Somewhere Between 25 and 35 Books (Give or Take): Confessions of a Cozy Mystery Author Who’s Still Learning

People sometimes ask me how many books I’ve written, and I always pause. Not because I’m being mysterious. Not because I’m modest. It’s because the honest answer lives somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, and even I’m not entirely sure where it landed and set up camp.

Before you panic, calm down. Many of those books are quietly gathering digital dust somewhere, living their best invisible lives. Only fifteen of them are currently up on Amazon, polished, presentable, and waving enthusiastically at you like, “Pick me! I’m ready!” And yes, that was absolutely a wink.

But here’s the part that made me laugh at myself today. A proper laugh. The kind where you realize something obvious far too late and just have to accept it with grace and coffee.

With every single book, I learn something.

Shocking, I know.

I learn about story. About flow. About structure. About how a mystery should unfold so the reader feels clever instead of cheated. About pacing, tension, emotion, and when to stop being clever and let the story breathe. I learn how much is too much, how little is too little, and how the smallest tweak can turn a good scene into a satisfying one.

I can hear you already.
“After that many books… really?”

Really.

And honestly? I don’t think I’ll ever stop learning. I don’t think there will ever be a moment where I sit back, fold my arms, and say, “That’s it. I’ve mastered this writing thing. No notes.” Writing doesn’t work that way. Stories don’t work that way. Readers definitely don’t work that way.

Every book teaches me something new about how to make a story feel like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day. Or a clever puzzle you solve just before the last page. Or a quiet companion when someone needs comfort, escape, or a little magic wrapped in mystery.

Some lessons arrive gently. Others arrive wearing steel-toed boots and shouting, “We need to talk.” But all of them matter. Every single one makes the next book better than the last.

And you know what? I love that.

I love that I’m still learning. I love that I still care enough to try harder, write better, and shape my stories into something that feels just right for someone out there I may never meet. Someone curled up with a blanket, a dog at their feet, and a cozy mystery in their hands.

So yes, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five books later, I’m still figuring it out. Still learning. Still chasing that feeling of a satisfying read.

And that, I’ve decided, is a beautiful place to be. 💛🐾

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