7 Totally Accurate Truths About Being a Cozy Mystery Author (With a Diva Papillon)

7 Totally Accurate Truths About Being a Cozy Mystery Author (With a Diva Papillon)

If you think writing cozy mysteries involves sipping tea and quietly plotting in a sunlit nook…
I regret to inform you that you’ve been misled.

Especially if you share your workspace with a Papillon who believes she is both royalty and your direct supervisor.

Here’s what author life really looks like:

1. You are not the main character.
You may think you’re writing the book.
But the Papillon has already decided she’s the star, the plot twist, and the emotional arc.

You’re just… transcription services.

2. Your writing schedule is snack-based.
Forget word counts.
Your productivity is measured in:

Treats dispensed
Belly rub breaks
Number of times you got up “just for a second”

3. Every scene requires approval.
Romantic subplot? Ignored.
Murder reveal? Mild interest.
Crinkling treat bag? IMMEDIATE FULL ATTENTION.

You learn quickly what truly matters.

4. “Quiet writing time” is a myth.
There will be:

Dramatic sighs
Strategic paw placement on your keyboard
Long, judgmental stares when you are not typing fast enough

This is not interruption. This is management.

5. Your plot will change… without your consent.
You planned a subtle clue in chapter three.
Your dog adds:

A suspiciously glamorous character
Extra drama
Possibly a scene where she saves the day

And honestly? She’s not wrong.

6. You develop advanced multitasking skills.
You can now:

Edit dialogue
Throw a toy
Sip cold coffee
And negotiate with a tiny dictator

All at the same time.

7. You wouldn’t change it for anything.
Because between the chaos, the sass, and the very strong opinions…
there’s also the companionship, the laughter, and the strange magic of it all.

And deep down, you know the truth: The book is better because of her. Even if she still thinks it’s about her.

Comments

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...

A Bird Pooped on My Head and Other Life-Changing Moments

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog