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.

Labels:

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...

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...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog