There are the determined, fitness-tracker-beeping, “we are MAKING TIME” walks.
And then there are the walks you take when you share your life with a small, fluffy creature who believes every pile of leaves may contain buried treasure, secrets, or possibly a criminal mastermind.
When you live with a dog — or are owned by one, which feels more accurate — you walk. A lot. Blueberry, my Papillon with the investigative spirit of a seasoned detective, does not “exercise walk.” She does not march. She does not power-stride.
She stops.
She sniffs.
She wanders.
She conducts what I can only assume are highly classified forensic investigations on twigs.
Every leaf pile is suspicious. Every rustle is worth examining. Every breeze carries breaking news.
And so we amble.
Very slowly.
At first, years ago, I would try to hurry her along. Come on, Blueberry. Let’s go. We have things to do. Deadlines. Laundry. Emails. Imaginary murders to solve.
But Blueberry is unmoved by productivity culture.
She lives in the moment. Specifically, in the moment located under that bush over there.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to rush her.
Because something started happening.
While she was inspecting the hedge like she was about to file a report, my mind would wander. Not in a frantic way. Not in a “solve it now” way. Just… wander.
Why did that character react like that?
What is she not telling us?
Why did I choose that setting?
What if the bookstore owner knows more than she thinks she does?
The questions drifted in softly, without pressure. Answers followed just as quietly.
Solutions to plot knots that refused to untangle at my desk would simply… appear.
A motive would click into place.
A backstory would deepen.
A tiny emotional thread I hadn’t even realized was loose would suddenly tie itself neatly together.
And I would stand there, holding a leash, staring into the middle distance while Blueberry sniffed a rock like it owed her money.
The truth is, some ideas will not show up when you’re staring at a blinking cursor.
Some answers are shy. They don’t respond to being chased.
They show up when you slow down.
When you are not demanding brilliance.
When you are simply walking — or rather, pausing — through the world.
We have this cultural obsession with speed. Faster results. Faster progress. Faster everything. As though life is a race we forgot to train for.
But creativity doesn’t thrive in a sprint.
It wanders.
It meanders.
It sniffs the metaphorical leaf piles.
It gets distracted by birds.
Some of the most important breakthroughs in my cozy mysteries have arrived not at my desk, not in front of a neatly outlined chapter plan, but halfway down the sidewalk while my tiny detective was conducting neighborhood surveillance.
Those slow walks remind me that not everything needs to be driven by purpose.
Not every minute needs to be optimized.
Not every pause is wasted time.
Sometimes, when you’re not rushing, some of the best things show up.
A plot twist.
A character revelation.
A quiet sense of clarity.
Or simply the realization that this — this slow ambling through the day with a small dog who believes she runs the operation — is actually the point.
Blueberry will never be a marathon runner.
But she is an exceptional creative consultant.
And I have learned that when she stops to sniff, I should probably stop and listen.
You never know what’s about to reveal itself from under a pile of leaves.
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