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. ...

Negronis, art, and the Next Mystery

You know you have the best readers in the world when they politely demand the next book—with extra exclamation marks and not a hint of shame. So many of you have been asking (some quite insistently, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my day) about the next Magical Papillon Mystery . Those of you who asked on social media — thank you!!! To all of you, I say — bless your sweet, book-loving hearts, and fear not. Pixie will return! Here’s what happened… Last Christmas, after one (or more) festive Negronis with my very talented artist friend, I made the kind of pronouncement that can only come after equal parts gin, vermouth, and orange. I looked around her house — absolutely overflowing with paintings, colors, and canvases stacked like leaning towers of artistic chaos — and said something like, “Wouldn’t it make a great story if someone inherited a house full of original art, and every painting had a secret behind it, and they had to solve the mysteries one by one…?” Well. One...

Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...

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