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. ...

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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