Every year in December, I watch A Christmas Carol — always the 1984 version with George C. Scott, usually when it really sinks in that the year is coming to an end. Tomomi doesn’t entirely understand why this is my ritual, and honestly, most people would probably assume it’s just holiday tradition — the obvious movie for the season.

But that’s not really why I watch it.

What draws me back each year isn’t the snow, the ghosts, or even the redemption arc. It’s the story behind the story — the state Dickens himself was in when he wrote it. He wasn’t cheerful, settled, or inspired. He wasn’t basking in holiday spirit. 

He was overwhelmed. He was anxious about money. He felt foggy and stuck and unsure of his own creative direction. He walked the streets at night because he couldn’t sit still with the weight of everything.

He wrote A Christmas Carol during one of the most strained periods of his life — financially, emotionally, creatively. A time when he was trying to find meaning in the dark. A time when the world felt unstable and the future uncertain.

And he wrote it fast — feverishly, urgently — because something inside him needed to break through.

I’ve always been fascinated by that. This famous, enduring holiday tale wasn’t born out of joy. It was born out of someone trying to see his way through a year that had taken more than it gave.

That’s why I watch it every December. Not for comfort. Not for nostalgia. But because it reminds me that even when you’re tired or stretched thin or wondering what comes next, there is still something in you that can reach for meaning — even if the reaching is small, quiet, and a little painful.

This year, this ritual feels especially close to the bone. It’s been a long twelve months. Not tragic. Not dramatic. Just…long in the way that wears on you quietly, the way that asks more questions than it answers.

And somehow, watching Scrooge walk through his past, his present, his future — watching him confront the truth of his own life — feels like a reminder that reflection is not a luxury. It’s a human requirement. A way to keep moving, even when you’re not sure where the path is heading.

I don’t know that I’m expecting transformation. Or revelation. Or even clarity. But I do know this:

Every December, this story finds me exactly where I am — tired, searching, and still trying. And maybe that’s enough of a message for this year.

We’ll see you at the workbench.