Category Archives: writing

A welcome surprise

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In the winter of 2025, I spent the cold, snowy months fiercely hammering away at the keyboard on my laptop. I had a new book in mind, and the premise of the story kept me awake at night as my mind churned with ideas. It was a story I quickly became attached to because the central focus was on the location of the three cottages on Armstrong Point in Muskoka that once belonged to generations of my family.

The further I dove into the plot, the more my childhood memories bubbled to the surface. Every sentence I wrote describing the character’s travels from cottage to cottage brought me back to my childhood days of bouncing on the springboard between our brown cottage and the green cottage that belonged to my uncle. And not far beyond that was the yellow cottage that belonged to my mom’s cousin Harry. It stayed in the family until it was sold not that long ago.

Flash forward to this winter. I was excited to read through the story I had written last winter and begin my first round of edits. I found a small room in our local library and started from the beginning. It had been a year since those characters were so firmly embedded in my brain, so the story almost felt new to me. As I began reading chapter 46, I knew the end of the story was near. When I scrolled to the next page, it was blank. The chapter had no end. The story wasn’t finished. And nowhere in the manuscript had I typed the words ‘the end’.

Suppressing both my shock and disappointment, I packed up my laptop and gathered my things. As I exited the small room, I noticed the plaque on the door. The room had been dedicated by Dr. D.G. Massey to his late wife. The shock of the book not being finished had now been replaced by the shock of seeing the name Massey on the plaque. My middle name is Massey, and the book I am working on is based on my family’s extended branches of the Massey family tree. The symbolism was not lost on me, and I returned to the library the next day to add the final chapter to the book and write ‘the end’.

The piece of land on the cover of Crossing the Lines is Armstrong Point on Lake Rosseau. Every member of my family has many wonderful memories of the time we spent together in those cottages, and many stories we could all tell about the conversations we had around each of those dining room tables. It’s a wonderful feeling to be able to take a piece of my history and pay a sincere homage to such a big part of my life by including it in one of my books.

Revving my engine

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Writing a new book always makes me feel like I am a race car driver at the starting line just before the gun goes off. I’m constantly double checking everything is set to go before I press the gas pedal to the floor and hold on for dear life as my story careens around corners more quickly than I imagined. But as the exhaust sputters out of the tail pipe, waiting for the split second the flag will drop and the race will begin, I know this moment, this anticipatory moment, plays a crucial role in setting the tone for the whole race. I must be ready.

Much of my readiness comes from listening to my characters, but I must also do my due diligence to research anything that may affect the plausibility of the story. I’m sure I must be on a watch list somewhere after writing six novels about serial killers and researching a myriad number of ways to commit murder. But I am compelled to keep revving my engine and prepare for the race that is imminent.

I am in the proper position. My strategy is logged in my brain, and I am mentally prepared for the experience that is about to happen. The characters are using their prowess to push my foot down on the accelerator. Plumes of exhaust are rising above the back of the car. The voices in my head are loud. The familiar track lays ahead. The flag will soon drop, and the screech of my tires will recklessly send me into a world I have yet to discover. I am ready.

The Hardest Part

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Writing a novel is challenging. Creating charming characters and loathsome scoundrels that readers will connect with on more than one level is the true test of an author.

I thought the hardest part would be writing the book. Once I learned to listen to the voices in my head, and trust that they were portraying themselves honestly, that became the easiest part. I let them guide my fingers on the keyboard. I let them pull me into writing fugues that would last for hours. I let them introduce themselves to me and mesmerize me. I let them in.

Once the first draft was finished, I thought the hardest part would be the editing. Grueling hours were spent reading my first draft and thinking it was awful, but the souls of the characters made me feel things, and that is how writing should affect readers. After I got past the initial fear of editing, changes were made to make the story better, and I introduced my characters to the world.

I have told many people, the hardest part of being an author is marketing, which is true to a certain extent, but that was a white lie to conceal what I fear is truly the hardest part.

The absolute hardest part is believing that my writing, and my stories, are good enough. When you create something from nothing, and you send it out into the world for scrutiny, your biggest fear is that it will fail. I know my writing is not for everyone, but it could be everything to someone.

I have read books by successful authors that did not resonate with me at all. Whether the characters fell short, or the story line didn’t grab me, I now know that even the most auspicious authors will not be a five-star read for everyone who opens their books.

Now, the hardest part is wondering if someday I could be someone’s favorite author.

One name lit my brain on fire

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It’s been a while since I have been in this creative space. When the lodge I work at closes for the season, my first desire is to get back into the kitchen to make weekly freezer crockpot meals for our local food bank, and, most recently, soup for our local Hospice. It is a true passion of mine.

But my other passion crept stealthily back into my consciousness after a name appeared in a Facebook post and captured my attention. I have been mentally preparing to write a new novel this winter, and, although I have begun writing the first chapter, I had no idea where this story would go. I rely on my characters to lead that charge. Once I saw this name, I knew this person was going to be an integral part of the story.

I have five white boards in my living room, all dedicated to absorbing and displaying information that will become important in the stories I write. When I scribble my ideas onto the boards, I have no idea how or when the ideas will take shape, I only know they will be a key to developing the twists in the story.

When this name wormed itself into my brain, I stood up and, in a panic, looked for my dry erase markers. I had recently cleaned my living room and moved the markers to a new spot in my house and could not remember where I put them. I became the human equivalent of a Roomba, bouncing off furniture and changing my trajectory. I became so agitated that I finally went into the kitchen and spewed my thoughts onto the white board on my fridge that usually contains my shopping list.

I freed the beast. The name is catalogued and waiting to share their story. I’m not going to mention the name in this post because that would defeat the shocking twist at the end of the story, even though I currently have no idea what that twist will be. That is for the character to tell me and guide me along as they tell their story.

My brain is on fire. I don’t see sleep in my near future. And, as always, I give my nod to the writing Gods who are constantly sending me bits of information to pique my curiosity and keep me looking for those subtle messages they send in the strangest ways.

Darkness and humor

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At the end of another busy summer at the lodge, I came home today and relaxed by scrolling through the many posts I have published on this blog. I have participated in many writing challenges that have allowed me to hone my writing skills by inspiring me to create a full story in a certain number of words. This particular challenge was to write a 66-word story using the word fanatic. The following paragraph was my entry.

‘After hearing the word mispronounced, with the emphasis on the wrong syllable, she had an idea of what to do with the wretched people who would not allow her solace.  Fanatic – indeed they were.  They camped out in her driveway, followed her everywhere but, one by one, they became smaller in numbers.  Her “fan-attic”, mind you, was becoming rather full.  She hoped the smell would dissipate.’

I blame my brother for introducing me to the wonderful books of Dean Koontz in my teenage years. Dean’s books are filled with dark themes, but those books are lightened by an underlying humor that makes the badness easier to embrace. This is the style of book I love to read, so this became the style of book I wanted to write.

Although I have written and self-published six books, I still love a challenge. Earlier this year, I entered the NYC Micro-Fiction Writing Challenge to create a story in 250 words with a pre-assigned theme and a key phrase. I missed the top ten entries by one, placing first in the honorary mentions. I received some wonderful feedback from the judges and great encouragement to follow my passion to keep writing.

I will soon be editing the book I wrote last winter and I will forge ahead with the book I have just begun writing. Next year, two new books will be added to my growing list of novels, and I have ideas for so many more stories. Once the hard work of writing the books is complete, the harder work of marketing myself begins. Wish me luck!!

Inflation isn’t a bad thing when it has to do with your ego

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My series of books has been getting more attention lately, which makes me a happy writer. Some wonderful reader in the US has quickly ingested two of the books in the series, and I am keeping a close eye on my KDP stats to see if they delve into the next book. The local sales have increased during the summer months, and book sales at the lodge are adding to the growing list of people reading my books!

A family of long-time guests (they started visiting the lodge in the 1980’s) checked in on Saturday. Two of them are currently reading books from The Relative Series and are loving them. Vickie has not been reading much over the last few years, but she picked up Gemini and couldn’t put it down. That makes my heart happy. Her mother Deb, who is also reading my books, told me she used to be an editor. She admits there is a lot of crap out there, but she praised my writing and told me I deserve high marks.

My head barely fit through the door when I left work yesterday. My ego grew three sizes, and I could not help smiling during the entire drive home. Today is my day off, and their praise gave me the shove I needed to turn off my phone and re-awaken my creative brain. Sadly, it has been dormant since the start of our busy summer season at the lodge, but I am determined to rattle its cage and wake the beast.

The long list of ideas for new books is anxiously awaiting my attention. This fall, I am determined to edit the book I wrote last winter, and get started on one of the many ideas I have listed on the white board titled ‘New ideas for books’. One of those ideas has a firm grip on my attention and the protagonist is urging me to listen to his story. I cannot wait to be lost in the familiar fugue of writing while my characters tell their tales.

Let it flow

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These are words I recently used as advice for a friend of mine. After texting this phrase to her, I sat back to let those words play over and over again, like a moving marquee in my brain, until my own message became clear. The words I shared with her also had a deep meaning to me.

I have sadly been neglecting the voices in my head. I have allowed myself to live each day in a perfunctory state of mind without paying attention to the creativity I have harnessed in the past and thoroughly enjoyed while listening to those voices. The list of to-be-written books in my brain has grown exponentially, but the compulsion to put in the work to bring those stories to life has waned.

I miss the joy I feel when I write. I miss those moments of lost time when I become so consumed by a story that hours go by before I am able to remind myself I am in my own home and I am not the central character of one of my stories, and living in a realm I have created.

I need to embrace the freedom of creativity, and I need to let it flow. I need to let it wake me up in the wee hours of the morning. I need to let it interrupt my work hours. And I need to let it add a few items to my grocery list.

Being able to create a story from beginning to end was never a gift I asked for on my Christmas wish list when I was a child. But being able to create a story from beginning to end is something I will cherish for the rest of my life. Let it flow!

A fitting day for a book announcement

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If writing novels has taught me anything, I have learned the most important lesson for an author is to know creativity will find you when you are least expecting it. It will also pull away from you and hide in the furthest recesses of your mind when you need it the most. Being a woman of a certain age, when the dreaded menopause entered my life, it changed the trajectory of my writing habits. I will not go into details, but the six months I spent trying to finish the last book in my series was deeply affected the brunt of Mother Nature’s devious plot, and she derailed my plan to have the last book in my series published in 2024.

I rallied. I fought for the voices to find me. I spent sleepless nights longing to hear the voices that had once been such a part of my daily reality. But I was stymied. I stared at my keyboard. I stared at the ceiling. I stared at my white boards. And I stared at any stationary object, waiting for the words to come. But nothing came.

On the days leading up to today, something drastically changed. The second book in The Relative Series is called One Eleven, and the stars aligned to bring a change to my perspective. The remaining words I yearned for to finish this book series tentatively presented themselves, and I was able to put the finishing touches on Abbey in the Oakwood and reveal that the series is complete. Today is January 11th, One Eleven, and the relevance is more than significant, it is a full circle moment for me.

Soon, I will be able to post a picture of all six of the novels in The Relative Series, as well as a photo of the cover for Crossing The Lines, which is my first stand-alone novel. The salt of my erratic seas buoyed me up to meet the challenges I was meant to face, and I was eager to float in the water of the creativity I had been missing, and to truly absorb the tranquility I feel in those waters.

Life may be more than willing to throw us a few curveballs, but we must remain reticent in our stance. We need to look the pitcher of that curveball in the eye and let them know we have not given up. This is my journey as a writer. This is my platform to share my truth. And this is my moment to share my stories. Throw me what you got, but I will always come out swinging. Abbey in the Oakwood will be available on Amazon soon!!

Blurbs kill creativity

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There, I said it. The blurb that is required to be the summation of a novel will take every ounce of a writer’s creativity and send them into the darkest corner to ignore this required task and shudder in absolute horror. I’m sure I speak for other authors when I say, having to encapsulate 95,000 plus words in two or three paragraphs is torturous.

I can sit in front of a computer for months, listening to the voices in my head, and come up with an amusing, albeit disturbing, story. But having to create an ‘elevator pitch’ for this last book in my series is making my head spin. There is so much to say, and only so many words in which to say it.

‘Maniacal grandfather spawns a legacy of death and destruction’. It’s a good start, but it does not do justice to the end of The Relative Series. The five books leading up to this grand finale tell the tales of the people in his life who were affected by his choices, and the few words I have to describe this series is distressing.

I can only hope my brain will be able to create a log line that will draw the readers into the story and make them want to follow it from its beginning to its end. It has been an innovative journey for me, and one I hope you want to see to its conclusion.

As I spend the remaining hours of his day beating delicate words into submission, I can only hope the blurb I create will entice you to read this series of stories.

Imposter syndrome

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I am ashamed of myself, in more ways than one. I have willingly neglected this blog for the past three months, and I have recently allowed myself to, once again, bathe in the toxic water known as Imposter Syndrome.

Having just finished the first draft of my sixth novel, I should be elated. I should be patting myself on the back for creating another unique story that has never been told. Instead, I am doubting my ability to write. I am second guessing my talent as a storyteller, and I am apprehensive about reading the rough draft for fear the words have no depth or emotion and hold nothing of value to the reader.

I am sure every author has hit this wall in their writing journey more than once. The fear of not finding an audience for the stories we construct is paralyzing. The thought that I have toiled to combine over ninety-four thousand words and beat them into submission only to have the story fall flat is agonizing.

But somewhere under the somber veil of the debilitating malady known as imposter syndrome lies a beacon of hope. A tiny speck of light looms in the distance, and that light beckons me to continue. Reading stories by other authors has always been a way for me to draw from their strengths so I can become a better writer. But, tonight, I am hedging my bets and reading one of my own books. Of the five stories I have created, it is the one I am most proud to say I have written.

As I turn the pages on my Kindle, I am reminded of the passion I felt drafting this story. I am reclaiming the confidence I felt in myself, and I am slowly letting the water out of the toxic bath and watching the Imposter Syndrome circle the drain before it disappears.

I can do this. I can write.