Move Over, Influencers — My Dog’s Running the Show

Let me tell you a little secret from behind the scenes of my very professional author platform: I put actual effort into my social media. Like, the full package. I plan it out. I write the captions. I pick the music. I schedule it so it doesn’t look like I’m flying by the seat of my sweatpants. I even think about lighting and fonts and which filter screams “whimsical but with integrity.”

And yet.

The most successful posts?
The ones that get the likes, the shares, the "OMG I love her" comments?

Are the ones where Blueberry shows up.

That’s it. She just shows up.

No effort. No notes. No mood board. She doesn’t brainstorm content pillars. She doesn't try to grow an audience or tailor her brand voice. She doesn’t even know what her niche is. (Unless it's squirrel-chasing and chicken snacks.)

She just exists — gloriously. Fluffily. Sassily. And people adore her.

I’ll admit, it’s humbling. I mean, I’ve got a degree. I’ve got story arcs and character spreadsheets and a carefully crafted cozy mystery brand. But if Blueberry aka Pixie (her alter ego in my Magical Papillon Mysteries) is within two feet of the camera lens? I might as well pack it in and go home. She's the star. I'm the unpaid assistant with the treat bag.

Honestly, if her charm didn’t work, I’d be forced to hate her. I mean, I love her — of course I do — but still. Some days I look at her and think, “How do you do it? What is your skincare routine, and why is it just ‘eat grass and nap in sunbeams’?”

I would love to be as effortlessly cute, photogenic, and successful as Blueberry.

But I’m not.
And that’s okay.

Because I have one small, deeply important skill she will never have.

I can open the fridge door unaided.

That’s right. I hold the power over cheese.

And in that moment — when I swing open the cold light of dairy destiny — I know she wishes she was me.

So we’re even.

(Except she still has more followers.)

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. ...

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog