For several years, I’ve enlisted some poor reviewer to plow through a dozen new Christmas novels and write them up with as little Scroogy annoyance as she can manage. Almost without exception, the books were treacly tales of unexpected Christmas Eve reuions (missing sons; dogs) or cozy stories of North Pole murders (poison cookies; reindeer horn impalings). All of them seemed to evaporate as quickly as Christmas cider.Read full article >>