My Hickory Obsession and the Squirrel Vendetta

If you’ve ever seen one of my videos, you might’ve caught a glimpse—just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment—of a massive old hickory tree standing like a stoic sentry in the park near my house. It’s an absolute beast of a tree. Towering. Majestic. With a trunk so wide it splits into two at the bottom like it’s got a dramatic flair for posing. This tree is old, scarred, and—dare I say it—glorious.

Naturally, I became obsessed. I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with an elderly tree that looks like it’s been through several wars and come out the other side throwing shade (literally and figuratively)?

Two autumns ago, while others were sipping pumpkin lattes and posting selfies with cinnamon sticks, I was crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, collecting hickory nuts like some sort of deranged woodland creature. But not just any nuts—oh no. I carefully selected only the viable ones. (I even did a float test in water, because yes, I am that person now.) Then came the cold stratification process, which sounds suspiciously like a medieval torture method and, honestly, isn't far off.

For months, those nuts chilled in my fridge like tiny nutty time bombs. Then finally—finally—they sprouted. Two precious, tiny baby hickory trees. I was giddy. I was proud. I was a botanical goddess.

So, what did I do? I set them outside in little pots to get some sun, thinking, "Grow, my children. Reach for the sky!"

And then the squirrels showed up.

The same squirrels who spend their mornings plotting crimes from the fence line. The same squirrels who look at me like, “You done yet, lady?” as I walk Blueberry (my ever-patient Papillon dog) past their turf.

They didn’t even hesitate. They dug them up like it was some sort of rodent treasure hunt. All that effort—months of careful tending, whispering words of encouragement to tiny roots—and crunch. Gone.

Reader, I was livid. I swore vengeance. I may or may not have shouted at a squirrel. (He didn’t seem to care.)

But I’m nothing if not persistent. Last fall, I tried again. I went back to the old hickory like a spurned lover returning to an ex. I gathered more nuts. Cold stratified them again. Nurtured them. And yes—they sprouted.

Now I’ve got a few more tiny hickory trees growing strong. But this time? Oh, this time I’m keeping them FAR away from the squirrels. I’ve got nets, cages, decoys. If necessary, I will install a full-scale Nut Protection Program.

Why does this matter, you ask? Why am I blathering on about baby trees and furry nemeses on my author blog?

Because I love that old tree. It’s tough. It’s endured. It’s split at the base but still standing tall. And honestly, isn’t that a metaphor for most of us? For writers? For creatives? For anyone who’s tried something, failed spectacularly, and then got up and tried again (only this time with squirrel-proofing)?

This gnarled, grand old hickory tree reminds me to keep going. To stay rooted. To be stubborn. And maybe to avoid trusting anything with a bushy tail and twitchy eyes.

So yes. I have a hickory obsession. And maybe, just maybe, that love of growing something from scratch—messy, risky, nutty—isn’t so different from how I approach writing.

And just like my books, I hope these tiny trees grow into something strong and lasting. Unless the squirrels get them again.

Stay tuned. War is not over.

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...

Am I Perfect? Are You Kidding Me?!

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection . If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect . And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.) You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot . Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.” But here’s the thing – I wrote this . It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something t...

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