Gone North… for “Research.” (Sort of.)

Friends, readers, fellow caffeine-dependent life forms—

This is your friendly neighborhood author reporting live from... somewhere just shy of the Arctic Circle. Okay, maybe not that far north, but it feels like it. Especially when your only connection to civilization involves plugging in the Starlink and hoping the squirrels don’t chew through the cable.

Now, you know me. I’m all about showing up, putting on the writing pants (they're stretchy, obviously), and getting the words down. I love a good “sit down and do the thing” moment. That’s my jam. But sometimes, you’ve got to do something radical.

You have to... stop.

I know. Take a breath. I’ll wait while you recover from that bombshell.

Truth is, the creative well doesn’t refill itself, especially not when I’m knee-deep in deadlines, plotting magical mysteries, and making sure Pixie the Papillon doesn’t unionize for more treats and magical screen time. So I did something wild: I packed up, left the to-do list behind, and escaped north. Way north.

Not to some far-flung beach paradise where you sip tiny umbrella drinks while someone fans you with a palm leaf (though if you're offering, I won’t say no). Nope. I'm staying right here in good ol’ Ontario—just the part where your GPS gives up and starts blinking “???". I’ve gone where the roads are gravel, the loons outnumber the people, and the only Starbucks is a moose-shaped shadow at sunrise.

And let me tell you, it’s glorious.

There's limited Wi-Fi (one hour a day if you ask Starlink nicely), no city noise, and absolutely zero chance of me "accidentally" reorganizing the spice drawer instead of writing. I’ve traded scrolling for stargazing. I’ve swapped email refreshes for campfire crackles. And I’ve remembered something vital:

The best ideas don’t come when you force them.

They sneak up while you're kayaking down a misty river, or while you’re trying to swat a mosquito with your sandal and end up in a full yoga pose. They arrive somewhere between your third marshmallow and the realization that chipmunks are cuter when they’re not stealing your trail mix.

So yes, I’ve temporarily left behind the hum of modern life to sit with the silence, to scribble in notebooks with sap on my fingers and glittering water nearby. Because the truth is, I want to bring you even better stories. I want the next Magical Papillon Mystery to sparkle with fresh mischief. And I want my characters to sound like they’ve had a bit of fun in the woods, too.

I'll be back soon—probably with leaves in my hair, a notebook full of scribbles, and at least one mosquito bite in an unspeakable place—but most importantly, I’ll return with stories. Stories that were born not in front of a keyboard, but in the quiet places where imagination wakes up.

So if you don't hear from me for a few days? Don't worry. I'm just... writing. Or roasting marshmallows. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

Yours from the woods,
Sabine
(Author, Cozy Mystery Enthusiast, Mosquito Buffet)

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog