New Year, Same Magic (Plus Extra Papillon Shenanigans)

There’s something about January light—it slants through the window as though it’s trying to whisper, “So… what now?” And every year I give that light the same answer: “Honestly? Probably the same thing I was doing yesterday.”

Because here we are, off into a brand-new year, standing at the doorway as if it’s a shiny party we weren’t totally prepared for but decided to attend anyway. Everyone around me starts talking resolutions, gym memberships, juice cleanses, ambitious goals with color-coded planners—meanwhile I’m over here with a notebook full of ideas for magical Papillon mysteries, a coffee mug that says Writer at Work (Probably), and two Papillons who have decided the only real resolution worth making is More Snacks.

Blueberry, the diva princess of fluff and mischief, approves of my non-resolutions. Buddy, my newly adopted eleven-year-old gentleman scamp, has no idea what a New Year’s resolution is but confidently assumes it involves belly rubs and making sure I never type more than three sentences without petting him. And honestly? That sounds like an excellent life strategy.

People always ask me what my big plans are for the year, and I usually break into a small internal panic because “plans” implies some sort of adult-level organization. But this year, as I settle into a comfy chair with my notebook, I find tremendous peace in realizing the truth: I like what I’m doing. I like where I am. I like the stories simmering in my brain like a pot of cozy mystery stew on a winter stove. And so many of you have reached out to say, “Please keep going!”—which is both heart-melting and mildly terrifying because now I have witnesses.

So what’s next? More magical Papillon books, of course. More whimsical adventures. More tiny dogs solving crimes while I pretend I’m the one writing them (Blueberry insists she does most of the plotting, Buddy handles character development, and I merely operate the keyboard). And yes, I’ve got a couple of side projects brewing too—sparkly little ideas that keep nudging me awake at 2 AM to whisper, “Write meeeee.”

And as I get older, I realize there’s no grand reinvention needed. I’m not doing a New Year overhaul. No “new year, new me” happening here—unless you count the fact that I might try being a tiny bit less stubborn and a smidge less perfectionist. But let’s be realistic: if my personality were a Papillon, it would be the kind that sits on your lap lovingly… and then refuses to move because this is where it wants to be forever.

So here’s my grand resolution for the year: keep dreaming, keep writing, keep playing in magical worlds where dogs talk and mysteries unravel, and have an absolute blast living life with my two Papillon muses.

Blueberry nods. Buddy wags his tail. And I—well, I sharpen my pencils, refill my mug, and get back to creating stories that (hopefully) bring you as much joy as these dogs bring me.

Happy New Year, my friends. Let’s make it magical.

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...

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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