I Don’t Have Time for Nonsense (Blueberry Agrees)

There are many things I love in this life.

Cozy mysteries.
Plot twists.
The smell of coffee in a quiet morning.
The dramatic flutter of Papillon ears in the wind.

What I do not love?

Wasting time.

Now here’s the funny part. I write cozy mysteries. My series, the Magical Papillon Mysteries, features a single mom with supernatural abilities, a telepathic Papillon dog, and enough small-town secrets to keep everyone whispering behind lace curtains. On paper, it sounds quaint. Peaceful. Slow-paced.

In reality?

Being an author is like juggling flaming swords while someone keeps adding chainsaws.

I am a writer.
I am also a dog servant.
A social media manager.
A web designer.
An accountant.
A marketer.
A scheduler.
A newsletter fairy.
An amateur tech support hotline.

Somewhere in there, I’m supposed to eat and sleep.

There are at least eleven thousand tasks I never knew existed before I decided to publish a book. No one tells you that “author” secretly means “CEO of Everything.”

Which is precisely why I do not have time for nonsense.

Every now and then, I’ll see someone leave a long, dramatic, deeply offended comment on someone else’s post. A full dissertation on why a video is terrible. Why a book is disgusting. Why nobody should watch it. Why civilization is crumbling because of it. And I blink.

Because the energy. The commitment. The absolute time investment.

My brain immediately does the math. That comment took at least five minutes. Possibly ten. Maybe a full emotional performance with pacing and dramatic sighing. Five to ten minutes I could have spent plotting a murder in Rosewood Hollow. Or designing a graphic. Or taking Blueberry for a walk so she can judge the squirrels. Instead?

Someone chose to donate their precious life minutes to outrage.

I just can’t.

I delete. I move on. I protect my time like it’s the last biscuit in the jar. And honestly? I learned this from Blueberry. My beautiful Papillon has a philosophy that is both simple and profound:

If you can’t eat it, play with it, or sleep on it — move on. It’s elegant. It’s efficient. It’s deeply practical.

She does not bark at every passing leaf. She does not draft manifestos about offensive squirrels. She does not lie awake replaying the behavior of the mail carrier.

She evaluates.

Can I eat this?
Can I play with this?
Can I nap on this?

No?

She flounces away. I aspire to that level of emotional maturity. As writers — especially those of us who live in whimsical worlds filled with magic and talking dogs — our time is sacred. Our imagination is fuel. And outrage is a leaky bucket.

You cannot build stories while simultaneously arguing with strangers on the internet about whether they should exist.

You cannot nurture wonder while feeding irritation.

And here’s the truth I’ve learned over the years: not everything deserves your energy. Not every comment requires a rebuttal. Not every opinion deserves a stage in your mind. Sometimes the bravest, wisest thing you can do is close the tab. Move on. Write the next chapter. Throw the ball. Take the nap.

Blueberry would approve.

And if a telepathic Papillon taught me anything, it’s this: life is far too magical to waste on things you cannot eat, play with, or sleep on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murder to solve, a website to update, and a small white dog who insists it is time for her afternoon nap — on my keyboard.

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