The Day I Stopped Trying to Be “Normal” and Let the Dog Talk Anyway

There comes a moment in life — somewhere between your first grey hair and the first time you willingly choose elastic-waist trousers — when you realize something profound:

You have spent an impressive amount of time trying not to offend anyone.

Not too loud.
Not too strange.
Not too ambitious.
Not too dreamy.
Not too… you.

For a considerable portion of my life, I tried very hard to be what I believed was “expected.” Sensible. Polite. Predictable. Professional. The kind of person who nods in meetings, files papers in neat folders, and pretends spreadsheets are thrilling.

I did the “normal.”
I did the “responsible.”
I smiled through jobs that felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small. Perfectly acceptable. Mildly painful. Entirely unnecessary.

And do you know what happened?

Absolutely nothing.

The world did not applaud my normality.
No one handed me a medal for “Most Inoffensive Human.”
There was no parade for “Successfully Blended In.”

Instead, somewhere along the way, a quiet little voice inside me whispered, “But what if we wrote about ghosts?”

And then another voice added, “And what if the dog talked?”

Now, if you’ve ever tried to explain to someone that your literary dream involves enchanted villages, magical mayhem, and a Papillon with opinions, you will know the look. The polite smile. The slight head tilt. The “Oh… how… unique.”

I’ve even been told — with great seriousness — that there isn’t really a large market for books with talking dogs.

And perhaps that’s true.

But here is what I’ve learned at this glorious, liberating, perfectly seasoned stage of life:

There is a market for joy.
There is a market for whimsy.
There is a market for writing the story that makes you laugh out loud while you type it.

And more importantly — there is a market of one. Me.

If I had understood this sooner, perhaps I would have started writing my magical cozy mysteries years earlier. Perhaps I would have trusted the stories set in places like Rosewood Hollow, where life is complicated, mysteries unfold, and the dog absolutely has something to say.

Because here’s the thing about trying to be “like everybody else” — it doesn’t work. Not really. You can imitate the surface, but the soul will always rebel eventually. It will nudge you. It will tug at your sleeve. It will send you signs in the form of story ideas about telepathic Papillons and friendly ghosts named Amelia.

And when you finally listen?

Oh, the relief.

One of the unexpected gifts of reaching a “certain age” is this: you are no longer auditioning for the role of Acceptable Human Being. You’ve already got the part. And frankly, you’re rewriting the script.

These days, if someone tells me that enchanted dogs are not commercially strategic, I smile sweetly. Then I go home, sit down with Blueberry — who has extremely strong editorial opinions — and write anyway.

Because staying home with your talking dog and your imaginary village, having the absolute time of your life?

That is not failure.

That is freedom.

And if I must choose between fitting in beautifully or creating something delightfully odd that makes my heart glow?

I will choose the talking dog. Every single time.

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. ...

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...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

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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