Am I Perfect? Are You Kidding Me?!

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect. And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.)

You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.”

But here’s the thing – I wrote this. It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something to be proud of. It’s like my first attempt at baking a cake – sure, it might have looked like a science experiment gone wrong, but it was mine. And slowly, over time, my writing has gotten better. Like that cake – I’ve learned to not use baking soda instead of baking powder, and to avoid using every pan I own in the process.

I used to be a “pantser” – for those who don’t know, that’s a writer who goes by the seat of their pants and just… well, writes. No plot, no plan, just a cup of coffee and a vague idea of what the character might do next. It’s all fun and games until you hit chapter three and realize you’ve written yourself into a corner, with a plot twist that makes absolutely no sense. But guess what? That was me. And I survived.

Now? Well, now I’m a “plotter.” Yes, I know. I made the leap. I’ve learned to make notes. A lot of notes. Big notes. Little notes. Post-its everywhere, like a weird office supply explosion. But those notes? They keep me from writing myself into that corner again. And I’ll be honest, the plotter lifestyle is way more stable, even if I do have to admit that the magic of spontaneous storytelling is sometimes hard to let go of.

And here’s the kicker – I’ve come to realize that writing is a business. A serious one. It’s not just about writing whatever crazy idea pops into my head and calling it a day (though, to be fair, that’s a huge part of the fun). It’s about understanding that every book I put out there is a product, and the best way to treat it is to treat it seriously. That means setting goals, making deadlines, and yes, even scheduling in time for all those notes and edits. It means figuring out what works, what doesn’t, and not being afraid to scrap something that’s just not right. Trust me, I’ve had to scrap a lot of things. A lot.

But here's the thing: It’s okay to not be perfect. I know that every time I hit "publish" on a new book, someone might think, "Hmm, this could’ve been better." And you know what? They’re probably right. But I’m learning. I’m growing. And I’m getting better with every book I write.

So, to anyone out there who’s ever been too afraid to start something because they weren’t sure if it would be perfect – take it from me. Don’t wait for perfection. Just do it. Write it. Create it. Because in the end, it’s all about learning from the mistakes and finding your own unique voice.

After all, being human in the age of AI? Well, that’s a pretty big deal.

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...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

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