I Built a Quiz… and Didn’t Break the Internet (Or Myself)

There comes a time in a woman’s life—usually somewhere between muttering “I don’t need instructions” and yelling “WHY won’t this work?!” at a perfectly innocent browser tab—when she realizes she’s building a quiz for her cozy mystery readers.

And not just any quiz, mind you.

Oh no.

This is the “Which Rosewood Hollow Character Are You?” quiz.

Are you a Sarah? An Emma? A Pixie? (You wish you were Pixie.) Or possibly a Matthew, which means you're chronically skeptical and have a thing about gluten-free muffins.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Sabine, surely you just sent this off to an agency and had some sleek, high-end, interactive whiz-bang quiz built with fancy buttons, animated transitions, and background music that sounds like a Wes Anderson soundtrack played by hedgehogs on tiny harps.”

Well. I could have.

I could have dropped a few hundred bucks on a service. Or paid a developer to make it all look like it was sprinkled in tech-fairy dust.

But here’s the thing: I’m at that age.
You know the one. The age where your first impulse isn’t to throw money at a problem—it’s to roll up your sleeves, squint at the screen, mutter “I’ll just try it myself,” and dive in.

Because, friends, I did not grow up in the Age of the App.

Nope.

I come from the land of Telex machines.

Yes, Telex. Not fax. Not email. Telex—a mechanical beast that screamed like a banshee and typed in ALL CAPS as if it were perpetually annoyed.

Then came fax. And then Teletext (which always looked like your TV had a hangover). Then giant PCs, and floppy disks you could use as dessert trays, and finally tiny little miracle machines that fit in your palm and connect you to the world from the back of a camper van parked somewhere with more pine trees than people.

So building this little quiz? Child’s play. Kind of. I mean, yes, I clicked the wrong thing, broke the layout, reloaded it seventeen times, and possibly invented new swear words—but I did it.

I. Made. A. Thing.

A thing that lives on the internet! A fun little quiz that gives you a character result and gently nudges you toward the Rosewood Hollow sales page.

Is it perfect? Not a chance.

Is it slick? Please. What about me says slick?

But is it fun? Heck yes.
And is it mine? Even better.

So if you’re one of my readers (or just quiz-curious), pop over and give it a whirl. Laugh. Roll your eyes. Maybe even discover your inner Pixie.

Because in a world full of polished perfection and AI-generated everything, sometimes the most magical thing is something a slightly stubborn author built with grit, Google, and an irrational belief in her ability to figure things out.

And that, my friends, is the very spirit of Rosewood Hollow.

Now: Which character are YOU???? Give it a shot right here, and let me know:

https://thinkingdogpublishing.com/quiz.html

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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