The Writer’s Uniform: 5 Things That Actually Define Me as a Cozy Mystery Author

Forget the selfies, the algorithms, and the “build your personal brand” advice. When it comes to writing my magical Papillon mysteries, my uniform is a little different. Here’s what it really looks like:

1. Sweaters, messy buns, and keyboards

Cozy comfort is key. Whether I’m chasing ghosts or crafting enchanted mysteries, nothing fuels the magic like a warm sweater and a comfy workspace. Bonus points if there’s a Papillon curled up nearby!

2. Manuscripts covered in ink and coffee rings

Every story starts messy. My pages are filled with handwritten edits, scribbles, and notes to myself. It’s proof that magic (and mysteries) are never perfect on the first try.

3. Stacks of books and endless research

I invest in worlds, not trends. Research is my secret ingredient—whether I’m weaving in haunted mansions, enchanted gardens, or a clever canine sidekick, the details matter.

4. Steaming mugs of inspiration

Coffee or tea? Yes, please. These little rituals keep me going while my characters whisper their secrets—or demand a plot twist—at all hours.

5. Finished books that speak for themselves

At the end of the day, my work is my brand. The stories of ghosts, magic, and an adorable Papillon are what connect me to my readers. And honestly? That’s exactly the kind of magic I love.

Writing cozy mysteries with a hint of magic isn’t about showing your face—it’s about showing your heart, your creativity, and your love for every quirky, enchanted detail.

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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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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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