Appreciating the Old: A Love Letter to Things That Last

There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together?

I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.)

But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and an exterior that screams, Welcome to the most expensive shipping container ever built! And then the realtor listing has the audacity to describe them as “luxury modern homes with a minimalist aesthetic.”

Minimalist? Oh, honey, you just forgot to add character.

And the worst part? We’ve somehow developed this weird belief that old = bad. Not classic, not vintage, just dated, and therefore, disposable. As if the passage of time immediately devalues everything.

Take my beloved 22-year-old convertible VW Beetle. She’s not flashy. She doesn’t have some AI-driven parking system that beeps at me every time I get within three feet of a bush. But she’s cute as hell. And unlike all these new cars that require a spaceship-level user manual just to start them, she turns on with a key. Yes, an actual key. Remember those? You put it in the ignition and—gasp—the car starts. No fingerprint scans. No touchscreen prompts asking you to update the software before you can drive to the store. Just a good old-fashioned key and a reliable engine.

That’s the thing about well-crafted, beautiful things. They last.

The same goes for books and paintings. Imagine if we treated literature the way we treat homes? “Oh, Shakespeare? Ew. So dated. That’s, like, so 1600s. Let’s bulldoze it and replace it with a tweet.”

Or art: “The Mona Lisa? That’s old. Let’s throw it out and replace it with a stock image of a motivational cat poster.”

See how ridiculous that sounds? But that’s exactly what we’re doing with architecture, furniture, and even our own sense of appreciation.

Look, I don’t want to bring back floral wallpaper. No one should have to suffer through that again. But can we at least acknowledge that craftsmanship, beauty, and history matter? That not everything old should be chucked into a dumpster to make way for a soulless geometric void?

Give me a house with creaky wooden floors. Give me a car that starts with a key. Give me a library of books that smell like history instead of an e-reader that runs out of battery right when I get to the best part.

Old isn’t bad. It’s just…experienced. And frankly, I’ll take a little experience over yet another overpriced, boxy monstrosity any day.

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...

Negronis, art, and the Next Mystery

You know you have the best readers in the world when they politely demand the next book—with extra exclamation marks and not a hint of shame. So many of you have been asking (some quite insistently, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my day) about the next Magical Papillon Mystery . Those of you who asked on social media — thank you!!! To all of you, I say — bless your sweet, book-loving hearts, and fear not. Pixie will return! Here’s what happened… Last Christmas, after one (or more) festive Negronis with my very talented artist friend, I made the kind of pronouncement that can only come after equal parts gin, vermouth, and orange. I looked around her house — absolutely overflowing with paintings, colors, and canvases stacked like leaning towers of artistic chaos — and said something like, “Wouldn’t it make a great story if someone inherited a house full of original art, and every painting had a secret behind it, and they had to solve the mysteries one by one…?” Well. One...

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