How to Not Write a Best-Selling Novel

As the excitement surrounding the festive seasons burst like a thunderous firework for its admiring spectators to witness and pour their joy upon à la merry-singing Christmas style, my nerves are preparing for a very startling signal to commence a worry which has become more traditional than purchasing so-called 'popular' CDs which are chucked away into the next car boot sale: getting my rougher-than-an-accent hands dirty by writing a festive-themed novel. Ugh, this annual nightmare which somehow seeps into my mind without leaving a trail or planting any clues which even puzzle-mastering Nancy Drew can comprehend manages to stir up more problems that I already have to deal with - hello, has anyone bothered to remember the ugly breakout on my chin recently?

Seriously, around this time in near mid-December, my life-long yearning to spend at least an hour more in front of a glossy red-covered laptop to achieve my ambitions of producing the next best-selling Christmas novel of the year springs out of nowhere - rather like my new kitten, Bart, whose wide-eyed curiosity has already landed him in trouble within ten minutes by leaping through a gate located in the 'hub' (otherwise known as the kitchen, a land of golden chocolate coins waiting to be snatched) in an astounded blur - and creates this sudden surge of panic to think of a fully-developed story within the next five minutes. Even if you don't have lunch with horror writer Stephen King once a week or are attempting to curb an on-going addiction to Mills and Boons novels, it doesn't take an university graduate or self-titled genius to realize that flying into a dismayed panic does not guarantee a much-envied place on The Sunday Times best-sellers list, much to my befallen hopes and angrily muttering disappointment.

Of course, I should bear this in mind because it was only back during the hottest summers in seven years (a.k.a. the one which almost everyone except myself wishes was still here, remember?) that my inner courage took the world by storm which later resulted in a story being written and completed - all before I eventually returned to my studies, astonished by the work which I couldn't quite bring myself to believe was entirely my own. Whenever my mum popped the question regarding my out-of-the-blue determination to dedicate hours on end to typing a chapter or two on my smaller-than-a-plate notebook, no answer - at least, none which weren't in a sense logical - would form itself on the tip of my tongue, awaiting to be dished out and spilled in a less messier manner than the glass of milk my brother sometimes 'fails' to finish. Whether boredom had dared to claim my soul and store it inside a greyer-than-a-teenage-strop dungeon for the remaining weeks of the summer holidays or something truly wonderful clicked in my hard-working brain, I'll never know: all which took up my time until early September was handing over my reins to my previously locked-away imagination, witnessing a near-lost dream be restored to vivid life.

So, a girl like myself, who is amusingly compared to brainiac Lisa Simpson (by a certain Simpsons fan whose secret boyhood idol is modern icon Bart) and trusts her gut instincts whenever she has stepped the dangerously thin line as to how much dark eyeliner she ought to wear without resembling a dog-tired panda, should know the best method of creating a fictional novel without coming across a dead end, right? Although my original method may not be viewed as the best or necessarily a wise one - bizarrely, placing too much attention on the plot before I have even started to type a single word makes me hit an undestroyable wall, therefore reaching an abrupt end at what should have been a wonderful beginning - it works absolutely fine for myself and steadily maintains my enjoyment during the writing progress, which can come across tedious moments of confusion and pure hot-headed irritation; not particularly the emotions that a loving family wish to go through with a red-eyed teenager, is it?

If I do continue to experience these painful feelings in relation to writing a novel - and also missing an one-time-only (or once-in-a-lifetime, as mighty online retailer Amazon 'forgot' to add in the description) offer on a novel-writing guidebook during an internet-freezing Black Friday sale, thanks to my father whose gifts at clicking a button at one mph will not be erased from my memory in a hurry - I'll probably have no other choice than to gather my ideas at the beginning of the New Year in order to avoid a last-minute rush before the festivities begin. Maybe there is a reason why I never enjoy going out and wandering through the crowded streets on Christmas Eve; alongside my hunger-satisfying breakfast of sugar-free muesli nearly being brought up my scorching hot throat at the sight of a boy band-themed toothbrush in a supermarket leaflet this morning, there is nothing that creates as much fear as being forced into a tiny corner and given a strict order to perform a task which is clearly easier said than done. As an independent young adult, I don't wish to return to my days of being barked at to behave like a sweet-faced angel and receiving a demand twice, otherwise what is the point of growing older and, as many would expect, a lot wiser? And what is even worse is that I am giving myself the near-impossible task of completing a job within a noticeably decreasing time limit: how on earth do I conquer a battle which I have somehow conjured of my own accord?

Since there are no longer any places where I can attempt to squeeze my hoodie-wearing self into a ball and hide away from novel-related hassles (unfortunately, the corner-adoring kittens have already reserved their spaces for the time being; hmm, my heart manages to envy their lavishly-led lifestyle), I'm going to have to get off my chair - obviously once I've finished writing this, of course - and face the bookworm demons sending me terrorizing threats to produce a book which will probably either become an esteem-destroying disaster or never see the light of day: which of those two unappealing options would I choose? None, if a decision could be made! Relaxation and a drop or two of easily-stretched imagination are the two vital ingredients which can potentially create a story which generates heartfelt pride and leaves you feeling satisfied of your passionately produced work - how could I dare to forget those two basic facts during my euphoric ten minutes dedicated to unleashing my newfound passion of brazil nuts, a festive favourite beloved by thousands across the world? Forget about slaving myself away whilst a welcome blast of warm winter sunshine bursts through my see-through curtains and the treasured Christmas decorations - from teddy bear-patterned stockings to happily-smiling Santa Claus ornaments to beautifully designed lights which warm your heart as much as it brightens your festive mood - are loving adorned in almost every room I go to: now I've come to the conclusion that forcing myself to do something which may not be currently in my best interests is not the end- and be-all as to how I go about completing a task with passion and clarity. Maybe when my writing skills have progressed beyond telling of my 'fictional' tales about yellow-headed spots and a mane of lifeless-looking hair oiler than a roast potato, I will feel ready to produce a Christmas-themed story of mine without resorting to nail-biting panic half-way through my chocolate advent calender.

And that, I hasten to add, is how to not write a novel!