Write to Be Felt, Not Fancied

There was a time I wanted my writing to sparkle — every sentence polished like a diamond, every metaphor clever enough to make my English teacher rise from her chair in slow applause. I’d tinker with sentences for hours, swapping “walked” for “meandered” or “ambled,” then back again, trying to sound like A Serious Author™.

You know the type. The kind who drinks coffee with too much intensity and uses “juxtaposition” in casual conversation.

But somewhere between the endless editing and the overthinking, I realized something uncomfortable: I was writing to impress other writers, not to move readers.

It hit me one day when my best friend — not a writer, not even a big reader — read a scene from one of my drafts and said quietly, “That part made me cry.”

She didn’t care about my sentence rhythm. She didn’t notice the metaphor I’d sweated over for an hour. She felt something.

And that’s when I understood: readers don’t fall in love with your words. They fall in love with your truth.

We writers can get so tangled in literary approval that we forget the whole point of storytelling. Readers don’t want to applaud your cleverness; they want to recognize themselves. They want to be seen, soothed, startled, healed.

They want that moment when they’re reading in bed at 1 a.m. with a half-eaten cookie on the nightstand and think, “Yes. That’s me.”

And they couldn’t care less if your prose sounds like it belongs in a Paris Review essay.

I think of this often when I write my cozy mysteries — stories full of ghosts, Papillon dogs, and ordinary people facing extraordinary choices. I could chase the approval of critics. Or I could write for the woman sitting at her kitchen table, sipping tea after a long day, who just wants to lose herself in something hopeful and human.

That’s who I write for.

So now, when I catch myself trying to sound “smart,” I stop and ask, Would Blueberry the Papillon roll her eyes at this sentence? Usually, the answer is yes.

Writing that connects doesn’t come from ego. It comes from empathy.

So don’t write to be praised — write to be remembered. Write for the tired mom who needs a laugh. The broken man who needs a glimmer of hope. The dreamer who needs to be reminded that magic still exists.

Because in the end, readers don’t need perfect sentences. They need truth.

And truth doesn’t need permission.

Write for the human soul. That’s how stories last.

Comments

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