Of Plotters, Pantsers, and Magical Mayhem - Otherwise Known as My Writing Process :-)

Let me tell you a tale. Not one of haunted teapots or talking Papillon dogs (although Pixie would like a word), but of the realest mystery of all: how on earth I write books.

You see, I used to be what we in the wild world of writing call a “pantser.” That’s right. No outline. No plan. No safety net. Just me, a cup of coffee, a keyboard, and a deeply misplaced confidence that the story would figure itself out.

And for a long time, that worked.
After all, I write about magic. My characters talk to ghosts, solve murders with help from enchanted pets, and navigate small-town charm with a sprinkle of witchiness. If ever there were stories that wanted to make their own decisions, it’s mine. Half the time, I’m just along for the ride while my characters whisper, “Step aside, mortal. We’ve got this.”

But now? I’m on book eight of the Magical Papillon Mysteries. Six. That’s practically a small town of books.

And let me tell you—by the time your characters have investigated a half-dozen homicides, formed friendships, flirted (with varying degrees of success), and adopted magical sidekicks, you need a system. You need to remember who was where, when, and why.
Because trust me, if you don’t?
Readers will.

They’ll remember that in book two, Aunt Ruby claimed she hated lavender scones, and now in book six she’s opening a lavender scone bakery.
Continuity, my friends. It’s real. And it’s watching you. 👀

So, with great reluctance—and the desperate wails of a pantser being dragged into the light—I’ve begun… plotting.
Not the villain kind. (Although maybe...)

No, I mean the kind where you map out chapters, draw little boxes with arrows, and say things like “Act 2 midpoint twist” while your dog looks at you with deep concern. (Pixie, it’s fine. You’re still the star.)

Now, I don’t believe in plotting everything. There still has to be room for the magic to come in. That’s what I call those unexpected moments where your character does something so brilliant and surprising that you sit back and go, “Well. I didn’t see that coming.”
I live for those moments. That’s why I write.

But now I also live for the joy of seeing how all the pieces click together. When the breadcrumbs I scattered (by accident, obviously) back in chapter three suddenly become pivotal in chapter twenty. When readers say, “I didn’t see that twist coming but it makes total sense.”
Plotting lets me do that on purpose. What a concept.

So here I am, a former pantser with a plotting app, a wall of post-its, and a spreadsheet that might just be alive.
Do I still sometimes write wildly off-course and then have to backtrack three chapters like a cartoon character realizing they’ve walked off a cliff?
Absolutely.
But now I know which cliff.

And that’s progress.

Whether you’re a plotter, a pantser, or a writer who consults horoscopes to decide your next chapter (no judgment), just remember this:
There’s no one right way to write a story.
Just make space for the magic.
And for goodness' sake, write down your character’s favorite food. You’ll thank yourself in book eight.

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. ...

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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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