Murder… But Make It Cozy (Because the World Is Already Chaotic Enough)

There is a very specific moment that happens to me at gatherings. You know the kind. Someone is balancing a plate of something beige and vaguely festive, someone else is explaining their sourdough starter like it’s a personality trait, and then… it happens.

“What do you write again?”

“Cozy mysteries,” I say.

Pause.

Head tilt.

“Wait… what’s a cozy mystery?”

And this, my friends, is where the magic begins.

I lean in a little, because this deserves drama. “Well,” I say, lowering my voice just enough to make it intriguing, “there’s a murder.”

Eyebrows go up. Fork pauses mid-air.

“But it’s polite,” I add. “No gore. No nightmares. Just… vibes.”

Cue the laugh. The polite little “ha ha… huh, that’s cute.” The kind that says they’re not entirely convinced I haven’t just invented a genre to justify my love of tea and fictional crimes.

And this is where I say, “Follow me for a minute, will you?”

Because here’s the thing.

You read true crime, don’t you?

You listen to the podcasts. You watch the documentaries. You’ve absolutely gone down a late-night rabbit hole that ended with you triple-checking your door locks and side-eyeing your neighbor’s recycling habits.

And the news? Oh, the news. A never-ending parade of chaos, heartbreak, and “are you kidding me right now?”

So let me ask you this.

Do we really need more of that?

Or… would you like a puzzle instead?

Because that’s what a cozy mystery is. It’s not about the darkness. It’s about the light you bring to it.

It’s about stepping into a world where, yes, something has gone terribly wrong—but instead of spiraling into despair, we roll up our sleeves (preferably while holding a warm cup of something delicious) and we figure it out.

We restore order.

We find justice.

We breathe again.

And maybe—just maybe—we do it alongside a slightly chaotic single mom with a few supernatural secrets, a couple of sharp-witted teenagers, and a Papillon dog who may or may not be smarter than everyone else in the room.

(Okay, definitely smarter.)

Because in a cozy mystery, the stakes feel real, but the experience feels safe. You’re not being dragged through darkness—you’re being invited to solve it.

There’s a difference.

A big one.

It’s the difference between feeling overwhelmed by the world… and feeling like you can outsmart it.

It’s choosing curiosity over fear.

It’s choosing joy, even when the premise is murder. Especially when the premise is murder.

And honestly, isn’t that a little bit magical?

Because when you open one of my books, you’re not just reading about a crime. You’re stepping into Rosewood Hollow, where secrets whisper through the trees, magic lingers just beneath the surface, and even the most ordinary moments can turn extraordinary.

You’re joining Sarah as she juggles motherhood, mystery, and the occasional “oh look, another dead body” inconvenience.

You’re walking beside Emma and Cory as they navigate life, family, and the undeniable fact that their mom’s life is… not normal.

And you’re absolutely taking cues from Pixie (and let’s be honest, Blueberry would insist on this), who knows that every good mystery requires equal parts intuition, loyalty, and perfectly timed dramatic flair.

So the next time someone gives you that look—that “murder… but cozy?” look—you can just smile.

Because you know something they don’t.

You know that in a world that feels increasingly heavy, choosing stories that offer hope, cleverness, and a touch of magic isn’t silly.

It’s necessary.

And if that comes wrapped in a charming little mystery with a side of sass and a very opinionated dog?

Well.

I didn’t think you’d have any more questions.

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...

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