🌲 Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too)

Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too)

So… why do I disappear into the wilds of the canadian North with no Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and a fridge that sounds like it’s crying at night?

Because it’s the only place I actually relax.

Yes, I know, you can technically relax anywhere. A spa, a beach, your own backyard hammock with a pink drink and a book about Scandinavian murders. But here’s the catch: I don’t.

When I have ten minutes of peace in my regular life, my brain goes, “Oooh, time to spiral!” Suddenly I’m obsessing over Chapter 4 and why it still reads like it was written by a caffeinated octopus. Or I remember that the audio edits on my last audiobook were a smidge less than perfect, and maybe I should recheck that pause at the 47-minute mark. And by the way, did I ever respond to that email about the email about the podcast interview?

I don’t relax. I rev.

Blame it on my upbringing. I grew up in a German household, and let me tell you, asking “Do you not have anything to do?” was not an innocent question. It was the productivity guillotine. That sentence could turn a lazy afternoon into window-washing, sock-organizing chaos in under two seconds.

So now, as a grown woman, I carry that deeply embedded work ethic like a badge of honor… and also like a thirty-pound kettlebell tied to my brain. Even when I’m technically “off,” I’m brainstorming new book titles or writing mentally while pretending to fold laundry.

But not at the cabin.

At the cabin, it’s just me, the loons, the lake, and a shocking number of mismatched coffee mugs. There’s no cell reception. No emails. No ability to Google "how many dead bodies is too many in a cozy mystery?" without being flagged by Homeland Security.

I read actual books. On paper. With pages that flutter and occasionally get smudged by marshmallow fingers because s’mores are mandatory. I stare at the water. I make friends with squirrels. (Okay, one of them may have stolen my granola bar, but I admire her hustle.) I let myself dream again.

And dreaming is where the magic happens.

Because when you give your brain space—not to hustle, not to fix, not to optimize—just space? That’s when ideas bubble up. Characters start talking. Plot twists arrive like uninvited party guests, and suddenly I’m scribbling on the back of an old grocery receipt because of course I forgot my notebook.

It’s not just about rest. It’s about remembering what rest feels like. It’s about proving to myself that the world will keep turning even if I don’t answer that email within 32 seconds.

Do you have a place like that? A place that helps you switch gears and remember how to be a human and not a productivity algorithm wearing sweatpants?

If not, I highly recommend it. Even if it means battling mosquitoes the size of chihuahuas and learning the fine art of flushing with a bucket.

Up north, I let go. I sit. I read. I watch loons. I don’t fix Chapter 4. I just… breathe.

And that, my friend, is worth every squirrel-stolen granola bar.

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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