No, I Am Not Secretly a Millionaire - but Thank You for Thinking So

There is a myth floating around the internet. A persistent little fairy tale.

Apparently, somewhere between publishing my first cozy mystery and lovingly introducing the world to magical dogs, ghosts, and small-town secrets, I became independently wealthy.

I would very much like to know when that happened.

Because according to my inbox, I am absolutely swimming in consultant-level disposable income.

Every single day, without fail, I receive approximately seven emails. Sometimes more. They arrive like clockwork. They are polite. They are enthusiastic. They are confident.

“Dear Author,
Let me put your book on my premium reader list.”

Which book, my friend? I have fifteen. Are we talking about the one with the ghost? The one with the magical Papillon? The one with the small-town murder wrapped in Christmas cookies and secrets? A hint would be delightful.

Next email.

“Let me optimize your categories and keywords.”

Marvelous. Again — which book? I would love to know which of my fictional crimes requires emergency optimization.

Then comes my personal favorite.

“Let me increase your discoverability.”

Ah yes. Discoverability. That mystical land where books apparently grow wings and fly into the hands of readers while angels sing and algorithms bow respectfully.

And then — the grand finale.

“Simply insert your credit card here.”

You guys.

I write cozy mysteries. I live in a world of fictional crimes, telepathic dogs, small towns with suspiciously high murder rates, and an alarming amount of baked goods. I adore magic. I adore storytelling. I adore my dogs — Pixie most definitely included — but I am not secretly lounging in a velvet robe counting royalty checks.

I am an indie author.

That means sometimes I’m doing well. Sometimes I’m stretching things creatively and financially. Sometimes I celebrate a great month. Sometimes I stare at my dashboard like it personally betrayed me.

That’s the truth of this beautiful, wild, unpredictable writing life.

When you publish independently, you become the writer, the editor, the marketer, the social media team, the newsletter fairy, the tech department, and occasionally the emotional support hotline for yourself. You learn more about keywords than you ever wanted to know. You debate cover fonts at midnight. You Google things like “is it normal to refresh sales page 14 times in one hour.”

But what you don’t become — automatically — is wealthy.

And here’s the part that makes me laugh the most.

Every one of those emails ends with a payment link.

Not one ends with, “I loved your book and left a review.”

Not one ends with, “I bought a copy for my friend.”

Not one ends with, “Your magical dog made my week.”

Here’s the honest, heartfelt truth from one cozy mystery author to the universe.

The very best thing you can do to support an indie author is not optimizing categories.

It’s not expensive ad packages.

It’s not mysterious “premium placement opportunities.”

It’s buying a book.

That’s it. That’s the magic spell.

Buy one. Read one. Tell a friend. Leave a review. Mention it to your aunt who loves small-town mysteries and clever dogs. That ripple effect? That’s what changes everything.

Every single purchase matters more than any cold email pitch ever could.

And I say this with gratitude, humor, and just the tiniest wink — I truly appreciate the interest in my books. I do. It means someone out there sees potential. That’s lovely.

But if you really want to help this cozy mystery author with her magical Papillon and her fictional crimes…

You know where the “insert card” actually goes.

On the book page.

And if you’ve already bought one? You are officially part of the magic. You are the reason I get to keep writing about ghosts, secrets, family, justice, and dogs who absolutely steal the show.

No velvet robe required.

Just stories. And readers. And maybe a cup of tea while we’re at it.

With gratitude, laughter, and slightly fewer consultant emails (one can dream),

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

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There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

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