Author Lois Lowry

It was the night before Christmas, quite literally. Presents were heaped under a tree in the living room. And all through the house, everyone—which included me, my husband, and four children ranging in age from nine to 13—was asleep. But the Newfoundland dog, Tosh, who weighed 150 pounds, was not asleep because he had sniffed the presents and discovered something that we humans did not know: that someone had given us, beautifully wrapped, a large wheel of cheddar cheese. While we slept, Tosh ate the entire huge cheese and all its lovely wrapping paper. Then he vomited all over the rest of the presents.

Author Robert Sabuda

My favorite holiday story is "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry. The first time I heard this tale was when I was a boy, and I was both horrified and thrilled with it because it didn't have the same typical ending that so many other holiday stories had. Nothing was neatly wrapped up in a conclusionary bow. Both James and Della had received the gifts they so desperately wanted—the watch chain and the combs—but these presents had come at a terrible price. The story was a lesson in unwise sacrifice that I have never forgotten.

Author Kim Siegelson

Though it is neither merry nor heartwarming, "The Little Match-Seller" by Hans Christian Anderson is one of my favorite holiday stories. It takes place on a frigid New Year's Eve as a young girl, shoeless and dressed in rags, huddles between two fine homes and tries to warm herself with a bundle of matches that she has not sold that day. Through the night she has visions of warmth, bounty, and finally her beloved Granny who flies with her to heaven. On the morn she is found frozen in the snow, surrounded by burned matches. That nameless match-girl is the first book character who pinched my child-heart to aching. I suddenly noticed poverty in our town that I hadn't seen. I felt spoiled and a little guilty for having far too many presents under our suburban tree, and more than a gracious plenty to eat. I wanted to share, and it is that desire that still speaks to me most clearly during the bounty of the holiday season. Just outside my front door are those in need and I am grateful for the chance to kindle a light in the dark.

Author/Illustrator Maryann Kovalski

In 1962, my father was the last of his family living in the Bronx. Unless you counted Uncle Benny, who slept on the couch whenever a horse disappointed him, which was most of the time. Maybe they were ready to leave anyway, but when Benny took my brother's piggy bank to pay a gambling debt, my parents had had enough—of Benny and the Bronx. My father sold his chimney sweep business. My mother haggled with the secondhand man over our furniture. Even our winter clothes were given away. Who'd need them? We were moving to Florida! But ripe grapefruit soon spoils. My mother ached for New York. My father couldn't find work to support a wife and four children. Their money was gone in months. In November, wearing summer clothes, we drove back home to start from scratch. We were scattered amongst relatives. My father drove a cab, double shifts, to reunite us. He found an apartment just before Christmas. My mother gave it to us straight up: there was enough for a tree or presents, not both. We'd have to choose. On Christmas Eve we picked the tallest tree in the freight yard. We gorged on tinsel and lights. It was wonderful—until night came. With unspeakably heavy hearts, we went to bed quietly, knowing what wouldn't be waiting for us in the morning. Just after daybreak, I heard Rick shouting for us to come. There was football gear for him and a doll that peed for me. "I knew you didn't mean it," I said to my parents. But their uncomprehending stares made it clear they played no part. After a minute my mother snapped her fingers. "Benny hit a horse!" Other Christmases were more opulent, but they meld in a blur. Who could forget the year that Santa hit a horse?

Author Alex Flinn

My mother decided, from a very early age, that I would be a writer. She subtly reinforced this choice in my head, by making statements like, "When you write a book…" and by sending poems I wrote in school to Highlights magazine (which never published them). The Christmas I was seven years old, she decided to reinforce this further by getting me a typewriter—or rather, Santa did. When I came to the living room in my pajamas, the typewriter was ensconced under the tree. It was bright tomato-red plastic with white trim and had the word "Fedcrest" in white italics on one side. I loved the typewriter, but asked my mother, "Why does it say Fedcrest on it?" "That must be the name of the elf that made it," she replied. I used that typewriter for years after, to write plays for my friends and stories and poems, which I continued to send to Highlights and Kids magazine, and which they continued not to publish. And, for as long as I believed in Santa Claus, I also believed that he had an elf-helper named Fedcrest!