Bat Bombs, Exploding Muffins, and Other Completely Real War Plans

I’ll never forget the moment I discovered bat bombs.

I was deep into research for one of my Top Secret Files books about World War II, digging through military archives and odd corners of the internet, looking for stories that never make it into textbooks.

And then I saw it.

A completely serious government project that involved strapping tiny incendiary devices to hibernating Mexican free-tailed bats, loading more than a thousand of those bats into bomb-shaped canisters, dropping them from airplanes over Japanese cities, and hoping the bats would fly into the wooden buildings before the timers ignited.

I stared at the page for a long moment.

My first thought was, “No way. That can’t possibly be real.”

My second thought was, “This is perfect.”

Because the truth is, history is full of moments like this. The kind that make you stop reading and say, “Wait… WHAT?”

And the wildest part is that they are completely true.

Desperate Times Make Strange Ideas

One of the things we forget when we look back at World War II is how uncertain everything felt at the time.

Today we know how the war ended. We know the Allies eventually won. But in the early years of the conflict, victory was far from guaranteed. Nazi forces were advancing across Europe. Japan had struck Pearl Harbor. The future looked frighteningly uncertain.

When people feel that kind of pressure, they start trying everything. And I mean everything. I mean - bat bombs? What were they thinking?

In reality, the theory behind the project was quite clever. At the time, Japanese cities contained large numbers of wooden buildings. The bats would naturally fly into attics and roof spaces to roost. When the incendiary devices ignited, hundreds of small fires would start all over the city at once.

Unfortunately, during testing in New Mexico, some of the armed bats escaped early and roosted under a fuel tank at a nearby military airfield.

Yeah, you guessed it. they bat bombed their own base. Burned half of it to the ground.

Still, it was an interesting idea.

And Then There Were the Exploding Muffins

The bat bomb project was not even the strangest idea people tested during the war.

The Office of Strategic Services, which was the forerunner of the CIA, developed an explosive compound that looked exactly like flour. It could be stored in bags, mixed into dough, and baked.

They nicknamed it “Aunt Jemima,” after the popular pancake mix of the time.

Chinese resistance fighters could smuggle the explosive flour through Japanese checkpoints because it looked completely harmless. If anyone became suspicious, they could literally bake muffins with it and eat them to prove it was just flour.

I should point out that eating explosive flour was not recommended.

One cook who sampled an early batch nearly died before the formula was perfected. Eventually, the mixture became stable enough that the muffins were technically edible, though they probably did not win any baking contests.

Fifteen tons of this explosive flour were eventually smuggled during the war.

Sometimes history sounds like a spy novel.

Except it actually happened.

The Moment I’m Always Looking For

Discovering stories like this is one of my favorite parts of writing nonfiction.

I’m always hunting for that moment when the research suddenly makes you sit up straight and say, “That can’t be true!”

The moment when something is so strange, so unexpected, and so completely real that it makes you say, “How have I never heard about this before?”

Those moments are everywhere in history and science.

Fish that communicate by releasing bubbles from their swim bladders.

Weapons made from bats.

Explosives that can be baked into muffins.

The world is full of these little surprises.

And every time I stumble across one, I feel the same spark of curiosity that first made me fall in love with history in the first place.

Why I Love the Weird Stuff

The strange stories are not just entertaining. They reveal something deeper about people.

They show how creative humans can be under pressure. How scientists experiment, fail, adjust, and try again. And that history is not just a list of dates and famous names.

It is full of wild ideas, risky experiments, and moments when someone somewhere said, “This might sound crazy, but hear me out…”

Some of those ideas change history. And yeah, some of them burn down military bases. But either way, they remind us that history and science are not dull subjects sitting quietly in textbooks.

They are messy.

Creative.

Brilliant.

And occasionally a little ridiculous.

Which is exactly why I love them.

If You Enjoy This Kind of Weirdness

If you enjoy discovering the strange, the secret, and the completely unexpected corners of history and science, here are a few of my favorite places to explore:

Atlas Obscura
Mental Floss
Damn Interesting
Futility Closet
Roadside America

And one of my favorite podcasts for bizarre facts:

No Such Thing as a Fish

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All of them are excellent hunting grounds for those moments when you read something and think:

“There is no way that can be real.”

And then discover that it absolutely is.

You can be a brilliant writer and still struggle to get an agent.

You can study the craft for years, attend conferences, revise your manuscript a dozen times, and work with critique partners who give honest feedback. You may even have published books before. And yet there you are, deep in the depths of the query trenches.

It’s not fair. You see social media posts announcing, “I just signed with my dream agent!” And yet your inbox is full of rejections. Or worse, nothing.

I wish I had a magic answer.

If I did, I’d wave that wand over several of my incredibly talented author friends who are in exactly this situation. They’re wonderful writers. All of them write better than I do. They even know where the commas are supposed to go. But while they receive champagne rejections, they never receive the offer.

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You know the kind of rejection I mean. The agent tells you they loved the writing, but the project is not quite right for them. Or even worse, they’ve requested the full manuscript, read it, and then you never hear from them again. Even when you politely nudge. Both are awful, and they have the same result.

You, as a writer, are confused. They liked your writing enough to read it and consider it, but - No offer of representation.

Frustrating beyond belief.

Truth is, this happens more often than people realize. Really talented authors, even those who manage to get publishing deals on their own, can have problems signing with an agent.

So why does it happen?

The uncomfortable truth is that publishing is not purely merit-based. Craft, skill, and professionalism do matter. But the industry is also driven by timing, taste, and market forces that writers can’t control. Sometimes a book is picked up because it reaches the right agent on the exact day that agent is looking for that kind of story. The project connects because it fits a current trend.

Sometimes an agent will love your work and writing style, but they already represent an author who writes in a similar style and genre. Most agents are working to broaden their list, not keep it narrow.

There is far more serendipity in publishing than most people like to admit.

It can feel wildly unfair.

But unfair doesn’t mean hopeless.

The important question becomes what you can do next.

One option is to keep querying. Some writers send out hundreds of queries before they sign with an agent. If you’re receiving thoughtful responses or those champagne rejections, it’s a good sign. Agents are telling you that your writing is strong. What may be missing is the right match between the agent and the project. That means you can continue searching for someone whose tastes align with your work, and you can continue writing new projects that showcase the depth of your storytelling ability.

Another option is to submit directly to publishers that accept unagented manuscripts. This path still exists, particularly with smaller presses and independent publishers. It does require more work. You must track submissions, understand contract terms, and manage negotiations on your own. But many writers successfully publish this way. Occasionally, something interesting happens along this path as well. If a publisher offers a contract, you can return to some of those agents who passed on your work. A book deal demonstrates your ability to sell, and that proof can change the conversation.

A third option is to explore self-publishing. For many writers, this path offers more control over their timeline, their creative decisions, and their relationship with readers. Self-publishing does require its own set of skills. Marketing, production, cover design, and distribution all become part of the writer’s job. But it has become a viable and respected path for many authors.

Ultimately, the question is not which publishing route is correct. The real question is what you want for your stories.

Do you want them to reach readers?

If the answer is yes, then it helps to remember that once you have mastered the craft of writing, you do have choices. You can continue querying. You can work with independent presses. You can build your own publishing path. Some writers even move between these worlds successfully.

Publishing will always contain a degree of unpredictability. Timing, taste, and chance will always play their roles. But the one thing that remains entirely in the writer’s control is the decision to keep writing and to keep sending those stories into the world.

If you have been in the query trenches for a while, you’ve probably experienced some version of this story yourself. I would love to hear what the publishing journey has looked like for you.

Publishers That Accept Unagented Submissions

If you are exploring the traditional route without an agent, there are still reputable publishers that accept submissions directly from authors. Most of these are independent presses or specialty publishers, but many produce excellent books with strong distribution.

Always check submission guidelines before sending your work. Reading windows and requirements change frequently.

General and Children’s Publishers

Chronicle Books
Holiday House
Chicago Review Press
Familius
McFarland
Shadow Mountain

Adult Fiction and Nonfiction Publishers

Tin House Books
Bellevue Literary Press
Two Dollar Radio
Unnamed Press
Kensington Publishing
Baen Books
DAW Books

Skyhorse Publishing

Finding More Open Publishers

If you want to search for additional publishers currently open to unsolicited manuscripts, the Poets & Writers Small Press Database is an excellent resource. It allows you to filter presses by genre, submission status, and location.

Self Publishing Education Resources

For writers interested in exploring the independent publishing route, these sites provide reliable information and guidance.

Alliance of Independent Authors

Jane Friedman

The Creative Penn
Kindle Direct Publishing
Draft2Digital

Reedsy Learning

If this topic made your writer’s brain start buzzing, you will probably enjoy the conversations we have over at Way-Word Writers. We talk honestly about craft, publishing, and the strange realities of the writing life every week on the Way-Word Writers podcast.

Learn more at
https://waywordwriters.com

Tags still on.
Perfect condition.
Clearly purchased with good intentions…and then never worn.

I like to imagine a whole army of well-meaning grandpas out there, receiving perfectly nice shirts that never even touch their shoulders.

Because eventually, they end up in my cart. And then they live in my husband’s closet.

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Where my hubby proudly pulls out those cheap shirts and wears them like the designer labels they are. He doesn’t call me a cheapskate. He thinks I’m brilliant at economizing.

And honestly? I agree with him.

There’s something deeply satisfying about finding what other people have overlooked, whether it’s a stack of books just waiting for a second reader or toys that still have years of imagination left in them. I find clothes for my granddaughters that are just as loved the second time around and vintage treasures that need just minor repairs.

It feels like a treasure hunt.

And I’m a sucker for treasure hunts whether it’s rocks, artifacts, or thrift store goodies.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just that. Because when you spend enough time in thrift stores, you start to notice something.

There is a lot of perfectly good stuff in this world.

Clothes that are barely worn and items hardly used. So many objects that still have a viable life.

And it makes you wonder…

Why are we making so much just to get rid of it?

I’ve witnessed where some of that “getting rid of it” ends up.

Years ago, I was in Lima, Peru on a mission trip for church, and I saw something I haven’t been able to forget. It was a literal Mountain of garbage that eclipsed the surrounding buildings. And most shocking of all were the peole living in that mountain of trash.

Yes. People. Humans living in the trash, carving out a cave where they and their family could live, staying warm from the heat of trash decomposition.

It’s an image that is burned into my memory and my heart.

So now, when I walk into a thrift store, it feels like more than hunting for a bargain. Although I still love the quest for treasure..

Now it feels like a small, quiet act of resistance.

Against waste and the idea that everything is disposable. How did we get here? What happened to my grandmother’s motto?

“Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Do without.”
That question has been sitting with me for a long time.
Long enough that I finally did something about it.

I wrote a story.

My upcoming book, The Repair Rebels, is my way of pushing back against this throw-away culture in a meaningful way.

Because this isn’t just about saving a few dollars at a thrift store. It’s about understanding what’s really happening. Products are being designed to fail.
We’re being trained, quietly and consistently, to replace instead of repair.
And most of us don’t even realize it’s happening.

I don’t want the next generation to grow up thinking this is normal. I want them to know they can fight back and learn how things work.
They can learn to take things apart and fix what’s broken.We can all choose a different way forward.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one pushing back against that. But I know that’s not true

So tell me -

Who else is out there?

Who else is thrifting instead of buying new?
Who gets a little thrill from finding something that still has life left in it?
Who out there believes that maybe… just maybe, we don’t have to live like everything is disposable?

I’ll keep buying my husband’s shirts from grandpas who never wore them and hunting for books, toys, and treasures for my grandkids. Every time I walk out of a thrift store with something rescued instead of replaced, I’ll feel a bit of triumph.

Because it may be a small thing, but small things add up, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

I remember the television glowing in our living room, a fuzzy black-and-white image flickering across the screen. My parents made sure all three of us girls were there, even my baby sister, who was far too young to understand what the moon even was.

But we watched.

History was happening.

And then Neil Armstrong stepped down the ladder.

That slightly grainy, hesitant step is burned into my memory. I didn’t understand orbital mechanics, propulsion systems, or lunar modules. I had no sense of how many people it had taken to make that moment possible.

I just knew something amazing was happening.

Later that night, my dad took me outside. We stood in the dark and looked up at the moon.

“That’s where they are,” he said.

We, humans, were exploring the universe God made.

It felt enormous and intimate all at once.

Now, decades later, I’m researching Apollo 11 for a writing project, and my awe has only grown.

Because what those teams accomplished is staggering.

They were working without artificial intelligence and without the handheld calculators we now take for granted. There were no sleek laptops perched on consoles and no instant simulations running quietly in the background. Instead, there were slide rules, ashtrays on desks, and a great deal of coffee. And there was nerve.

The Apollo spacecraft carried what was, for its time, the smallest and most capable computer package in existence. The Apollo Guidance Computer helped navigate through space and allowed astronauts to operate the ship with astonishing precision.

And yet they also carried paper star charts.

If the computer faltered, the astronauts could use a sextant to take star sightings, much like sailors centuries earlier, and manually confirm their position. High technology and careful human calculation worked side by side.

On the evening news, the story looked like rows of men in white shirts and skinny ties hunched over glowing consoles. But that image was only part of the story.

The moon landing wasn’t built by a single room full of men.

It was built by thousands of hands across the country, many of them belonging to women whose names rarely made the broadcast.

Margaret Hamilton directed the team that developed the onboard flight software for the Apollo Guidance Computer. She and her colleagues at MIT wrote the code that guided astronauts safely to the lunar surface and back home again. She later coined the term “software engineering.”

One of my favorite photographs from that era shows Margaret standing beside a stack of printed code taller than she is. Thousands of pages of logic, typed and tested by hand. That stack helped guide astronauts 240,000 miles through space.

And she was not alone.

In Dover, Delaware, women hand-sewed the space suits. Every stitch mattered. A misplaced needle hole could compromise the suit, and in the vacuum of space, that would have been catastrophic.

In small towns across the country, companies built components for the Saturn V rocket. In Neosho, Missouri, workers contributed to the F-1 engines that powered the launch vehicle.

It was machinists and seamstresses. Programmers and technicians. Factory workers and mathematicians. It was families gathered around televisions, holding their breath together.

As a child, I saw only the men on the screen.

As an adult, I see the thousands behind them.

Back then, I carried a lunchbox with astronauts printed on the side. I drew rockets and pictures of aliens I was sure we would someday meet. Mars felt like the obvious next stop. Traveling beyond our solar system seemed less like science fiction and more like something that was simply going to happen.

We were going there.

It’s probably why I still feel a thrill when I read about space exploration. Why I still look up at the night sky and wonder what we might build next. Why the idea of colonies on Mars or mining asteroids doesn’t sound absurd, but like an unfinished chapter.

The moon itself hasn’t changed.

But my understanding has.

As a child, I saw wonder.

As an adult, I see the work behind the wonder.

And knowing how much courage and effort it took somehow makes that small step onto the lunar surface feel even more miraculous

.

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Almost every writer I meet eventually asks the same question.

“How hard is it to get traditionally published?”

Sometimes the question comes at a conference. Sometimes it arrives in an email from a hopeful writer who has just finished a first manuscript. Occasionally, it comes from a teacher or librarian who quietly admits they have been working on a novel for years.

The dream of traditional publishing is still very much alive.

By traditional publishing I mean the classic path where a publisher offers to pay you to publish your book. They invest in editing, design, marketing, and distribution. One day your book appears in bookstores and libraries, and you experience the surreal moment of seeing your name printed on a spine sitting on a shelf.

Self-publishing is a wonderful option, and I am very supportive of it. Many authors build terrific careers that way.

But today I want to talk about the traditional publishing path, because it is still the dream for many writers.

And it can feel incredibly frustrating.

The reason is simple.

Traditional publishing is difficult.

Stage 1: Querying Literary Agents

Most writers seeking traditional publication begin by querying literary agents.

Agents act as the bridge between authors and publishers. They help shape manuscripts, pitch projects to editors, negotiate contracts, and guide careers.

Agents receive an enormous number of submissions.

Many agents process around 1,500 queries per month.

From that entire pile, an agent may sign one author, and sometimes only one every couple of months.

That puts the odds of being picked up by any given literary agent somewhere between:

1 in 3,000 and 1 in 6,000

Another way to look at the same reality:

A typical agent receives about 2,000 submissions per year.

From that entire pool, they may sign:

Only 2–3 writers.

Industry estimates suggest that 95% of submissions are rejected quickly, often because the manuscript does not yet meet professional publishing standards. Of the small percentage that receive serious consideration, most are still declined.

In the end, agents offer representation to roughly:

1% of the submissions they receive.

One real-world example shows how intense the numbers can be.

Literary agent Jenna Satterthwaite was open for queries only 78 days during her first year of agenting. During that short window, she received 3,627 queries. She requested full manuscripts from 103 writers, offered Revise & Resubmit notes to 10, and made offers of representation to 31 writers while actively building her list.

Agent Commission

When an agent agrees to represent a writer, they are paid through commission.

The standard commission is:

15% of the author’s domestic earnings

For foreign sales, the commission usually rises to:

20%, because the author’s agent typically shares that percentage with a co-agent in the foreign market.

Stage 2: From Agent to Publisher

If an agent decides to represent a manuscript, the process moves to the next stage.

The agent submits the manuscript to publishers.

Typically, they send the project to 8–12 editors who might be interested in that type of book.

Any individual publisher might accept only about 1% of the manuscripts they see, but because the book is being considered by multiple editors at once, the overall success rate for an agented manuscript increases to roughly:

10%

Editors face the same overwhelming volume of submissions.

One senior editor at a Big Five imprint may receive:

About 12 agent submissions per week

That adds up to roughly:

600 manuscripts per year

From those submissions, that editor might acquire only:

3–4 new writers annually

The numbers are intimidating, but they also explain why rejection is so common.

Why Writers Keep Trying Anyway

All of those numbers can sound discouraging when you first hear them.

But statistics are not the whole story.

A while ago I was talking with a new writer who had just begun sending out queries. She had already received several rejections and was wondering if that meant she should give up.

I told her something every writer eventually learns.

Rejection is part of the process, and continuing to write is what moves a writer forward.

Publishing is a business with a limited number of seats at the table. Thousands of writers are trying to pull up a chair at the same time.

The writers who eventually find a place there are usually the ones who keep showing up. They write another story, revise a manuscript, and send another query.

Growing Shark Skin

Somewhere along the way writers grow what I like to call shark skin.

Sharks swim through the ocean all day without worrying about every bump they encounter. Their skin is tough enough to keep moving forward, and they do not stop swimming every time something brushes past them.

Writers need something similar.

The sting of rejection never disappears completely, but over time you learn not to let it stop you. You keep writing, keep learning, and keep sending your work out into the world.

The traditional publishing path can be difficult.

But it is not impossible.

I have had more than forty books traditionally published. I know authors who have written more than one hundred.

Stories still find their way into the world every day.

And one of them might be yours.

I always have been. I always will be.

I started collecting rocks when I was four years old. I am not exaggerating.

I still remember my first piece of red sandstone. I found it at the entrance to the Garden of the Gods in Colorado. I held it in my small hand while the sun caught the tiny quartz crystals and made them sparkle.

It felt like I had discovered something magnificent.

Now I have a finely curated collection of fossils and minerals stashed in my office. Pulling out those treasures gives me as much joy as a dragon guarding her treasure chest — except I occasionally let the littles touch mine.

Treasure hunting graduated from rocks to antiquing when I was older. My dad, mom, and I wandered through antique shops together, and some of those beautiful finds now decorate my home.

My littles are endlessly amazed by certain objects.

“What do you mean you have to wind up the box to make the music play?”

“It’s called a Victrola,” I explain. “And it doesn’t need batteries.”

That alone feels like magic.

These days, my treasure hunting has taken a slightly different turn.

Thrifting.

Partly because the treasure hunter in me is still very much alive. But also because I’ve started thinking more about sustainability and what already exists in the world.

Have you ever really looked at the fabric section of a thrift store?

It’s astonishing.

Sweaters. Shirts. Skirts. Tablecloths. Blankets. Entire bolts of possibility just hanging there.

I don’t always need newly processed fabric from a store. I can repurpose, upcycle, and get creative with what already exists.

Now, I am not one of those clever women who can take Grandma’s lace tablecloth and transform it into a Renaissance fair masterpiece.

That is not my lane.

I am not a fluffy, ruffly dress person.

But take a wool sweater with a few holes and turn it into felted fabric for stuffed animals?

I am all in.

My latest project involved penguins.

It was a birthday request. A family of penguins.

Easy, right?

Except I couldn’t find a pattern I liked.

This is a recurring problem in my creative life. I have a picture of the finished thing in my head, and unfortunately, no one else can see it.

So I did what I usually do.

I made my own pattern.

There was some trial and error involved.

A couple of prototype penguins now live quietly at the bottom of the trash can. I could not recycle my recycled fabric; they were beyond saving.

But then I struck gold.

A holey black wool sweater.
A holey white wool sweater.
And, unbelievably, an orange wool sweater.

Into the washing machine they went — hot water cycle. Then into the dryer on high.

Out came tiny, felted versions of what had once been men’s sweaters.

And that’s when the real fun began.

Cutting.
Stitching.
Adjusting.
Hiding half-finished penguins in my office.

No one gets to see their stuffie before it’s complete.

Partly because I enjoy the surprise.

Mostly because stuffed animals without faces or feet can be deeply unsettling. Littles do not need to witness that phase of development. And sometimes husbands are mildly horrified.

But in the end?

A delightful penguin pack.

Happy littles.

And fabric that might have been discarded turned into something loved.

I call that a win all around.

Treasure hunting doesn’t always look like gold coins and sparkling gemstones.

Sometimes it looks like holey sweaters and a washing machine.

Sometimes it looks like rocks that shimmer in the sun.

Sometimes it looks like an antique that still sings if you wind it carefully.

And sometimes it looks like trying something new, failing twice, and stitching again anyway.

I think that’s why I keep making things.

Because there is always treasure hiding somewhere.

And finding it — or turning it into something new — still feels like magic

.

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I was sitting in the airport gate area with an unsweet iced tea and a little cardboard box of egg white bites, enjoying the quiet moment that comes when a long work trip is finally over.

I had just finished a series of school visits and literature events. My brain was pleasantly tired in the way it gets after spending days talking about books with people who love books. I opened my laptop, planning to steal a few quiet minutes to write.

But the woman sitting next to me wanted to talk.

She was sweet and cheerful, so I stuffed my introverted self back into my backpack. I could be silent on the plane. For now, I could visit.

Eventually, she asked the inevitable question.

“So what do you do?”

I am always a little hesitant to answer that.

Because the moment I say that I am an author, the conversation almost always follows a familiar pattern.

First comes the relative.

Someone’s aunt wrote a book. Or a cousin. Or a daughter-in-law. Sometimes it is a grandmother who published a memoir for the family Christmas party. I have heard about a remarkable number of books written by relatives I will probably never meet.

Then comes the second part.

“I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

That sentence is usually followed by an enthusiastic description of the book they plan to write someday. Often it is the first book in a very large series. There may be twelve volumes. Possibly fourteen. The main characters might be pink fluffy bunnies, space pirates, or a family of talking golden retrievers who solve mysteries while running a bakery.

At that point I usually nod and smile, because enthusiasm is a wonderful thing and stories can begin in the strangest places.

The fascinating part is that the entire series already exists in their imagination. Characters have names. Plot twists have been carefully planned. Marketing ideas may even be floating around.

The only missing step is the small and slightly inconvenient task of writing the first chapter.

Normally I listen politely and wish them well.

But this time felt different.

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I had just spent several days surrounded by teachers, librarians, students, and fellow authors. People who love books and believe stories matter. The energy of that community was still buzzing around in my brain.

So when the woman next to me talked about her long-deferred writing dream, I encouraged her.

I told her it was not too late.

Plenty of writers begin later in life. Some people raise families, build careers, and then finally circle back to the stories that have been quietly waiting in the back of their minds.

The dream usually comes first. The craft comes later.

Writing does take effort. Like any skill, it improves with practice. You write something, learn from it, and then write something else. Some days you revise. Some days you delete entire pages and start again.

That is simply part of the work.

The real difference between people who dream about writing and people who become writers is surprisingly simple. Writers eventually sit down and start putting words somewhere.

They might land on paper. They might land on a computer screen. However it happens, the words have to leave your imagination and show up somewhere you can see them.

If you have always dreamed of writing a book, the best way to begin is not with a book. You can start much smaller.

Write a short story. Write a personal essay. Write a piece of micro-fiction.

Develop the habit first.

Some writers swear by something called Morning Pages. The idea comes from Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. The practice involves writing three pages of longhand first thing in the morning and simply letting your thoughts spill onto the page. The goal is to clear your mind and get comfortable with the act of writing.

Morning Pages are not really my jam. My mornings tend to be a busy whirl of cracking eggs, packing lunches, organizing carpools, and making sure everyone is pointed in the correct direction for the day.

But many writers say the practice helped them develop a writing habit, and every writer eventually has to figure out what routine works for them.

There are plenty of ways to build that habit.

You can attach writing to something you already do each day. Some writers sit down with their morning coffee. Others write during their lunch break or before going to bed.

You can aim for a word count instead of a time block. Two hundred words is manageable even on a busy day, and many writers discover they keep going once they start.

Keeping a notebook nearby also helps. Ideas appear in strange places. They show up while you are waiting in a doctor’s office, sitting in a carpool line, or eating egg white bites in an airport gate while a friendly stranger asks what you do for a living.

You can also write with a partner or join short writing sprints. Knowing someone else is writing alongside you often makes the habit easier to maintain.

Some writers even end their writing sessions mid-sentence so they know exactly where to begin the next day. Hemingway famously did this.

Once you begin writing regularly, your skills will grow. Your stories will develop. You will find your voice and your rhythm.

That is what I told the hopeful writer sitting next to me in the airport.

Only you can write your story. If you want that story to exist in the world, the words eventually have to leave your imagination and land somewhere you can see them.

So if the dream of writing a book has been quietly living in your mind for years, consider this a friendly nudge.

Find a notebook. Start scribbling.

You never know. Someday you might be sitting in an airport gate with egg white bites and an iced tea, telling a stranger how it all started.

I mean, seriously.

I’m a freaking author myself. I know exactly how L-O-N-G it takes to write a book. I know about drafts and revisions and editorial letters and the emotional recovery period after you delete 10,000 perfectly good words.

And still.

I want more from my favorite writers.

Immediately.

This is the case with Charlie N. Holmberg.

I adore her books.

Charlie was my first introduction to cozy magic — the kind that doesn’t involve massive magical battles with wizards blasting castles and dragons roasting entire armies. Instead, it might involve creating magic with paper.

Paper.

As a writer and a crafter, that captured my heart.

From the moment I read The Paper Magician, I was hooked. I drank in that trilogy like a thirsty camel who just found her oasis — and the oasis was filled with paper charms, heart magic, and rules that actually mattered.

Because that’s one of the things Holmberg does beautifully.

Her magic systems have structure. They have consequences. Using magic costs something — physically or emotionally. It isn’t free.

And honestly?

Isn’t that true of any kind of creating?

Creating is our human form of magic.

It costs time.
It costs energy.
It costs love.

But what we receive in return is joy.

I am endlessly grateful that God wired humans to make things. Stories. Art. Music. Homes. Worlds.

And creativity like Holmberg’s doesn’t just delight — it surprises.

Take The Hanging City.

I never knew I needed a troll romance.

But apparently, I did.

Forget vampire love triangles. I am officially Team Troll.

And if you read that book, you’ll understand why.

Holmberg builds her worlds so fully that stepping into them feels almost possible — as if somewhere there exists a magical train or boat that could carry you straight into Wimbrel House to sit with Hulda Larkin as she tends enchanted homes and quietly wonders whether she’ll ever find one of her own.

That series is a comfort read for me.

And yet.

I need more.

I find myself wishing Charlie N. Holmberg could magically duplicate herself and fill the world with twice as many beautiful, strange, cozy stories.

Of course, if duplication were possible, I might need one too.

Just imagine.

One version of me writing middle grade mysteries.
One drafting cozy murders.
One tumbling rocks.
One knitting.
One researching the moon landing.
One reorganizing my website.
One taking a nap.

Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain mysterious cloning is illegal. And in one of my own books, it would definitely involve an underground agency and at least one morally questionable scientist.

Actually…

That might be interesting.

See? This is what happens when I read something wonderful.

It doesn’t just entertain me.

It sparks.

Holmberg even wrote The Book of Magic, a guide for authors on building magic systems. I’ve been tempted to experiment more boldly in my own writing because of it. There’s something contagious about encountering someone else’s well-built world.

It reminds you that imagination has structure.
That wonder can have rules.
That magic can be intimate instead of explosive.

And it makes you want to go make something.

Which, perhaps, is the best kind of reading.

The kind that sends you back to your own desk.
Or your own sewing machine.
Or your own rock tumbler.
Or your own half-finished manuscript.

So yes.

I wish Charlie N. Holmberg could magically duplicate herself.

But until that happens, I suppose I’ll reread The Paper Magician, revisit my favorite troll, and maybe experiment with a little more magic of my own.

And if I disappear for a while because I’ve accidentally started drafting a novel about an underground cloning agency…

Well.

You’ll know who to blame

.

My mind drags itself out of the mist of sleep as the cell phone alarm buzzes. For a few quiet seconds, the house is still. No one needs anything yet. No one is crying. No one has misplaced a shoe.

But they will.

The littles will be arriving soon.

Within the hour, my entryway will look like a sporting goods store and a daycare gently collided. There will be shoes. Coats. Backpacks. One unidentified sock. At least one diaper that qualifies as a biohazard. Probably some snot. Definitely strong opinions.

There will also be tickles and laughter and sticky kisses. Someone will shout, “Gramma, watch this!” and I will, because that is part of the job description.

We load up.

Two school drop-offs. Multiple love yous and blown kisses tossed through car windows.

Back home, the smallest one goes down for a nap, and I slip quietly into work mode.

Emails.
Scheduling.
Contracts.
The message that begins with, “Just circling back…”

I get about an hour before someone wakes up hungry and surprised that lunch is not already prepared.

Lunch happens. It is messy. There are negotiations. There is at least one fork on the floor.

If the weather cooperates, we go outside, because sunshine improves nearly everything.

Then — blessedly — another nap.

This is my golden stretch.

This is when I write.

Not dabble. Not scroll. Write.

Lost gold. Secret caves. Strange murders. Whole fictional worlds unfolding while a baby monitor glows beside my laptop.

Then I pack a very unhappy toddler into a car seat she strongly objects to and head back to the carpool line.

Eventually, the house empties.

And I sit down for what feels like my “real” work.

More writing. More creating. More thinking.

Until my husband walks in and says, “Hey, can we talk for a minute?”

I do, in fact, like the man.

So yes. We talk.

People sometimes ask me how I juggle it all.

The honest answer?

I don’t juggle.

Juggling implies smooth coordination and very little falling.

This feels more like directing a traveling circus while quietly drafting Chapter Twelve.

I’ve done Zoom meetings with editors while a little sits on my feet.

I’ve muted myself because there was enthusiastic babbling in the background.

And I’ve muted myself because someone requested “just one more small revision,” and I needed a moment to collect myself before responding like a professional adult.

Sometimes it’s the baby screaming.

Sometimes it’s me.

And sometimes everything tips over at once.

Deadlines stack.
Energy runs thin.
Illness happens.
Something slips.

When that happens, I do stand in the rubble and scream.

There may be dramatic sighing.

There may be words I wouldn’t print here.

But then I start sorting.

What can be salvaged?
What absolutely must be done today?
What can wait?
What needs to be forgiven?

And I begin again.

Beginning again has become a familiar skill.

When life feels crowded and loud and slightly out of control, I look for small adjustments — tiny shifts that might create a little breathing room.

Which is how I found myself trying something new.

Lately, I’ve added a different kind of helper to the circus.

Artificial Intelligence.

For $25 a month, I now have an assistant who never needs snacks and never misplaces her shoes.

I’m experimenting to see if she can take some of the background noise off my plate — organizing my calendar, revising emails so they sound less rushed, helping rethink my website, and handling the repetitive tasks that quietly drain creative energy.

Because here’s what I know:

I can format documents.
I can shuffle schedules.
I can chase down details.

But that’s not the work that truly requires me.

Only I can write my books.
Only I can build my worlds.
Only I can be Gramma.
Only I can sit across from my husband for those five minutes at the end of the day.

If technology can clear a little mental clutter and buy me some margin, I’m willing to try.

Because what I really want is to uncover my sewing machine from its current archaeological layer of dust.

I miss paint.
I miss fabric.
I miss making something simply because it’s beautiful.

If a little organization — and maybe a little help from technology — can give me space for that again, that sounds like a worthy experiment.

So I’ve hired a $25-a-month assistant who never sleeps and doesn’t eat crackers in my car.

We’ll see what she can do.

And if she can herd cats, pack lunches, and change a diaper without complaint?

She’s hired forever.

I’ll let you know how the experiment goes.

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Right now, my life is full.

Not the Instagram kind of full.

The real kind.

My dad just broke the same hip twice.
They pinned it the first time.
A month later, they replaced it.

My mom dislocated a vertebra trying to help him.

They live six hours away.

I want to be there.

At the same time, I babysit three little granddaughters part-time.
I’m a full-time writer.
My newest book, The Curse of the Lost Cave, just launched February third.
I’m running Nonfiction Fest this month for the Nonfiction Ninjas.
I’m drafting two contracted manuscripts.
I’m prepping three more for my agent.
I record podcasts.
I teach.
I critique.

It’s chaos.

And it’s delightful.

People often ask me how I juggle it.

The answer is not glamorous.

I do the next right thing.

I move one step forward.

I evaluate what is time-sensitive and what is timeless.

Deadlines are time-sensitive. They require focus. Intensity. Short bursts. They are mercurial. They pass.

Loving people is timeless.
It cannot be postponed.
It cannot be automated.
It cannot be rescheduled.

It must be done now.

Every day, whether it is packed with children or wide open for writing, my goal is the same:

Find the joy in the moment.

It is the most useful thing I can do.

Be joyful.

Because joy is a choice.

That doesn’t mean life has been easy.

I lost my first husband to cancer when I was young. I was left a widow with two young children.
I walked through infertility.
Through adoption.
Through building a family that was later torn apart by death.

Remarrying and blending three teenagers and a pre-teen?
That was not for the faint of heart.

Illness.
Mental health struggles.
Grief.
Exhaustion.

We’ve seen them all.

And through every single one, I discovered something steady:

I always had a choice.

I could succumb to despair and wallow in grief.

Or I could look for the joy in that moment.

That doesn’t mean denying pain.

It means refusing to let pain have the final word.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

And Philippians 4:8 reminds us:

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things.

This isn’t trite advice.

It’s survival.

It’s strength.

It’s discipline.

It’s noticing:

A sunset.
Rain on dry soil.
New flowers pushing through hard ground.
Comfy socks.
A soft pillow.
The laughter of friends.
The wiggle of a dog’s tail.
The smell of coffee.
The taste of dark chocolate.

Joy is not rare.

It is often small.

And it is always available.

So that is what this space will be.

Writing and publishing.
Artificial intelligence.
Thrifting.
History rabbit holes.
Craft experiments.
Creative chaos.

And through all of it:

Joy.

Not because everything is easy.

But because joy is strength.

And because the world needs more light, not less.

I choose joy.

Every day.

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