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.

Writers, Don’t Be a Slave to Word Count: Let the Story Speak for Itself

As writers, we’ve all asked ourselves that nagging question: “Is my book long enough? Too short? How long should it be?” It’s easy to get caught up in the numbers, obsessing over whether our work fits neatly into arbitrary word count guidelines. But here’s the truth: Word count should never dictate the quality of your story. The heart of storytelling lies in the narrative itself, not in how many pages it spans. The Pressure of Word Count From NaNoWriMo goals to publishing industry standards, writers face constant reminders about “acceptable” word counts. A novel must be 80,000-100,000 words. A novella shouldn’t exceed 40,000. Short stories have their own limits. These guidelines are helpful, but they can also be stifling. We begin to pad scenes unnecessarily or trim meaningful moments just to conform to these benchmarks. I’ve been there. I’ve wrestled with my manuscript, forcing it to stretch or condense to meet expectations. And you know what happened? The authenticity of the...

The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

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 comed...

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