Can We Get a Do-Over on the Long Weekend, Please?

Ah, the Canada day - Fourth of July weekend. Fireworks! Freedom! A glorious expanse of uninterrupted time stretching out like a freshly opened notebook, just begging to be filled with literary brilliance.

This, dear reader, is what I tell myself every single year.

"This is it!" I proclaim. "The long weekend where I finally finish that chapter, outline the next book, update my website, reorganize my plotting board, and maybe—maybe—even alphabetize my coffee and chocolate drawer. (Creative minds thrive on chocolate, okay?)"

I even tell my friends. With utter conviction. "Oh, I'm writing all weekend. No distractions. Just me, my laptop, and the sweet click-clack of productivity."

But then…

Well, then real life crashes the party with potato salad and a sun hat.

Let me set the scene. It's the first truly beautiful weekend we've had in forever. After an apocalyptic winter that left me questioning if I should start writing Narnia fanfic and a spring that could best be described as “moody,” the sun finally shows up. And with it, my dog Blueberry—the five-pound Papillon boss of me—starts giving me the look.

You know the one. The "We’re not spending this weekend inside staring at that glowing rectangle, are we?" look. The one that says, “Get your hiking boots, woman. This fluffball needs trail time.”

And so we hike. And frolic. And stop seventeen times to let Blueberry sniff one suspicious clump of grass.

Then there’s the laundry. I swear my laundry multiplies like plot twists in a paranormal cozy mystery. At some point over the weekend, my pile of clothes threatens to become sentient. I realize I’ve been grabbing socks from the ‘maybe clean?’ basket for four days, and it’s probably time to either do laundry or join a nudist colony.

And let’s not even talk about the five new episodes of my favorite show that dropped. I meant to watch just one—just one—for a brain break. Three hours later I’m deep in a Wikipedia rabbit hole researching 17th-century footwear because the villain was wearing suspiciously modern boots and now I have questions.

But don’t worry—I did open my manuscript.

I just also accidentally opened a tab to look up “how time travel works in fiction” because I had a little idea that maybe, just maybe, I could squeeze in a fun subplot. Which turned into reading a 9,000-word fan theory, two Reddit threads, and some scientific paper about wormholes that I’m pretty sure was written by an actual Time Lord.

And suddenly—poof!—it’s Tuesday. My manuscript is still blinking at me like, “You good?” and I’m sitting here wondering if anyone else feels like the long weekend just ghosted them.

I wasn’t ready. I need a do-over. A writer mulligan. Can someone talk to the time travel people and get me another go at that long weekend?

Please?

In the meantime, I’ll be here—half writing, half laundry-ing, half hiking (math is optional), and fully embracing the chaotic beauty that is summer, writing life, and the sneaky way weekends evaporate like popsicles on a porch.

Happy belated writing weekend, friends. Maybe next year I’ll actually finish that chapter. Or at least alphabetize the coffee and chocolate.

Maybe.

The Encyclopedia Was Our Google — And Dad Was Our Search Engine

You know you’re not a digital native when the word “research” makes you smell paper and hear the satisfying thud of a heavy book landing on a table. Welcome to my childhood, where curiosity was rewarded not with Wi-Fi, but with a stack of alphabetically-organized mystery bricks called encyclopedias . Let me take you back. The year? Somewhere in the analog era. The place? Our living room, where we had the entire Bertelsmann encyclopedia collection proudly displayed like it was the crown jewel of human knowledge. We didn’t just own knowledge—we subscribed to it. One glorious volume arrived each month, like an academic advent calendar for nerdy children. Volume “A” to “Z,” with deep sighs of longing in between. I swear, I still remember the day Volume “P” arrived. I rushed to the mailbox like I was expecting a letter from a secret admirer. Nope. Just got the lowdown on Photosynthesis and Peru. But did that stop me from doing a dramatic reading of it over dinner? No, it did not. M...

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 ...

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. ...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog