A good idea that lasted only a few minutes

Every December 31st, I make a solemn vow to myself: This year, I will not, under any circumstances, fall into that annual trap of making New Year’s resolutions. I say it with the same sincerity I use when telling myself I’ll only have “one cookie” or that I’ll “clean my office tomorrow.” It’s a heartfelt, straight-from-the-soul promise. And like all heartfelt promises made at 11:59 p.m. while wearing fuzzy socks and holding a glass of something bubbly, it lasts approximately forty-eight seconds.

Because this year, I had one good idea. Just one. And I’ve already broken it.

I truly believed I was finally going to learn to type like a Real Modern Human on a tiny six-inch glass phone screen. People do it everywhere — in line at the grocery store, strolling down the street, dangling off escalators, half-asleep in bed, probably clinging to the side of a mountain while texting “lol.” Meanwhile there's me, stabbing at my phone with the precision of a disgruntled pigeon.

Everyone says the same thing:
“Just use the app!”
“Use the fonts and features on the app!”
“The app is so easy!”

The app is not easy. The app is not my friend. The app mocks me.

Whenever I type on it, something mystical happens — but not in the magical Papillon-Pixie-saving-the-day kind of way. More like cursed runes appearing one letter off from anything I meant to write. I try to type “that,” but I get “tht.” Or “tah.” Or my personal favorite, “tha,” which sounds like an irritated teenager responding to absolutely everything.

Don’t even get me started on the # key. I still don’t know where it is. It’s probably hiding behind one of the buttons I never dare to touch, like the one that makes the keyboard shrink to the size of a postage stamp or the one that summons emojis I didn't know existed.

And yes, I know some people use their thumbs. Both of them. At the same time. With speed. With grace. With accuracy. It’s basically a superpower. Somewhere out there is someone typing Shakespearean soliloquies on a moving bus using just their thumbs while drinking coffee.

Me? I’m finger-pecking like a barnyard hen on a sugar rush. One wrong tap and I’ve accidentally reported my own post, opened a shopping cart, or taken a burst of 47 photos of my own eyebrow.

I should have known better. I learned to type on a manual typewriter in school. A typewriter with keys that stuck and clacked and required the upper-body strength of a competitive rower. And on that glorious beast, I am fast. I am unstoppable. I am ten fingers of pure productivity.

But on my phone? Two hours later I’ve typed one sentence and developed a personality shift, three new wrinkles, and a deep, existential hatred of autocorrect.

So here we are - I’m already throwing in the towel.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn to type on phone.
Reality: Laptop forever. Phone never. May my thumbs remain decorative only.

Blueberry, of course, watched this entire saga with the judgmental patience only a Papillon can muster. She tilted her head, blinked her big storytelling eyes, and telepathically conveyed, Sabine, sweetie… just stick to the laptop. The world needs your books, not your autocorrect rage.

And honestly? She’s right.
I’ll be typing it on my keyboard, thank you very much.

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. ...

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...

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog