or more versions of the movie, but the book is so rich in the imagery of nineteenth-century England that it deserves a read. Experience again the famous line, “‘If they (the poor) would rather die,’ said Scrooge, ‘they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population'”–words that would come back literally to haunt the miserly man and prompt his wake-up call!

Christmas was one of Charles Dickens’ favorite times of the year with it being a major religious event, but not yet commonly celebrated as a festive holiday. He loved the meaning of Christmas, especially Twelfth Night, the Feast of the Epiphany. Dickens’ writings can be credited with introducing feasting, games, family togetherness, and other traditions into Western culture, traditions we still practice to this day.

Did you know that before Queen Victoria came to the throne of England (1837), Charles Dickens had written five short Christmas books and numerous festive stories? In 1843, he was alarmed by the poverty of London and, vowing to “strike a sledge-hammer blow on behalf of the Poor Man’s Child,” wrote A Christmas Carol in six weeks. His goal was to wake up the world to the inequities in life. Beyond social justice, his other goal was to make some fast money since his literary career was at somewhat of a crossroads! Six thousand copies of A Christmas Carol were published by Chapman & Hall of London with Dickens paying the publishing costs himself so that he could receive the profits. (The publishing company received a commission.) It sold well, but he still didn’t make much money from it.

As he wrote what would arguably become his most famous work, Dickens said that he “could feel the Cratchits (Tiny Tim and family) ever tugging at his coat sleeve, impatient for [him] to sit back down and write their story.” As it turned out, the Cratchits’ story resembled the author’s impoverished childhood home life, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch for the author to describe horrible living conditions.

One critic called the story “a national institution.” William Makepeace Thackeray, Dickens’ friend and fellow author, called it “a national benefit.”


So get a clue, Readers. Settle in with your copy of A Christmas Carol. No matter your religion or lack thereof, let the story work its magical message of charitable giving, transformative repentance, and abundant blessings on you and those around you. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!

Gadzooks! Methinks ’tis Yuletide.

Dear Kids and all Writers,

Need inspiration for writing? Check out this true story . . .

As I was decorating my home for the holidays recently, my mind transported me back to the late 1990s. My daughter was in high school then. Despite it being a weekend that December day and so close to the holidays, she had a writing assignment that was giving her fits. She burst out of her bedroom and flopped down on the living room sofa.

“Lucky you,” she said to me angrily. “You get to decorate the Christmas tree while I have to write this dumb paper for my English class.”

“What’s the topic?” I asked.

“Would you believe that I have to write about an object or a feeling as if I were William Shakespeare? You know, in his language called “Early Modern English.” Doesn’t sound too modern to me with all the thee’s and thou’s he tossed around in his plays.”

Before I could say anything, she continued. “And what’s worse, I can’t come up with a topic. And what’s even worse, I’d rather be decorating the tree with you!”

“Well . . . then . . . why not . . . write about that? I replied with a smile.

“About what?”

“About how upset you feel because you’d rather be decorating the Christmas tree with pretty lights and ornaments. You would be describing both an object and a feeling!”

Without another word, my daughter disappeared into her bedroom. Within thirty minutes, she was back, mission accomplished and ready to help decorate!

I laughed as she read her essay to me: “Hark, methinks I spy yon Yuletide tree! Drat! Such pleasures as I donning it with festive fobs is not written in fiery stars . . .” and so on, until I thought the Bard of Avon was sitting in the living room, describing the bright scene!

But best of all, she actually had fun writing the piece once she had an idea. Her laughter as she read was heartwarming for us both.

So get a clue, writers. Sometimes, your next idea might be right in front of you. Listen to your feelings. Look nearby for opportunities. “Gadzooks! Methinks I spy a writer taking up thy quill . . . ”