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 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...

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