A Day Without Internet (a.k.a. The Horror)

So, here I was on a regular old Tuesday, birds chirping, coffee brewing. I sat down at my desk, fingers poised dramatically over the keyboard, inspiration about to strike—when… nothing loaded. I refreshed. I stared. I unplugged the modem and plugged it back in like a techno-priest performing a sacred ritual. Crossed my fingers, did it again.... Still nothing.

The internet. Was. Out.

And yours truly? Flying into a full-blown tizzy. Not a mild inconvenience. Not a quiet sigh and a cup of tea. No, we’re talking dramatic gasping, pacing, muttering to myself like a Victorian heroine who’d just received tragic news via telegram.

Now, let me say this—writing, in its purest form, requires no internet. Not even a computer if you're hardcore enough. You can write with a pencil on a napkin while waiting for your latte. You can scribble in notebooks like it’s 1992 (Yes, I wrote entire books like this back then). But we don’t do that anymore, do we? No, because we writers have convenience. Cloud storage. Online dictionaries. Thesaurus tabs open like hopeful little windows of genius. Research rabbit holes. Character name generators. Pinterest mood boards. And, of course, the ever-therapeutic ability to email or message another writer friend: “MY MC IS MAKING REALLY BAD LIFE CHOICES, HELP.”

But without the internet?

Suddenly, all my documents were floating in the ether. My reference files? Vanished. My email drafts? Unreachable. I had the gall to try looking up whether a cinnamon bun existed in 1893 (don’t ask), and the little “no connection” dinosaur just stood there mocking me with his tiny pixelated arms.

I realized something unsettling: I didn’t know how to write without having the entire universe at my fingertips. It was like trying to cook a five-course meal with a single spoon and no idea what’s in the fridge.

And don’t even get me started on how I couldn’t vent about it. My email? Down. My group chat? Dark. I was trapped with my own thoughts. It was just me and my spiraling imagination, which—as a cozy mystery author—meant that by hour two, I was convinced the outage was part of a sinister plot, and possibly the dog was involved.

Eventually, I gave up. Curled up with a book, decided the day was wasted, and dove into my embarrassingly tall TBR stack like a defeated heroine. It was oddly peaceful—until I remembered I couldn’t post about it online.

Here’s the thing: the internet has only been around in its full glory for less than 30 years, and yet it has completely rewired our lives. For writers. For readers. For everyone who’s ever looked up “what poison kills instantly but smells like vanilla.” (For a book. Obviously.)

It made me think of a quote I saw once:
“You never really know someone until you've seen them try to function for three hours with slow internet.”
I would now like to amend that to: “You never really know yourself until you’ve tried to write a novel during a full internet outage with only a confused dog and cold coffee for company.”

So, dear reader, if you ever catch me gazing wistfully into the distance, it’s not because I’m dreaming up plot twists. It’s because I’m remembering the day the internet left me… and how I almost started writing on actual paper again.

Almost.

So how did I manage to survive the day? I finally decided 'research' was really called for, I went upstairs into the library, grabbed one of my favorite cozy mysteries and put up my feet. No excuse needed because - hey, the internet's out!

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

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True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

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