Picking a Favorite Character? Impossible!

The question comes up all the time. It’s inevitable. Like taxes. Or discovering that you’ve been walking around with spinach in your teeth all day.

"Who’s your favorite character?"

And I should have a definitive answer, right? Like, boom—here’s my favorite! Neatly tied up, no hesitation, no emotional turmoil, no staring off into the middle distance questioning my life choices.

But no. That is not how this works. That is not how any of this works.

My knee-jerk reaction is always Pixie. Pixie, my telepathic, sass-infused, magical Papillon from the Magical Papillon Mysteries. How could I not pick her? She’s got it all—wit, charm, fluffy ears, and, most importantly, magic. I mean, who wouldn’t want a touch of magic? I can barely find my car keys half the time. Pixie would just twitch an ear, and boom—problem solved.

And she’s funny. Not just “accidentally amusing” funny. No, she’s deliberately funny. She says the things we all wish we could say, with perfect comedic timing and an impressive lack of self-awareness. She’s got that quirky, mischievous, “Oh, did I just cause minor chaos? My bad. Or was it?” energy that makes life more interesting.

But then there’s Sarah. My strong, determined, occasionally exhausted single mom protagonist who stumbles into a world of magic and murder and somehow keeps it together. (Mostly. There’s coffee involved.) She’s the kind of character I admire—fierce, loving, loyal. The one who shoulders responsibility but still manages to crack a joke. Could I pick her as my favorite? Absolutely.

Except then I remember Matthew. Steadfast Matthew. Loyal, practical, steady-as-a-rock Matthew. The man who, in Book Six (which you haven’t read yet, but trust me, it’s coming), looks Sarah in the eyes during a time shift, when everything is unraveling, and says “I will find you in every lifetime.”

Did I cry when I wrote that? Maybe. Did I dramatically sigh and stare out a window, contemplating fate and romance? Absolutely. That line alone makes him a contender.

And don’t even get me started on Connor Beauregard, the swashbuckling charmer with a reckless streak, or Rafael, his steadfast sidekick who would follow him into a storm. They bring adventure, danger, a little roguish charm… How do I not pick them? Or Ethan the software developer who is too smart for his own good, and his best friend Brad, falling into a trap so many of us would have?

See? This is impossible.

But at the end of the day, I still circle back to Pixie. Because she has something I’ve always wanted.

She’s effortlessly funny. She doesn’t take herself too seriously. She’s magical. And, let’s be honest—she’s adorable. I’ve always wanted to be effortlessly pretty, the kind of person who just rolls out of bed looking like a whimsical fairy tale. Instead, I’m more “accidentally fell into a hedge while carrying coffee.”

So yes, it’s Pixie.

(But also Matthew. And Sarah. And Connor. And Rafael. And—oh no, we’re back at the beginning again.)

Picking a favorite character is like picking a favorite child. Or a favorite snack. Or a favorite TV show. Impossible.

So… final answer? Pixie. But also… well, let’s just say, don’t hold me to it. You tell ME who you like best... :-)

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

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