Why Your Favorite Authors Are Secretly Obsessed with Stars (and Not the Hollywood Kind)

You know what makes an author’s heart soar higher than a caffeinated squirrel? Reviews. Glorious, wonderful, sparkly Amazon reviews.

I know, I know. Every author says it: “Reviews are so important!” And readers nod along, probably thinking, “Cool, but I have things to do, like actually reading your book.”

But here’s the deal: reviews are the magic fairy dust that makes books visible to new readers. And by “magic fairy dust,” I mean cold, unfeeling algorithms that decide whether my book gets recommended or buried under a mountain of “How to Train Your Goldfish” manuals.

Now, I totally get it—writing a review sounds like work. You’ve just finished an emotional rollercoaster of a story (or, in the case of my books, a wild, magical mystery with talking Papillon dogs), and now I’m asking for more? But hear me out…

Leaving a review doesn’t have to be a dissertation. No need for literary analysis, Shakespearean prose, or an MLA citation format. Amazon isn’t grading you. Here’s all it takes:

⭐ “Loved it! Pixie the Papillon is my new spirit animal.”
⭐ “Such a fun read—I laughed, gasped, and possibly startled my cat.”
⭐ “This book made me forget about my laundry for a full two days. 10/10.”

That’s it! No pressure, no stress, just a few words and—BOOM—instant author happiness.

Of course, if you do want to write an in-depth review, I will personally send my fictional characters to bake you cookies in appreciation. (They may be ghostly cookies, but it’s the thought that counts.)

So, next time you finish a book and think, “That was great!”—why not let the world (and Amazon’s mystical algorithm overlords) know? Your favorite author will thank you. Probably with more books.

And maybe a little happy dance.

Comments

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...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog