And when I say small, I don’t mean “quaint tourist brochure small.” I mean the kind of small where the most exciting event of the year is the volunteer fire department festival, closely followed by the church raffle. You showed up for both, by the way. Not attending would have been suspicious.
This was one of those corners of the country where everyone knew not only your name, but whose child you were, what you had for lunch yesterday, and whether you were walking a little too fast for a Tuesday. Privacy was… aspirational.
Naturally, when we needed to get away from it all, we went to a cabin.
In a town that was even smaller.
I wish I were kidding.
As an out-of-towner, you knew everybody in about a week flat. By week two, people nodded knowingly when you walked by. By week three, someone’s aunt had decided you needed more sweaters. This is how community works when there are approximately twelve people and a cow.
But here’s the thing—it was beautiful. Quiet in a way that felt like a deep breath. Cozy in that soul-level sense that can’t be manufactured. And we hiked. Oh, did we hike. Hiking wasn’t an activity; it was the activity. If you weren’t hiking, you were talking about hiking, planning hiking, or recovering from hiking while eating something suspiciously homemade.
Those long walks through the woods, past familiar faces and familiar paths, are where so much of my cozy mystery world was born. The rhythm of it. The way people show up for each other. The way everyone knows everyone else’s business but still manages to care deeply. The way secrets exist anyway, because they always do.
When I write about small-town communities now, I’m not inventing them. I’m remembering them. I’m channeling the feeling of knowing you can knock on almost any door and be welcomed in, even if you might also be gently interrogated about why you’re there and whether you’ve eaten enough today.
As a cozy mystery author, those moments matter. The casual conversations that turn into clues. The town events that bring everyone together and accidentally stir up trouble. The warmth, the humor, the quiet magic of everyday life where nothing ever really stays quiet for long.
Those fire department festivals? Absolute gold. The church raffles? Prime motive territory. The cabin town where everyone watched everyone else? That’s your entire suspect list, gift-wrapped.
So yes—if you recognize a little too much familiarity, a little too much community spirit, and a little too much “everyone knows” energy in my books… you’re welcome.
I grew up there. I escaped there. And I brought it all with me onto the page.
Some towns never really let you leave. And honestly? I wouldn’t want them to.
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