Behind the Mic with Mom: A Papillon’s Perspective on Audiobooks, Barking, and the Great Talking Scam

Dear Human Readers,

Hi. It’s me. Pixie. The fluffy superstar of the Magical Papillon Mysteries—and the uncredited, unpaid, and completely underappreciated behind-the-scenes talent of this entire household.

So apparently, this week’s blog post is “About the Author.” But really, who knows her better than me? I see all. I hear all. I nap through most of it. So buckle up, because I'm about to tell you what it’s really like living with a writer who moonlights as an audiobook narrator—and spoiler alert: it involves a lot of dramatic whisper-talking and an unreasonable amount of “SHHHH-ing.”

Let’s talk about the Little Room.

No, not the bathroom. The other little room. The one filled with foam panels and wires and that giant puffy microphone that looks like it should be chasing Indiana Jones through a cave. This, apparently, is where “the magic happens.” I call it the Box of Solitude and Unjust Barking Bans.

Every day, Mom walks in there with her mug of tea (that I’m not allowed to sip from—rude), puts on her “serious narrator face,” and starts talking. For hours. Just talking. Out loud. To no one.

And I get in trouble for barking at a raccoon?? Who’s the real menace to society here?

She reads these stories—stories about me, mind you, because we all know who the real star is—and acts like she's doing something hard. "Oh Pixie, I’m tired. I had to do a 15-page monologue today.” Oh please. I had to run full-speed across the backyard because the neighbor's cat looked at me funny. That’s stamina.

Sometimes she does "character voices." I swear, one time she tried to do a British accent and sounded like Mary Poppins on helium. I barked. Because obviously someone needed to put a stop to it. She called it “ruining the take.” I call it community service.

Let’s not even get into the injustice of it all. I get yelled at for vocalizing my opinions, but she can go on for HOURS talking to imaginary people in her head and that’s considered “work”? Dogs don’t talk for a reason. It’s called evolutionary wisdom, Karen.

And when she’s done? Oh, the drama. She staggers out of the box like she’s returned from the mines. “Pixie,” she moans, “my voice is shot, I need honey.” Meanwhile, I’m out here voice-ready, hair brushed, ears perked, looking adorable—twenty-four-seven. Where’s my honey?

I did offer to help once. I pawed the mic. I even gave a little bark-squeak (perfect for chapter endings!). But was I thanked? No. I was bribed with a biscuit and escorted out like a diva at a garden party.

So now I lie outside the booth. Waiting. Watching. Judging. Occasionally farting.

One day, she’ll realize what an asset I am. Until then, I’ll continue my work as an Emotional Support Fluff, squirrel surveillance agent, and audiobook quality-control technician (I bark every time she mispronounces “sarsaparilla”).

So next time you listen to one of her audiobooks, remember: there’s a five-pound genius behind it all, unsung, unbarked, and unjustly shushed.

Sincerely,
Pixie the Papillon
Resident Muse, Bark-eting Specialist, and Voiceover Critic Extraordinaire

P.S. I’m available for voice acting roles. I specialize in “yappy yet charming.”

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. ...

Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog