Why I’d Still Write Even If No One Ever Read a Word

The other day someone asked me a question that made me pause.

This was the kind of pause where your brain suddenly stops, blinks twice, and goes, Wait… are we having an existential moment now? Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that today.

The question was simple enough.

“How do you deal with it?”

I smiled politely. That’s usually my default response when people ask questions that could potentially spiral into deep philosophical territory before I’ve had enough coffee.

“How do you write these cozy mysteries,” they continued, “knowing you’ll probably never make any money off them?”

And that’s when the pause really happened. Because technically… they’re not wrong. I have not gotten rich writing paranormal cozy mysteries featuring an enchanted Papillon dog.

Not yet, anyway.

Paramount has not called to option the film rights. Hollywood has not sent a limousine. No one has appeared at my door waving a giant check while dramatic orchestral music swells in the background.

Although if that does happen, I promise to document the entire thing for social media. For research purposes, obviously. But here’s the thing.

Yes, I have not gotten rich.
Also yes, I’ve sold my fair share of books.

Writing, for me, is not something you do because it’s a good financial strategy. If you’re looking for reliable wealth creation, I would gently suggest real estate, technology startups, or inventing a phone charger that doesn’t mysteriously disappear into another dimension the moment you need it.

Writing is not logical like that, it is is something you do because you have to, because if you didn’t… you would likely be in therapy for years.

Believe me - I know what I am talking about.

Stories show up in my head the way unexpected guests show up at your front door. They arrive with suitcases, complicated personalities, and absolutely no intention of leaving until you pay attention to them.

A scene appears.
A character starts talking.
A dog — in my case, a magical Papillon — develops very strong opinions about absolutely everything.

Before you know it, you’re sitting at your desk trying to keep up while your brain throws plot twists at you like confetti. Writing isn’t optional at that point. It’s survival. If I didn’t write these things down, I suspect my brain would eventually become a very crowded and slightly chaotic storage unit for unfinished stories.

Imagine thousands of characters standing around inside your head tapping their feet impatiently.

“Excuse me,” one of them says. “You were supposed to finish my chapter three weeks ago.”

“Also,” another adds, “the dog would like more dialogue.”

This is the point where writing suddenly becomes the far more practical option.

Even if no one ever read a word I wrote… I would still write, writing isn’t just about publishing books or selling copies or seeing your name on a cover, it's about the moment when a story suddenly comes alive on the page, about the quiet joy of discovering something unexpected about your characters halfway through a chapter.

It’s about laughter when a scene goes in a completely ridiculous direction and somehow becomes better than what you planned.

And sometimes it’s about sitting at your desk thinking, Well… this escalated quickly.

There is a kind of magic in storytelling that’s very hard to explain to people who don’t feel it, and occasionally there’s a very opinionated Papillon dog who probably knows more than she’s telling you. At some point the story becomes real enough that you simply have to follow it wherever it leads. Whether or not it makes you rich is almost beside the point.

Of course, if Paramount is reading this, I remain extremely open to negotiation.

But even without Hollywood calling… I’ll still be here writing the next chapter.

Because some of us were simply born this way.

We don’t choose the stories.

The stories choose us.

And if we ignore them too long, they get very, very persistent.

I don’t write because I expect to get rich, I write because I can’t imagine not writing.

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. ...

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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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