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. 💛🐾

Comments

The Encyclopedia Was Our Google — And Dad Was Our Search Engine

You know you’re not a digital native when the word “research” makes you smell paper and hear the satisfying thud of a heavy book landing on a table. Welcome to my childhood, where curiosity was rewarded not with Wi-Fi, but with a stack of alphabetically-organized mystery bricks called encyclopedias . Let me take you back. The year? Somewhere in the analog era. The place? Our living room, where we had the entire Bertelsmann encyclopedia collection proudly displayed like it was the crown jewel of human knowledge. We didn’t just own knowledge—we subscribed to it. One glorious volume arrived each month, like an academic advent calendar for nerdy children. Volume “A” to “Z,” with deep sighs of longing in between. I swear, I still remember the day Volume “P” arrived. I rushed to the mailbox like I was expecting a letter from a secret admirer. Nope. Just got the lowdown on Photosynthesis and Peru. But did that stop me from doing a dramatic reading of it over dinner? No, it did not. M...

The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

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. ...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog