Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 24

December 24, 2025 – Christmas Eve

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships during Life Transitions

Today’s Story: The Novel Unwritten

Louise sat at her desk on December 19th, staring at a blank document titled “Chapter One—Draft 47” while her cursor blinked with what felt like instant judgment. Outside her window, Labastide d’Armagnac’s medieval square was strung with Christmas lights, the stone arcades decorated with garlands, the village doing its annual Christmas market preparation that she’d been ignoring for two years.

Two years. Two years since she’d fled Paris—her law firm, her corner office, her miserable seventy-hour weeks—to write the historical novel she’d dreamed about since university. Two years living in this perfect medieval bastide village with its 13th-century architecture and rich Armagnac history, and absolutely ideal writing conditions.

She’d written exactly zero words that weren’t immediately deleted.

Her phone buzzed. Solange: Arriving in 20 minutes. Made cassoulet. Bringing wine. Don’t pretend you’re not home, I can see your car on Google Maps.

Louise looked around her cottage—dishes in the sink, laundry on every surface, manuscript pages scattered like evidence of a crime, the specific chaos of someone who’d given up.

Twenty minutes wasn’t enough time to hide two years of failure.

Solange arrived exactly on time because she was a literary agent and punctuality was apparently a professional disease. She took one look at Louise’s cottage and said, “Oh, merde.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Louise, there’s a coffee cup growing mould that might achieve sentience. Also, you’re wearing the same sweater you wore in your last video call three weeks ago. Also—” she picked up a manuscript page, read it, made a face “—this is terrible. Not ‘needs editing’ terrible. ‘Written by someone having a breakdown’ terrible.”

“Thank you. Very supportive.”

“I’m not here to be supportive. I’m here because you stopped answering my ‘how’s the novel going’ texts, which means either you’re dead or you haven’t written anything.” Solange unpacked cassoulet and wine with the efficiency of someone conducting a professional intervention. “So. How many words?”

“I’ve been revising—”

“How many NEW words in the last six months?”

Louise stared at her hands. “Zero.”

Solange poured wine into two relatively clean glasses. “You moved here to write your great French historical novel about Armagnac production in the Hundred Years’ War. You researched for six months. You have forty-three history books. You have a perfect medieval village literally outside your window. And you’ve written nothing.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Louise’s voice cracked. “Because I don’t care about Armagnac production in the Hundred Years’ War. I thought I did. I thought escaping Paris meant I’d become this literary person who writes important historical fiction. Instead, I’m just a failed lawyer who can’t write, living alone in a village where I know no one, slowly going insane while pretending to work.”

Solange ate cassoulet thoughtfully. “You know everyone in this village is preparing for a medieval Christmas market?”

“Yes. Very authentic. People will dress in period costume, sell medieval crafts, there’s a storytelling competition for children about village history—”

“And you’re not participating.”

“I don’t know anyone. I came here to write, not socialise—”

“You came here to escape. Different thing.” Solange stood, walked to Louise’s window, pointed at the square. “That. That’s your novel.”

“What?”

“The village. Not historical Armagnac production—actual Labastide d’Armagnac. Now. The people preparing the market. The woman arguing with her husband about medieval costume accuracy. The baker who makes croustade the way his grandmother did. The actual living history you’ve been ignoring because you thought ‘important novels’ had to be about the past.”

“That’s not a historical novel—”

“So write contemporary fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or a collection of village stories. Who cares? The point is you’re blocked because you’re trying to write about a past you researched instead of a present you’re living in but refusing to see.” Solange pulled out her phone. “When’s the market?”

“December 23rd. Four days.”

“You’re going to help organise it.”

“Solange, I can’t just—”

“You can and you will. They need help with the storytelling competition—I saw a notice at the mairie. You’re a lawyer. You can organise things. Also, you’ll meet people, hear their stories, remember why you moved to a medieval village instead of staying in Paris, making everyone miserable, including yourself.”

“I don’t know anything about medieval storytelling—”

“Neither do the children. That’s the point. Come on.” Solange was already texting someone. “Marguerite—she runs the bakery—her daughter is organising the children’s component. I’m telling her you’re volunteering. Done. You’re meeting her tomorrow at the mairie at 10 AM. Wear clean clothes. Shower first. Possibly burn that sweater.”

The next morning, Louise stood in the mairie—the medieval town hall, all stone and timber and centuries of bureaucratic authority—meeting Marguerite’s daughter Élodie, who was twenty-eight and terrifically organised and clearly sceptical that a random Parisian lawyer could help with a children’s storytelling competition.

“The concept,” Élodie explained, “is that children research a real historical figure or event from Labastide’s history and present it as a story. Five minutes each. We have twelve children registered. I need someone to help them structure their narratives and practice delivery. Can you do that?”

“I was a litigator. I can do narrative structure and delivery.”

“Good. They’re meeting here after school today. 4 PM. Don’t be late—they’re children, they have limited attention spans and strong opinions about historical accuracy.”

Louise spent the day reading everything she could find about Labastide d’Armagnac: founded in 1291, a bastide (fortified town) built on a grid pattern, famous for Armagnac production, occupied during the Hundred Years’ War, survived plague and revolution and modernisation while maintaining its medieval architecture.

At 4 PM, twelve children arrived with their parents, all looking at Louise with the particular scepticism children reserve for unfamiliar adults claiming to have useful knowledge.

“Bonjour,” Louise said, suddenly nervous in a way she’d never been in a courtroom. “I’m Louise. I’m helping with storytelling. Who wants to go first?”

A boy—maybe ten—raised his hand. “I’m researching Henri IV, who stayed here in 1583. But my story is boring. He just stayed in a house and probably ate food. How do I make that interesting?”

“What food?”

“What?”

“What did he eat? Was it different from what we eat now? Did someone cook it? Was it a feast or just dinner? Who else was there?”

The boy’s face lit up. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Historical events aren’t just dates and names. They’re people eating meals, having conversations, making decisions that seemed commonplace at the time but turned out to matter. Your job is to make 1583 feel real. What did the house smell like? What was the weather? Did Henri IV like the food or complain about it?”

They worked for two hours. Louise helped a girl researching a medieval plague doctor make her story less terrifying and more entertaining. Helped a boy transform his dry research about Armagnac distillation into a story about a distiller’s apprentice learning the craft. Helped twins arguing over whether Eleanor of Aquitaine had visited Labastide (inconclusive historical evidence) structure their debate as a dramatic dialogue.

By 6 PM, all twelve children had narratives that worked. Their parents looked impressed. Élodie looked stunned.

“You’re good at this,” she said as everyone left.

“I used to explain complex legal arguments to juries. Similar skill set, smaller audience, higher stakes in terms of historical accuracy.”

“Will you come to the rehearsal tomorrow? They’ll need more help.”

Louise found herself saying yes.

That night, for the first time in two years, she wrote. Not about Armagnac in the Hundred Years’ War. About the boy researching Henri IV. About the plague doctor girl. About what it felt like to help twelve children make history real through storytelling.

Five hundred words. Then a thousand. Then she looked up and it was 2 AM, and she’d written three thousand words about Labastide d’Armagnac—not historical, not researched, just observed. The baker who made croustade like his grandmother. The woman who was arguing about costume accuracy because her family had lived here for nine generations. The children who were connecting to their village’s past by making it present through stories.

December 23rd. The medieval Christmas market filled Labastide’s square with period costumes, craft stalls, the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine. The storytelling competition happened in the arcades—twelve children presenting their research as stories, their parents watching, the whole village turning out to hear its own history told by its youngest residents.

Louise stood at the back, watching a ten-year-old boy describe Henri IV eating garbure (vegetable soup) in a house that still stood three streets away, making 1583 feel immediate and real and connected to now.

Solange appeared beside her. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not—these are just—it’s cold—”

“You’re crying because you’re proud of them. Also, because you finally remembered why you wanted to write.” Solange handed her a handkerchief. “So. The novel about medieval Armagnac production?”

“Abandoned. I’m writing something else.”

“About?”

“This village. These people. The children who make history real. The baker’s croustade. What it means to live in a place with nine hundred years of history and make it present instead of past.” Louise looked at the square, at the lights, at the medieval architecture filled with contemporary life. “I don’t know if it’s important literature. But it’s true. And I care about it.”

“Good. Important literature is overrated. True stories about people you care about? That sells.” Solange smiled. “Send me pages in January. Real pages, not research notes. I’ll get you a publisher.”

“You haven’t read it—”

“Don’t need to. You’re writing again. You know these people now. You care. That’s enough.”

Later, after the market closed, after the children had won their prizes (the Henri IV boy took first place), after Louise had been invited to help organise next year’s competition, she walked back to her cottage through Labastide’s medieval streets.

The blank document was still on her computer. “Chapter One—Draft 47.”

She deleted it. Started new: “Chapter One—The Storytellers.”

And wrote: The children of Labastide d’Armagnac were preparing to make history come alive, which was harder than it sounded because history, as Margaux explained to her classmates, was mostly just people eating food and making decisions that seemed boring at the time but turned out to matter later.

One thousand words. Then two thousand. Then dawn breaking over the medieval square and Louise realising she’d written through the night, that her novel wasn’t about the past she’d researched but the present she’d finally stopped running from.

Sometimes the story you need to write is the one you’re already living.

You just have to show up long enough to realise that.

At my retreats, storytelling creates a bridge between where you have been and where you’re going. It helps us make sense of our lives in a way that facts and advice alone never can. When we share stories—our own and each other’s—we begin to see meaning in what we’ve lived through, not just the hardship but also the resulting growth. Stories create connection, incite deep reflection, and allow us to gently reframe life transitions, allowing us to step out of who we’ve been and imagine who we’re becoming.

Wishing you a joyful Christmas and a happy and healthy 2026!

The Make Friends and Maintain Friendships Masterplan

During challenging times, friends often serve as our guiding lights. They may not have all the answers, but their presence helps us find our way. This holiday season, take a moment to honour the friends who’ve been a source of light in your life.

Think about the friend who calls just to check in, the one who sends a random text that makes you smile, or the person who’s always willing to listen. These acts, no matter how small, are profound reminders that you are not alone.

Just as your friends light your path, you have the power to brighten theirs. Even if life feels uncertain right now, trust that the light you share will always be enough.

When you want to give up, reach out to the friend who’ll tell you hard truths—and say yes when they volunteer you for community projects you’ve been avoiding. Stop hiding. Engage with the present instead of researching the past. Let people and their stories in. Worst case scenario: You spend a few days helping with a children’s event, meet some neighbours, and still struggle with your original project. Best case scenario: Your literary agent best friend shows up, finds you in crisis, and realises you’re blocked not because you can’t write but because you’re trying to write about a researched past instead of the lived present you’ve been ignoring. She volunteers you to help with a children’s storytelling competition that forces you to engage with your village, meet actual people with actual stories, and remember that the best writing comes from caring about real humans in real places, not from researching centuries-old Armagnac production in isolation. You discover your novel was always about this village—not its medieval past but its living present, the baker’s grandmother’s recipe, the children making history real, the nine-hundred-year-old architecture filled with contemporary life. You learn that writer’s block isn’t about lack of discipline—it’s about trying to write stories you don’t actually care about, and that sometimes the cure is just showing up for your community until you care enough about real people to make them real on the page.

Who has been a source of light in your life this year? How can you express your gratitude to them this holiday season? Reach out to a friend who’s been there for you and let them know how much they mean to you.

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