One Big, Slightly Magical, Slightly Chaotic, International Celebration (With Cake, Obviously)

There’s something rather magical about this particular moment in time.

Here we are… suspended gently between Canada Day and the Fourth of July. Like the literary equivalent of sitting on a porch swing with a cup of tea in one hand and something slightly stronger in the other, watching the world celebrate in bursts of red, white, and… well, more red and white.

Full disclosure: I live in Canada.

Further disclosure: many of you do not.

In fact, you are everywhere. The United States, Australia, New Zealand, across Europe… scattered beautifully across time zones and continents like the most delightful cast of characters I could never quite fit into one book (though don’t think I haven’t considered it).

And that got me thinking.

Why on earth would I limit myself to celebrating just one country… when I could celebrate with all of you?

It feels like the most natural thing in the world, really. After all, stories don’t belong to borders. A cozy mystery doesn’t check your passport before inviting you in. Magic, last I checked, is gloriously unconcerned with geography.

Also—and this is important—my dog has weighed in on the matter.

My papillon Blueberry, in all her fluffy, opinionated wisdom, would like it officially noted that she does not care what you are celebrating.

She cares that there are treats.

And possibly a gathering.

Preferably one that involves dropped snacks, friendly humans, and a general atmosphere of “this is a good day to be alive and slightly overindulged.”

Fireworks, however, are a firm no.

Too loud. Too startling. Too much like the dramatic climax of a mystery novel when someone shouts, “Wait! I know who did it!” and drops a tray.

But drone shows?

Now that gets a cautious tail wag of approval. Quiet, sparkly, magical in a way that feels like it belongs in the same universe as talking dogs and small towns with very big secrets.

Which, conveniently, is exactly where we like to spend our time.

So here we are.

Between celebrations. Between countries. Between chapters, perhaps.

And instead of choosing one moment, one place, one reason…

Why not choose all of them?

Whatever you are celebrating this week—or this weekend—or even just this perfectly ordinary, secretly extraordinary day…

Congratulations.

Truly.

I’m celebrating with you.

Have the cake. The good kind. The kind you don’t share unless you absolutely have to (and even then, only small slices).

Kick back. Put your feet up. Ignore the laundry. It will forgive you. Eventually.

And if, somewhere between the laughter and the quiet moments and the crumbs on the plate, you feel like slipping into a world where things are just a little more magical, a little more mysterious, and where even the smallest clue might change everything…

Well.

You know where to find me.

It’s rather fun here.

And there’s always room for one more.

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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...

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