Cozy Mystery Author: I’m Pretty Sure You Have to Be an Introvert to Do This Job

There’s a theory I’ve been quietly nurturing between cups of coffee and dramatic plot twists.

I think you have to be an introvert to be a writer.

Hear me out.

Who else voluntarily spends hours sitting alone in a room, staring at a laptop, blinking occasionally, while internally sprinting across rooftops in a town that doesn’t exist?

Who else battles enemies they invented, panics because their hero is about to fall off a cliff, and then desperately scrambles to think of something—anything—before gravity wins?

Writers. That’s who.

And not just any writers. Cozy mystery writers. Paranormal cozy mystery writers. The sort of people who think, “You know what this murder investigation needs? An enchanted Papillon and a dash of Christmas spirit.”

I sit there, looking perfectly calm from the outside. Maybe even serene. Meanwhile, inside my head, Rosewood Hollow is in chaos. Someone’s been poisoned. Someone else is lying. My heroine is in danger. And I am frantically trying to decide whether she escapes by hidden staircase, secret passage, or wildly convenient overturned bookshelf.

All while also trying to find a new way to say “said.”

Because apparently, we cannot just let people “say” things.

No, they must murmur, whisper, declare, insist, breathe, mutter, exclaim, retort, snap, reply, observe, or announce.

If I have ever paused dramatically mid-conversation in real life, it is because I am mentally checking whether I have overused “murmured” in chapter twelve.

This is our glamorous life.

And honestly? I love it.

There is something magical about sitting quietly and building entire worlds out of thin air. It feels a bit like being a child again, except now your imaginary friends solve crimes and occasionally sass you.

Of course, I am not entirely alone.

I have Blueberry.

Blueberry, my very real and extremely opinionated Papillon, is my constant writing companion and the inspiration behind the Magical Papillon Mysteries. If you’ve read the series, you already know that Pixie, the telepathic Papillon, has a very strong personality.

That did not come from nowhere.

Blueberry sits beside me while I write. Sometimes she naps. Sometimes she stares at me like she knows exactly who the killer is and is withholding information for dramatic effect. Sometimes she huffs loudly when the plot isn’t moving fast enough.

I like to think that together we weave the magic. I type. She supervises. Occasionally she demands a snack break, which is honestly very good for pacing.

Writing can look lonely from the outside. It’s quiet. It’s solitary. It’s just me, a blinking cursor, and a fictional town waiting for its next crisis.

But inside that quiet room is laughter. Suspense. Heart-pounding chases. Found family. Justice. Hidden identities. And the kind of gentle magic that reminds us that the world can be both mysterious and kind.

Introversion isn’t isolation. For me, it’s the doorway into imagination. It’s the space where stories bloom.

And if I’m being completely honest, I wouldn’t trade those hours alone in my imaginary world for anything.

Well.

Maybe for unlimited coffee.

And perhaps a thesaurus that gently whispers, “It’s okay, you can use ‘said.’”

If you’re curious about what happens when an introverted cozy mystery author and her very extroverted Papillon team up to solve crimes in a charming magical town, I’d love for you to check out the Magical Papillon Mysteries.

Blueberry insists.

And frankly, it’s very hard to argue with a Papillon.

With love, laughter, and a slightly overused thesaurus,

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...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

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