My Bookreporter essay recalls an extremely disastrous small-town Christmas horror show, while every other author featured in their 2-month long author-holiday-gift-giving-essay extravaganza recalls some heartwarming Christmas memory involving the Swiss Family Robinson and Louisa May Alcott and — I kid you not — e.e. cummings.
It’s just an observation.
I think disaster is funny and heartwarming.
Also, does this mean no one else has a brother whose old girlfriend is a knife-wielding killer? Really? I think you guys are lying.