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. ...

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog