A Christmas in Draft
On my work-in-progress novel, Kezzia
I haven’t shared any of my novel before. This is the first small piece I feel ready to show — from Draft Four. I can already see places that need polishing; right now it’s simply carrying the story. It takes place moments before an idea forms in Kezzia’s mind — one that will change her life forever.
It’s unfinished, but since it’s nearly Christmas 2025, here it is: Christmas 1855.
It’s a quiet Christmas scene, and I’m writing about memory, about how the past can ache even when it glows.
Here’s the scene:
Excerpt (Draft four)
The parlour was quiet, save for the tick of the clock.
Kezzia knelt by the fire, brushing ash from the grate. As her hand moved, a scrap of holly fell from the mantel — brittle now, its red berries dulled to rust. She stared at it for a moment and let memories of Christmas rise.
Not last Christmas — that had been quiet mourning, heavy with silence and black crepe — but the years before, when the world had felt at ease.
She remembered snow falling thick and slow over the orchard, the crunch of boots, and Joe’s delighted shout as he dragged in the tree with Edgar and the gardener’s boy. The drawing room had smelled of pine, orange peel, and clove biscuits. Sarah had threaded silver ribbon through a bowl of ivy and holly, her cheeks flushed.
Her father had carved curls from an apple with his pocketknife and passed them round like sweets, while Mrs Halliday poured spiced wine into tiny glasses “just for the occasion.” Even Edgar had danced — awkwardly — and Joe had danced too, badly and exuberantly.
That was the year Alexei had sent a parcel from Florence: a tiny set of painted Russian dolls for her, and a small book of Italian verse for Sarah. She remembered mislaying those dolls a few months later — searching the house for them, asking Mrs Halliday — but no one had seen them. How she would love to hold them now.
She felt for Alexei’s locket beneath her bodice and wondered where he might be.
Now the fire crackled. The clock ticked. The memory dimmed.
Joe was gone. Sarah was distant. Her father lay in the churchyard.
And Edgar — dear Edgar — had slipped just out of reach.
She did not know whether Alexei still lived.
Kezzia rose and placed the brittle holly in the hearth.
A note from me
When I reread this scene, I can feel what I was reaching for, even if it isn’t there yet. It’s still rough — some phrases I’ll pare back, others I’ll deepen — but I like the quietness of it. I wanted to write grief without grand gestures, to let a single fallen sprig of holly hold a whole lifetime of memory.
Maybe that’s what early drafts are for: finding the emotion before you find the words.
As I move into Draft Five, I’m reminding myself that the first light through fog is still light.
Wishing all my readers a very happy Christmas and a wonderful year ahead in 2026.
Please subscribe to follow my progress and read more of Kezzia’s story as I share excerpts over the coming months. Find my collated posts in My Novel Year.
.👉 I’m Carole — a novelist-in-progress and somatic Life Coach, writing about creativity, change, and the things we carry (and sometimes have to let go). Subscribe for new essays when published. Find out more about my Somatic Life Coaching practice for creatives Here
Thank you for sharing 🥰 not just for these lovely words, for the lovely story and images they evoke, but also for practicing bravery in sharing. You inspire me! Merry Christmas and wishing you a wonderful 2026 🧡
It's lovely!