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Here we are. The first of May. We made it. We actually survived winter.

I feel like this winter deserves a small ceremony. Or at least a strongly worded letter. It was long, dramatic, and deeply committed to its role. But it’s over now. The light is back. The air smells different. And my soul has finally stopped hibernating like a disgruntled bear.

Growing up in Germany, the first of May was always a holiday. They called it the “Day of Work,” which, to this day, feels like one of life’s great practical jokes. You celebrate work by… not working. Everyone just collectively agreed to stay home, enjoy the day, and not question the logic too deeply.

Lately, I’ve found myself trying to remember the last time I had a proper day off. You know the kind. No writing. No plotting. No characters tapping you on the shoulder whispering, “Just one more chapter?”

And here’s the thing. I don’t actually need one.

I write cozy mysteries. I spin stories filled with small towns, gentle magic, curious secrets, and a very sassy dog who has opinions about everything. I build worlds where intuition matters, kindness counts, and justice always gets a warm cup of tea at the end. This isn’t a job I need a break from. This is the thing that makes me feel most like myself.

If I did take a day off, I know exactly what would happen. I’d sit down. I’d open a notebook. I’d think, “I’m not writing today.” And five minutes later I’d be deep into another mystery, happily ignoring my own rules.

That old saying gets tossed around a lot: do what you love, and you’ll never work another day in your life. It sounds cheesy. Slightly suspicious. Like something printed on a mug next to a motivational cat poster.

But it’s also true.

Writing cozy mysteries doesn’t drain me. It fills me up. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days. When the world feels heavy, I get to create a place where things make sense, where love and humor matter, and where even the messiest situations can be gently untangled.

So on this first of May, I’m not celebrating the day of work. I’m celebrating the joy of loving what I do. I’m celebrating stories that keep me warm long after winter has left. And I’m celebrating the fact that my idea of a day off looks suspiciously like doing the exact same thing I do every day — writing another cozy mystery and smiling while I do it.

Spring is here. The stories are waiting. And honestly? I wouldn’t take a day off even if you offered me one.

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