An odd, unexpected and quite lovely book from McDermid ... More than her memories; it is a celebration of all things cold, dark and Scottish. In short, evocative chapters McDermid slides gracefully from topic to topic ... It’s a pleasure to move with McDermid ... A memoir of her heart.
It is memoir-ish, and it did make me wish she would produce a proper memoir. There are hints here ... There is a strangeness about this book. We can all reminisce about writing our names with sparklers or sodden socks while sledging, but – however we make meaning from it – Christmas is still at the centre of the winter season. Although McDermid writes about gifts and about Christmas Day being a work day...there is nothing about Christmas as a religious celebration.
Illustrated with charming woodcuts, with just over a hundred pages of large type, the book is a warm bowl, fit for an hour by the fire. Readers of McDermid’s fiction may miss the blood and anger of crime. Instead, here, you can almost hear the carolers amid the snow and pan across the quiet fields. An endearing panorama of Scottish winters, told by a crime novelist on holiday from horror.
Appealing ... Though the book’s scope is modest, and there’s little in the way of insight about her fiction-writing process, McDermid proves an amiable narrator with an endearing fondness for the year’s dreariest months. It’s a satisfying collection of literary amuse-bouches.
