Site icon Davy D Writer

Christmas in July

Artwork: © Davy D Writer

The world has gone mad. A well-known shopping channel interrupted my television surfing this week by emblazoning the headline, Christmas in July, across my screen. Having survived the hottest day recorded in the UK, Christmas is the last thing on my mind. I stayed on the channel to appease my curiosity and was treated to presenters dressed in various elf and reindeer regalia.

According to my ‘Sleeps Until Christmas ‘App, there are 151 sleeps until the big day, so what is the rush? For me, Christmas has always been about stress, panic, and anxiety. I never start my Christmas shopping until the 23rd of December and look forward to seeing consternation on family member’s faces when confronted with a rash and ill-thought-out purchase.

There is, possibly, a point to this madness and planning could be the future. I am not so sure. I have always been a seat of the pants type of person. Tomorrow is as forward looking as it gets. As a writer, I love the thrill of a looming deadline. It is a personality thing. I struggle to concentrate on any one project for a protracted time and always have numerous writing projects on the go. This enables me to bounce from one to another when my focus starts to wane.

With writing a novel, committing more time to this blog, and a new radio show coming in September, my last ways are reaching a pinnacle. What is a writer to do? If anyone knows of any good books, blog posts or any resource which could help me dip my toes in the murky world of planning, I would love to hear them.

In the meantime, I am taking a small step towards the festive season. No Christmas shopping, but one of my poems, titled, Winter, taken from my debut poetry collection, All Mine. I can feel the chill already.


She dropped in last night, it had been a while.
I missed her at first, too busy slaying dragons
And saving the world. Her calling cards
Of white blankets and grey sky fired the child in me.
Visions of snowball fights and snowmen drew me outside,
Her icy breath coating my throat and nostrils.
In the surrounding silence she pulled me to the floor,
Arms and legs moving like Angels. We played for hours, 
Sliding, cavorting, until her burning touch forced me away.
As green pools appeared on her silken dress, she started 
To withdraw. In a state of panic, I grabbed what remained.
Winter: Audio version

Have a great weekend.

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