I touched on this subject in a recent blog, when I wrote about clients who ask me in October or November if they can still get their book out in time for Christmas, outlining why it isn’t a good idea, why rushing something as personal and important as a book simply to hit a festive deadline does nothing but cheapen the work.
But the question persists, mostly because people look at the avalanche of ‘books for Christmas’ piled high in shops every December and imagine that’s the market they need to join.
So let’s expand on that. Let’s have a proper, unvarnished look at what the Christmas book market really is.
Because every year, the festive conveyor belt cranks into life and churns out titles that are ‘books’ in name only.
These things aren’t created, they’re manufactured.
They’re designed to be bought, wrapped, unwrapped, and then forgotten faster than a stale mince pie. They are the literary equivalent of novelty socks: colourful, harmless, briefly amusing-and destined to be stuffed in a drawer until they’re quietly binned.
You know the ones. In fact, you’ve probably walked past them and felt your IQ drop slightly just reading the covers:
The Very Mildly Amusing Book of Dad Jokes 2026
Celebrity X’s Utterly Pointless Guide to Happiness
The National Football Statistics Annual (featuring exactly the same stats as last year)
The Big Quiz Book of Things You’ve Already Forgotten
Bake Off Star Who Didn’t Win But Nearly Did: My Life in 57 Recipes You Won’t Make
That kind of thing. Glossy, loud, vaguely festive-and as deep as a puddle on Boxing Day.
These books aren’t written; they’re assembled in a hurry.
Huge fonts.
Oceans of white space masquerading as pagination.
Chapters that barely run to a page and a half.
A centre section of glossy photos showing the author laughing while holding a mug.
Puzzle pages.
Quizzes.
A scattering of ‘fun facts’ culled from a thirty second Google search.
And always, always, blank pages at the back for your own notes as if the publisher has simply given up and hopes the reader might finish the book themselves.
They’re cheaply produced, cheaply printed, and-let’s just say it-cheaply conceived.
They exist for about three weeks. Many are read in the time it takes to eat a chocolate coin. Most end up in a charity shop before the New Year’s Eve fireworks have even gone off.
Meanwhile, proper writers, people who bleed into the page, are asking whether their book should be rushed out to compete with this annual festival of nonsense. Whether their story, something with depth, meaning, emotion, should be shoved through production just to sit under a tree alongside a novelty calendar and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.
And this is why Couzens-Lake Publishing will never — never — rush a book to meet Christmas morning.
Because real books deserve better than being lost among this sea of flimsy stocking fillers.
Good writing isn’t seasonal.
It isn’t disposable.
And it isn’t something to be wrapped in glitter and forgotten by January.
A real book should outlast the wrapping paper.
It should matter. It should be kept, not cast aside.
Christmas books? Let the supermarkets have them. We’ll focus on the ones that actually count.
