The Curious Case of the Hallway Lurkers - Or: Why a Cozy Mystery Author Never Just “Goes for a Walk”

When you write cozy mysteries, you see things a little differently.

No. Not in a “how would I dispose of a body?” kind of way. Please. I write about charming villages, magical dogs, and suspicious bake sale politics. We are not digging holes in forests.

It’s not the process of murder that fascinates me.

It’s the why.

It’s the tiny, deliciously odd human behaviors that make my writer brain sit up straighter than a librarian who just heard someone dog-ear a page.

Take the gentleman I see most mornings in the park while walking Blueberry. He walks the paths in a very specific order. Not random. Not “oh, I feel like turning left today.” No. It’s choreographed. Precise. Measured.

He counts his steps.

I know this because his lips move ever so slightly, and every time he reaches the same tree, he pivots. Exact angle. Exact spot. Every. Single. Morning.

And there I am, supposedly walking my adorable Papillon, but internally I am spiraling into a full-blown character study.

Why that order? Why the counting? Is it routine? Is it comfort? Is it superstition? Is he keeping something at bay? Is he honoring someone? Is he training for something? Does he even realize he’s doing it?

Blueberry, meanwhile, is just trying to sniff a leaf dramatically.

But my brain? My brain is building backstory.

Then there are the hallway lurkers in my building.

You know the ones.

They are not walking with purpose. They are not carrying groceries. They are not clearly waiting for someone.

They are just… there.

Leaning slightly. Standing at a strange angle. Pausing longer than necessary. Hovering in that in-between space as if the hallway itself has secrets to share.

And I find myself thinking, why?

Why choose the hallway as your habitat?

Is home too loud? Is the phone call too private? Are you listening for something? Are you avoiding something? Are you thinking? Are you lonely? Are you hoping to “accidentally” bump into someone?

And this — this right here — is why I write.

Because I cannot not ask why.

It’s not suspicion. It’s curiosity. It’s the constant hum in the background of my mind that wants to understand what moves people. What rituals they cling to. What patterns they create. What invisible stories they carry around like folded letters in their pockets.

Some people walk through the world.

Writers tilt their heads at it.

We notice the woman who always presses the elevator button twice. The neighbor who waters her plants at precisely 7:12 p.m. The barista who stares into space for three seconds before every latte as if consulting an unseen oracle.

And instead of shrugging and moving on, we wonder.

What happened to you?
What do you fear?
What do you love?
What are you protecting?
What are you hoping will change if you just take one more step… and turn left at the exact same tree?

Curiosity is not just a personality trait. It’s a calling.

It’s the willingness to let your mind wander into possibility instead of dismissing oddness as “just weird.”

It’s choosing fascination over judgment.

And in cozy mystery writing, that’s everything.

Because every mystery begins with a small moment that doesn’t quite fit. A pattern slightly off. A behavior just peculiar enough to tug at your sleeve.

Most people glance.

Writers linger.

We don’t see “a man walking in circles.”
We see routine, ritual, memory, grief, love, fear, control, hope.

We don’t see “someone lurking.”
We see a question mark wearing shoes.

And honestly? That’s the magic.

That’s why I write. Not to figure out how someone committed a crime — but to explore why humans do what they do in the quiet, ordinary corners of life.

Because behind every odd habit is a story.

Behind every hallway pause is a heartbeat.

Behind every counted step is a reason.

And my job — my joy — is to follow those invisible threads and weave them into something that feels like home.

So if you ever see me in the park, staring slightly too long at a perfectly harmless stranger, don’t worry.

I’m not plotting anything sinister.

I’m just listening to the whispers of curiosity.

And Blueberry is absolutely judging us all.

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

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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...

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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