You won’t notice them at first. No one will. But they’ll be there, in the corners. Around the edges. Tucked away.

You won’t invite them into your pictures. Not the important ones, anyway. Not the ones that count. Years from now, you’ll see them in the background of a candid shot and smile, perhaps. But not today.

You’ve seated them far from the dance floor. Far from the head table, too. They’re somewhere behind the “work friends” and the “home friends,” back by the kitchen’s swinging door. When you stop by to say hello, it will be perfunctory. A squeeze on the shoulder; a “thank you so much for coming!” You won’t sit down beside them. They won’t expect you to.

They will chew their chicken and admire the dresses and clink their glasses. You won’t notice that their smiles are tinged with melancholy as they listen to the speeches of love and happily ever after. They will hide it well. Because this is a day for fairy tales, and they will see what the speech-makers don’t.

They will see your future.

Happily ever after, yes. Of course. And also a little bit more.

They will see your first year after your first baby: the so-called “hardest year of marriage.” This year will roll in like a wind storm, stirring up ever-shifting sands of responsibility, blame, and guilt. You will wonder how such bliss can be accompanied by such terror and anger. You will wonder if you are broken. If you thought to ask them, they would take your hand and tell you that they felt it, too. That everyone does.

If you thought to ask them. But they know that you won’t.

They will also see the devastating lay-off. The diagnosis that appears out of the blue. Addictions of varying flavors and strengths. Down payments and loan payments and deductible payments, each with the power to strangle. Disagreements over paint color that balloon into something more dire. They will see the time at the garden center when you stop in front of a pile of gravel, stare at the multitude of tiny gray rocks, and wonder—maybe out loud, or maybe just to yourself—if it was all a big mistake.

They will see the death of your first pet, and, eventually, your second. And all the other deaths—grandpa, friend, uncle, mom—that will march through your years like an invading army. Each time, you will have to depend on each other. And each time, you will learn if you can.

They will watch as your child morphs before your eyes from wide-eyed cherub to foot-stomping toddler to dour teen to occasional stranger. That last one will sting most of all. They know that you will have to learn, then, how to be something other than “parent.” How to be yourself again. How to return to being a better half to your better half, and if two halves still make a whole.

They will watch you dance your first dance on that cobbled-together, parquet floor, and they will see all the weeknights and errands. All the illnesses and sunny days. All the power struggles and new mattresses and graduations and address changes. They will see that perfect vacation at the lake. That long, cold winter when nothing will go right. The one thing you’ll say that you can’t take back. The birds that will chirp happily at your feeder, and the ones that will fly head-first into your wide, glass door.

They will see it all: for better and for much, much worse. And yet, when you greet them, they will say only, “Congratulations!” They will pat your smooth, unblemished hand and tell you that the cake is delicious. The best they’ve ever had. And you will float away, onto the next moment, not even realizing that you just received their wedding gift. Someday, you will know its value.

Not today, though. Today, they are just the old people at the wedding.

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(A version of this essay first appeared in WBUR’s Cognoscenti: https://www.wbur.org/cognoscenti/2022/08/05/marriageweddingboom-t-m-blanchet)

Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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In honor of Mother’s Day, I’m dusting off this gem from the original “Mommy Confidential” column in the Lowell Sun. Enjoy your day, queens!

Queen for a Day

(May 16, 2010)

“Pssst! Mommy! Mommy! Mom! Wake up!”

Someone is jabbing me in the arm. I open one eye. “Hmm?”

“Happy Mother’s Day!” my 6-year-old son says. He is standing about three inches from my face.

“Thanks, honey!” I look at the clock. “Wow, it’s… early.”

“Yep. It is.” He climbs over me and burrows under the covers. “Are you having a good Mother’s Day?”

“Uh… yes! Of course.”

“I’m so glad you’re my mommy.”

“You are? Awww, thank you, sweetie!”

“You want to know why?”

Probably not. But I ask anyway: “Why?”

“Because I got to make lots of cool Mother’s Day stuff at school. If you weren’t my mommy, I wouldn’t get to make anything.”

“Ah. Glad I could help.”

“Mommy, why do we have a Mother’s Day?”

“Because, um…”

“And why don’t we have a Kid’s Day?”

“Because every day is Kid’s Day.”

He furrows his brow. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s not on the calendar,” he points out.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

He thinks about that for a minute. Then he shrugs. “So, you wanna see all the cool stuff I made at school?” He disappears momentarily and returns with a pile of papers. One by one, he makes the presentations. “That’s you, and you’re surrounded by hearts because I love you so much. And that’s a three-headed monster with five legs and six arms. And those are all the foods from the Very Hungry Caterpillar book.”

“Wow, I love them! Thank you so much! Can I hang them on my wall?”

“Sure,” he says. “But this one, you can wear on your head.”

I blink. “My head?”

“Uh huh,” he answers. “See how it’s long? You can wrap it around your head and staple it together.”

“Oh,” I nod. “Kind of like a Mother’s Day crown.”

“Yep. Do you want to wear it when we go out to eat?”

“Oh… I, uh…” I clear my throat. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Meanwhile, down the hall, a ruckus is brewing. I can hear my husband trying to convince our 3-year-old daughter to do something. Whatever it is, she’s having none of it. Finally, a few minutes later, she comes stomping into the room and throws a card at my head. Then she collapses onto the floor in a tantrum.

“What’s wrong with her?” my son asks.

“Beats me,” I answer, rubbing the paper cut on my cheek. “She’s probably mad it’s not Kid’s Day.”

Nice try, little lady. But this crown ain’t big enough for the both of us.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

My husband and I are in the midst of playing a popular video game called Ghost of Tsushima. In the story, you play as Jin Sakai, a fearless former Samurai who wanders ancient Japan, almost single-handedly fighting off the marauding Mongols in an effort to save his homeland. The game is visually stunning and mentally challenging, with plenty of swordplay to master, puzzles to solve, treasures to find, and bad guys to vanquish.

It’s a lot of work for one poor Samurai. Luckily for Jin, he has a few otherworldly (read: computer programmed) tricks up his sleeve to make things easier. One of these is something called the “Guiding Wind.” Whenever Jin Sakai becomes lost in any way, whether spatially in the terrain or strategically in terms of keeping track of the various missions, he has only to call up the Guiding Wind for help. One quick swipe of the touchpad on the PlayStation controller, and bam: a blowing, supportive gust instantly appears to clear up the confusion.

This way, the wind says. Just follow me.

Each time I see that breeze, I feel a rush of giddy relief. It’s mostly, but not quite, transparent, with a soothing array of swirls and eddies. Depending on the season, it kicks up leaves, snowdrifts, and flower petals as it goes. You can call it up whenever you want, with no penalties for use and no judgement whatsoever from the other characters or the game programming gods.

The Guiding Wind, in other words, is pretty perfect. And sadly missing from my own, real life.

Now that we’ve been playing Ghost of Tsushima for a while, I find myself thinking about that wind while I’m out-and-about in everyday situations. Standing in the grocery store, debating between two options. Fighting with my suddenly broken turn signal in the car, wondering if I should bring it in for costly repair or just wait to see if the problem corrects itself. Or wandering through a new city, as I did a few weeks ago, staring down at the GPS on my phone, looking for a business that’s supposed to be right there, on that corner, but somehow isn’t.

Then there are the bigger things. The marauding Mongols to my ancient Japan. You know the things I mean: The ones that keep you up at night in a cold sweat. The dilemmas without obvious solutions. The dead-ends, the difficult choices, the feelings of powerlessness that knock you off your feet each time you get sucked into one of life’s relentless, sneaky undertows.

I have a recurring nightmare that I’m out in public and need to use the restroom. When I find one, I peer into the first stall and find disgusting conditions. The second one is even worse. And so on and so on, until I’m hopping up and down in physical and mental agony. That’s usually when I wake up with a gasp.

When I looked that one up in a dream dictionary, I was surprised to learn that it’s actually a pretty common nightmare—we tend to have it when we’re faced with an important decision, but we don’t like any of the choices. Option A sucks, and so does Option B and Option C. Nevertheless, we have to choose one of them.

If only I had a real-life Guiding Wind. If only. Just think of all the nightmares and despair that could be avoided! The agony and unrest that could be eliminated! One swipe, and I’d know which way to go. Which choice to make. How to avoid the invading aggressors and find my way safely back to my camp of allies.

In Ghost of Tsushima, Jin also has a trusty horse to accompany him on his journey. The horse doesn’t need food or water. It doesn’t need rest. Jin can wander away from the horse for long periods of time and lose track of it without consequence. Then, when Jin needs his equine companion again, he needs only to let out a whistle and voila: The loyal and uncomplaining beast appears instantly at his side.

The Ghost horse has me thinking a lot about motherhood, about family, about marriage, about friendship. If only… But that’s a yearning best left for another day, I think. Probably the day after I figure out how to tame these frigid New England gales.

Seriously, Wind: It’s April. If you can’t be more helpful, the least you can do is be less cold.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of the forthcoming Murder Like Magic (due out August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane Books) and Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans.

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In lieu of a column this month, I’m excited to share the cover for my forthcoming novel, Murder Like Magic! It’s due out on August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane Books, with a cover design by the talented Michel Vrana.

What’s it about, you ask? Mostly murder. And a little bit of magic. And a lot of sarcasm, of course. To be more specific:

Mill City has seen its share of homicides. This one, though, has even the most seasoned detectives scratching their heads. At first glance, the crime seems simple enough: The victim was found with an injury to the back of the head, lying face-down in a pool of blood. The hitch? It’s someone else’s blood.

Enter Tess Tulley. The cops call her a “psychic,” and she doesn’t argue—why debate semantics when the truth is even weirder? As Tess starts to dig beneath the city’s seedy surface, she finds no shortage of suspects with motive, means, and mettle. From the ComicCon nerd with a handcrafted murder weapon to the philandering lesbian wife, the angry music student, and the foul-mouthed young mom, everyone seems to have something to hide.

Luckily, Tess has a few witchy tricks up her sleeve to help her sort through the confusion. Not so luckily, she also has a dwindling bank account, a town full of enemies, and the sudden, unexpected arrival of a helpless kitten to contend with. No matter. If Tess wants to crack this case and get Mill City Investigations, LLC, off the ground, she’s going to have to depend on herself. Because no one else—not even her own kind—wants her to succeed.

And now, without further ado… Drumroll, please… and just click play:

Preorders are available now, if you’re so inclined! Believe it or not, preorders help authors tremendously because they signal to bookstores that the book might be popular, which encourages them to make copies available in-store.

As it turns out, Barnes & Noble is having a special 25% off preorder sale through Thursday, March 26! Just follow this link and use the code PREORDER25. The deal is only available for B&N Rewards and Premium Members, but sign-up is free.

Murder Like Magic at Barnes & Noble

In other news, I have some exciting events coming up and would love to see you there! On Wednesday, April 15, I’ll be with Marcy McCreary and Newtonville Books at “Noir at the Bar” at Baramor in Newton for a great event to benefit the Alzheimer’s Association. Marcy is an author whose husband, Lew, is also an author and lives with Alzheimer’s disease. The event will include readings, book signings, raffle prizes, and lots of Alzheimer’s info and support materials. I’ll be reading an excerpt from Murder Like Magic, if stage fright doesn’t get the best of me!

Here’s the link for the tickets (free, with donation suggested):

Noir at the Bar Event Free Tickets

If you can’t make the event but you’d still like to help, here’s the link:

Noir at the Bar Fundraising Page

And on April 4, I’ll be on a panel at the inaugural Emerging Writers Summit at Northeastern University. If you know any writers who might benefit from networking, workshops, keynote, and Q&A discussions, here’s the link to sign up:

Emerging Writers Summit at Northeastern

Thanks for spreading the word about the book and the events. As always, I feel immensely grateful to have you all in my life!!

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of the forthcoming Murder Like Magic (Crooked Lane, August 2026) and The Neath Trilogy: Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key. She’s also the host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans.

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I just reached the one-year anniversary of my first-ever attempts at strength training. Yes, me: the famously exercise-averse one. The one who might or might not have cheated her way through high school gym class by “borrowing” and “altering” the teacher’s gradebook. (You could do that, back in the day, when gradebooks were literal books marked up in pencil.) That woman has actually completed 12 full months of weightlifting activity. Four days a week. Voluntarily.

That’s the good news. The bad news? I still don’t like the way I look.

I know what you’re thinking: It’s not about looks, it’s about health! It’s not about losing weight, it’s about gaining strength! And you’re right, of course. I do feel better, and stronger. Here’s the thing, though: I came of age in the 1980s. And as any ’80s teen would have told you, the point of exercise is to get skinny. The skinnier, the better. So it’s been hard to wrap my brain around this new-and-improved way of thinking.

But wrap it I must. All of us 1980s teens are now 2020s fifty-somethings, after all, bombarded by daily advice about the perils of menopausal hormone depletion, bone-density loss, and muscle atrophy. Use it or lose it, we’re told. I’m trying my best. Sadly, however, I can’t seem to get past the fact that all this weightlifting has not made me…well, skinny. If anything, it’s made me larger. And if there’s one thing us short girls do not want, it’s a silhouette that invites the descriptor “stocky.”

Still, it’s long past time to leave the leg warmer/Swatch watch/heroin chic perspective behind. I need to start thinking about my body in a different way. A kinder way. We all do. So the next time we start berating ourselves for not looking like a parade of pouty supermodels in a George Michael video, we need to “stop, drop, and roll,” crawl under our desks (to stay safe from the atomic bomb, duh), and breathe in those Aqua Net fumes ’till it hurts. This won’t be easy, but it is necessary. And, as usual, there’s no one to save us but us.

Fellow Gen-Xers, repeat after me: My body is a miraculous, ever-evolving machine. It filters out toxins, produces its own electrical current, regulates its own temperature, and can differentiate up to one trillion (yes, trillion) smells.

In my case, my eyes might not be the color I would have chosen, and they’re requiring a bit more hardware these days to function properly. But they still allow me to see the most extraordinary things: Snow falling in the moonlight. Tiny crabs scuttling along the beach. Peanut butter on toast. The way my husband’s face crinkles in delight when he watches his favorite movie.

My skin might be a bit saggier than it used to be, but it still allows me to luxuriate in the feel of silk sheets. And someone else’s hand. And dog fur.

My feet suffer from a freakish amount of painful ailments. But somehow, they still manage to hold me up just fine. And they contain one-quarter of all the bones in my body: 52 in total. So I should probably appreciate them more often.

My belly is not flat or sculpted. It does not look like a weightlifter’s belly. It looks, instead, like the belly of a person who has incubated two babies and then spent the next 18-20 years in a whirlwind of ceaseless caretaking activity. And that is okay.

I do wish I had a few extra inches of height. Or a miracle cure for cellulite. (Seriously: When is modern science going to solve that one?) On the plus side, though, I always have plenty of legroom on an airplane, and plenty of (ahem) padding for that airplane seat.

No, this body will never be called upon to walk a runway. But it’s walked pretty much everywhere else. Good places, bad places, and places that have made my head spin. It’s survived a spinal tumor, raised two awesome human beings, hiked the Napali Coast and the green cliffs of Ireland, helped me care for sick loved ones, and written a dozen books. It’s brought me pleasure—and yes, it’s brought me pain. Such is the teeter-totter of the human condition.

Our bodies are miraculous, ever-evolving machines. Once and for all, let’s help each other ditch the unrealistic and unhealthy “beauty standards” set by a bunch of greedy suits in corporate America. It’s time, instead, to concentrate on what matters. Seeing, hearing, touching, feeling. Taking it all in, wrinkle by precious wrinkle, into the next remarkable span of this one, mysterious life.

In other words, nobody puts Baby in a corner. Be kind, rewind. And, thank heavens, there’s no more need to wonder “where’s the beef?” Ta da: I found the beef. It’s in my newly pumped-up gluteus maximus. And if I’m smart, that’s exactly where it’s going to stay.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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As anyone who’s known me longer than ten minutes will tell you, I’m a dog person. And this isn’t mere admiration: After two family dogs and more than decade of canine-related nonprofit work, I like to think I know a bit about them, too. Have a question about temperament? I’m your girl. Wondering about body language, breed-specific traits, or animal-shelter stats? I’ve read an article or two (or two thousand).

So when my beloved mutt died last year and the time came to consider getting another, I felt confident in my ability to choose a pet that would fit in with my family’s lifestyle. I was looking, specifically, for a housebroken, older dog with a disposition suitable for a couple of empty-nesters. Calm. Easygoing. Happy to lounge on the couch and take slow, meandering walks through the neighborhood.

As I began to search through the local rescue organizations’ (painfully cute) listings, I reminded myself to stay level-headed and rational about this Very Important Decision. And for a while, I did exactly that.

Then I saw the brothers.

They were three months old, on their way up from Mississippi on a transport truck. The picture was blurry and inauspicious: One was howling, the other was staring in bald terror. They seemed to be shepherd mixes, though it was hard to say for sure.

Nope. I crossed them off the list. Not at all what we were looking for.

As the days passed, though, I found myself inexplicably thinking about that picture. A lot. When I wrote to the rescue to ask about the two pups, I learned that one of the brothers had already been adopted. But the other, they told me, was still available. The “mischievous” one. The howling one. His name was Hobbes.

Hobbes, like Calvin and Hobbes? That was my all-time favorite comic strip. Was it kismet? A sign? No. Of course not. This dog didn’t meet any of my checklist criteria. He was too young, for starters, and not even close to housebroken. And then there was that word: “mischievous.” No matter who I spoke to at the rescue, it came up again and again.

That weekend, I was gathered with friends at a writing retreat. I showed them his picture. Should I adopt him? “No,” they all answered, practically in unison. Right. Of course they were right. The next day, I went to a restaurant alone and started up a chat with my waitress. I showed her the picture. Should I adopt him? “Oh, definitely,” the waitress said.

Well, then. If this perfect stranger thought I should do it, who was I to argue?

My husband and I decided to set up a meet-and-greet. When we set off, I didn’t even bring a leash. It was only a meeting, I said. Probably nothing will come of it. “Sure, mom,” my son said, rolling his eyes.

It was raining that day. We entered the foster family’s house, shook off our soggy shoes, and rounded the corner of their kitchen. The foster mom was on her knees, holding the puppy back. When she let go, he exploded like a cannon shot towards us. Hello, hello, hello! Thanks for coming! I love you!

He was tiny. So, so tiny. And absolutely, completely nuts. He chased the family’s cat like a frenzied cyclone. When we took him outside for a “walk,” he was afraid of the rain and had to be carried. He chased his own tail. He leapt great distances in a single bound. Adopting this creature, we all knew, was a totally irrational, possibly insane idea. An hour later, we drove away with a borrowed leash and a puppy on my lap.

The following months went about as well as you might guess. Hobbes was resistant to housetraining (to put it generously). A few weeks after we brought him home, we hosted my daughter’s graduation party—yes, excellent timing, I agree—and I spent most of the day in the yard trying to keep him from relieving himself all over our guests’ feet. That pretty much set the tone for the remainder of 2025.

Now, Hobbes is 11 months old. And as the new year dawns around us, I’m happy to report that he has grown into a peaceful, mature, relaxed— Just kidding. If anything, this dog is more devilish than ever. He’s stubborn. He’s destroyed dog beds, shoes, blankets, Christmas ornaments, loaves of bread, furniture, and (most deplorably) books. His energy is limitless. He bounces from one end of the room to another like Tigger on steroids. He has an unhealthy fixation on tennis balls. He gets into everything, all the time. He is, in a word, mischievous. (Can’t say they didn’t warn me.)

So. I must surely be exhausted and miserable, right? Exhausted, yes. Absolutely, 100 percent yes. But miserable? Turns out, I’m as surprised as anyone to report that this whirling dervish keeps me laughing in an almost endless loop. He keeps me nimble, too. Dare I say… he keeps me young? When he finally tires, he snuggles on my lap every night. He loves riding in the car. He loves all other dogs and all other people. He even loves going to the vet. He kind of loves…everything. And in a year when that sort of positivity was in short supply, I gratefully drank up every drop.

Bottom line, here? Always listen to your waitress. And your gut. Because sometimes, your rational mind is the last to know what you really need.

Happy New Year, one and all. May your 2026 be as wonderful as Hobbes thinks it is.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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Like most writers, I’m happiest when exploring cliffhangers and conflicts — for my characters. I’m much less deft with my own. So when my youngest left for college and I became an empty nester, this particular plot twist was, honestly, a bit more suspense than I could handle. What’s a suddenly obsolete mom to do? Then I saw an ad for a local pottery class.

Insert your own Ghost joke here, along with a cliché about me being a cliché. I get it. Nevertheless, off I trotted, apron in hand, determined to learn a new skill and maybe create a masterpiece or two. As far as the “masterpiece” part goes, I’ll let you be the judge (see pictures below; try not to laugh). But I definitely did learn a whole lot of things: about pottery, sure, but also about myself. And just like the finished ceramic product, not all of it was pretty.

Mess Distressed

I’ve never considered myself a neatnik. But “dishes in the sink” and “socks on the floor” messes cannot compare in any way to “pottery” messes. We’re talking thick, sopping, brown clay, gouged under every fingernail and trapped in every crevice. At first, it was exhilarating, like sticking your hands into a mud puddle and splashing around for a bit. But then—and here’s the rub—you have to clean it all up. Why did this bother me so much? God knows, I’ve done my share of cleaning up after two kids and three dogs through the years. Then I realized: That was exactly why. As the chief cleaner-upper in my house for decades, I’d been conditioned to minimize messes whenever possible. To prevent them before they happened. So purposefully creating a mess felt…wrong, somehow.

Practice Makes Perfect More Pots

On day one, the instructor warned us with a laugh: “Perfectionists sometimes have a hard time in here.” I laughed back, certain that I could embrace pottery’s freewheeling, anything-goes attitude. But I never did quite manage it. Turns out, the process of taking a lump of clay and trying to morph it into a particular shape on a rapidly spinning wheel is…well, imperfect. And difficult. And unpredictable. No matter which shape I thought I was making, it always turned into something else entirely. Fighting this reality only made it worse: When I worked the clay too long, trying to force it into something it didn’t want to be, the piece would often weaken, wobble, and sometimes even fling itself off the wheel altogether. Flying pots, let me tell you, are quite a sight. And for a while, they also felt like quite a failure.

Are We There Yet?

Here’s how I thought it would go: Spin a pot. Bake a pot. Presto, change-o: You have a pot. Instead, I learned that the process is much, much slower than that. First, the shaped clay has to dry. Then dry some more. Once it’s dry enough, you take a session or two to refine the piece with blades and brushes. Maybe you add a handle, or a lid. Then, it gets a glaze. Then, a bake in the kiln. All in all, it took five—sometimes six!—weeks before I held the finished product in my hands. And during that time, there were multiple opportunities to make adjustments and additions along the way. So: no rush, baby. No rush. We’re taking this nice and slooooow.

Wait, Let Me Overthink This

“Can you tell me again how to…?” Every time my poor, patient instructor wandered away, I would lure her back with questions. I needed to hear the “rules” again and again. (Even though there are no rules in a pottery studio.) Once, when I was struggling to make a chunk of clay “center” on the wheel, my friend and fellow potter Wendy gave me this piece of unexpected wisdom: “Close your eyes.” What? How could that possibly work? But damn if it didn’t. As Wendy had already learned, pottery is a physical thing, not a mental thing. Spinning, pressing, feeling…throwing your whole body into it. That’s what it takes to find balance.

I expected the pottery part to be hard—learning a new skill always is. I did not, however, expect the introspection part to be even harder. So, from now on, the new-and-improved Me will be trying to follow a new-and-improved modus operandi, honed and shaped by countless mistakes on the wheel. I’m calling it:

THE POTTERY MANUAL FOR LIFE

· Make a mess. Make lots of them, all the time. That’s what sponges and sinks are for. And no treasure—or true love, or life’s work, or bit of fun—has ever been made without one.

· You rarely get the exact result you were aiming for. But that’s all right. Keep spinning. Whatever you end up with is exactly what you were meant to have.

· No, life is not a dress rehearsal. But that doesn’t mean you have to get everything right the first time. You can make a version, let it sit, and then come at it again with sharp tools and a new perspective. It ain’t over ‘till it’s baked.

· There is a lid for every pot, it’s true. But sometimes you have to make the damn thing yourself.

· Even the wobbliest wobbles harden into something astonishing after surviving the heat of the kiln. You’re tougher than you think.

· A good glaze is like a good friend: It emphasizes the best, and glosses over the worst.

· When all else fails, close your eyes and feel your way. The world will keep trying to stretch you too thin, knock you into a teeter, and fling you around. But as long as you’re centered, you’ll stay on the wheel—a masterpiece, always, in the making.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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I can remember the first time I was awestruck by the concept—and harsh reality—of military service.

I was at the movies, sitting in air-conditioned comfort with a box of popcorn. The film included scenes of American soldiers fighting an urban battle in a far-off country. Suddenly, one of the soldiers saw an explosive device hiding inside the house they were patrolling. Just as quickly, he realized that it was too late: the device was about to go off. The soldier told his compatriots to run, then threw himself on the IED, saving their lives.

And losing his own.

As I sat there in the dark, the enormity of this man’s sacrifice struck me like a jolt from an electric fence. Yes, he had saved the lives of his fellow soldiers. But he had also, in some larger sense, saved the lives of everyone back home, too. He’d saved all of us.

I wish I could remember the name of that film; I think about it every Veteran’s Day. The heroic character in the movie was fictional, of course, but he might as well have been real. In the history of our country, hundreds of thousands of soldiers (and their families) have made similar, astonishing sacrifices because they believed in this concept—this incredible, improbable reality—that we call “America.” They did it then, and they do it still. Every day.

The fact is, everything I have and everything I love, I owe to United States military veterans. Physical things, like my car, my next meal, a new pair of winter boots. Abstract things, like my ability to pursue a career I enjoy, live where I want to live, and love who I want to love. Safety for my kids. A yard for my dog. That box of popcorn at the movies. The knowledge that my fellow Americans will have my back if I need them. These are things I have always taken for granted, thanks to the veterans who indisputably made it all possible.

No matter the era, no matter the enemy, there have always been men and women who were willing to die—to actually die—so that you and I and that cute little freckled kid on the playground could continue to live this charmed, democratic life.

And now here comes the tricky part. The political part. I don’t want to write it, and you don’t want to hear it. But there’s no time for dancing around the truth any longer. We Americans are, once again, facing a threat to our freedoms, but this time, it’s not a foreign threat. Just like that fictional IED in the movie, this threat is hiding inside the house. And that house is literally crumbling, as we all saw only too clearly this October—watching, helpless, while bulldozers tore down the walls at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

The People’s House, along with the People’s Democracy, is literally disappearing before our eyes, controlled by autocrats who are grabbing the reins of power for themselves and their own interests. Just like autocrats have done throughout history—elsewhere. But not here, in America. Never here. And if you’re anything like me, you’re wondering what the hell to do about it.

I don’t have an easy answer. But I do know this: I’ll be damned if all those soldiers made the ultimate sacrifice for this country only to have that country brought down by people who would never have the courage or willingness to do the same.

We cannot allow that to happen. Whatever you can do, do it. Whatever you can sacrifice, sacrifice it. Countless veterans have led by unflinching example: Now, it’s our turn. Yours, and mine. Stop talking about “moving to Canada.” Stop saying that you’re “waiting for it all to pass” or that it’s “too upsetting to follow.” Stop allowing the media to gloss over travesty after travesty after travesty. Speak up, stand up, and show up.

Fight like a soldier.

And in the meantime, if you want to help U.S. veterans right this very moment, please consider donating your time, talents, or money to Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org). At OpDD, “The dogs get the homes they need, and the veterans get the help they deserve.”

And my God, do they deserve it. Happy Veteran’s Day, one and all.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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When my husband and I started planning our first “empty-nest vacation,” sans kids, one destination immediately leapt into my mind: Colorado. I had always wanted to see John Denver’s famous “cathedral mountains,” and what better time than autumn to explore the majestic Rockies?

All in all, the plan sounded perfect. Except for one, tiny thing.

I had been out west before—to Wyoming and Montana, specifically—but not since the fateful year of 2016. After the dawn of those “fraught times” (as I’m calling them), I’ve stayed mostly sheltered inside my blue-state bubble. With the entire country teetering on its tiptoes beside a perpetually sparking third rail, it seemed like the logical thing to do. The right thing. Or so my fear told me.

And then, there we were: Suddenly making plans to venture into the reddest parts of a purple state. I won’t lie: The idea made me a bit nervous. What would Coloradans think of us? Would we encounter hostility—or worse? Would Fox News hosts show up to chase us out of town with pitchforks? Should we abandon this idea altogether?

Finally, I asked myself the most important question: What would John Denver do (WWJDD)? I suspected he would tell me that America is great because of its differences. And that instead of avoiding them, I should celebrate them. Maybe even…seek them out?

Bubble be damned. It was time to paint the town red.

Our fish-out-of-water adventure started as soon as the plane touched down. We hiked until our toes bled. We spent a morning with a professional sled-dog musher and her family. We stayed overnight at a working sheep ranch. We hooted and hollered along with live country and bluegrass bands. We shot sporting clays. We slept in an isolated log cabin without electricity or (gasp) cell service. We rented bikes. We floated in an all-natural hot spring in the woods. We rode horses. We took in the arctic views from the Fall River Pass in Rocky Mountain National Park: 11,795 feet above sea level.

All along the way, we met people. Lots and lots of people. And each time a native Coloradan asked the innocent question—“So, where are y’all from?”—I momentarily held my breath. A few times, I considered lying, but I knew my accent had probably already given the game away. So instead, I just spit it out: “Boston.”

Usually, there was a pause after that. Then, a polite “Huh!” Or a, “You don’t say?” Or something equally neutral. Not once did someone blurt, “Wow, that’s awesome!” Or, “Hey, I’ve always wanted to go to Boston!” Not once did someone’s grin grow wider at the mention of my hometown. Perhaps they were as leery of us as we were of them. Like me, they were probably just believing the lie that politicians and social-media bots have been telling all of us for years: Namely, that it’s best to stay in your comfort zone and avoid the “others” who supposedly wish you harm.

So, no: I can’t report that these bluest-of-blue-staters were welcomed with overwhelming joy by every westerner we met. But I can say that most people were perfectly friendly, and that we never once encountered any kind of animosity. (Plus, not a single person asked us to “Pahk the cah in Havahd Yahd.” So I’ll take that as a win.) Did I convert anyone to my way of thinking about our current political maelstrom? Of course not. I didn’t try to, and I wouldn’t want to. Turns out, there are all kinds of other things to talk about with all kinds of people.

At one point, I started chatting with a young ranch hand when I noticed that she was reading the same book I’d just finished back at home. She was half my age, and a world away geographically and (maybe) politically, but we talked for a good ten minutes about our admiration for those pages. I also gabbed with plenty of people about their cute pets. About the drought. About encroaching development. About the yellowing Aspen leaves. About the best local bike path, the best local steakhouse, and the best local—Oh my God, is that a moose? Did you see that? Yeah, me, too!

On our last day in Colorado, an adorable cowboy-hatted toddler waved his pudgy fingers at me, and his mom smiled as I waved back. That kid didn’t care what state I live in or how I voted, and neither did his mother. In that moment, we were just Mom to Mom, human to human, American to American. And why not? Shouldn’t that be true of every moment? We have so much more in common than we think, and less to argue about than our “leaders” would have us believe.

Thank you, Coloradans, for the beauty, and the hospitality, and the lessons I needed to learn. And if you’re ever looking for a vacation spot, I’ve got an ocean view and bowl of clam chowder with your name on it. Anytime.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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Hello, empty nester. I see you.

You’re behind the wheel of one of those thousands of cars pulling into college campuses this month. You’ve got a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, umpteen boxes, bags, and lava lamps blocking your rear window, and (because this is Boston) a “Use Yah Blinkah” sticker on your bumper. I can’t help but notice, though, that you didn’t actually use that blinkah before you made the turn. That’s okay. You’re probably too distracted, what with all the confusing detours, momentous life changes, and pesky tears blurring your vision.

It's no small thing, this goodbyeing of the youngest. The oldest’s departure is also harrowing, of course. A shock to the system. But for those of us with multiple kids, we can comfort ourselves during that particular trauma with the knowledge that there’s still one more (or more than one) waiting at home.

But when the youngest goes, it hits different. Less like a jolt, and more like a slow, painful hollowing.

I see you, empty nester, because I am you.

My youngest is off this fall to a big, beautiful university, complete with leafy trees and boundless opportunities. She has a major she likes, extracurriculars she’s looking forward to, and a few friends already made. She’s also the independent sort, which helps. She’ll be fine, I know. Your kid will be, too.

You and me, on the other hand? I guess we’re about to find out. Maybe that’s the real reason you didn’t “use yah blinkah”—there’s no need for a turn signal when you have no damn idea where you’re going.

To be fair, my parenthood journey was a little different than most. My daughter was born with a kind of muscular dystrophy, which created all sorts of challenges and made it difficult for her to learn to walk. As a result, she spent much of her childhood riding around on my hip bone. We were literally “joined at the hip” as we traveled from one medical specialist to the next for more than a decade.

Did that experience make me more “attached” to motherhood, both physically and metaphorically? Possibly. And is it now making it harder for me to move into this new, more separated phase? The good bet is on “yes.”

I suppose it’s no coincidence that I recently had a vivid dream about those days. In the dream, my daughter was two years old, maybe three, adorable in her wiggly plumpness. We were in a store. The shopkeeper said something that frightened her, and she turned to me with outstretched arms. I scooped her up in that way I always did—whoosh—and deposited her on my hip. Instantly comforted, she buried her face in my neck.

The realness of it, the muscle memory, was exquisite. The weight of her tiny body against mine. The baby-fine hair. The smell of strawberries. I didn’t wonder or worry about what I should be doing—I just knew. My purpose was as clear then as it would ever be. I wasn’t thinking about myself, or the future, or the problems of the world. I simply mothered. With everything I had to give.

I woke from this bit of time-travel awash in a sweaty, paralyzed grief. That little girl, and her rambunctious brother before her, are gone. If I’m honest, they have been for a while—replaced by bigger (and equally wonderful) versions that will rarely need the kind of soothing that I’ve become so good at providing. My unique skill set, honed to perfection over the years, is no longer needed. Full stop. My down-and-dirty parenting days are over.

To cope, I tell myself the same things you’re probably telling yourself: This is just the way of things. The normal course of life. The way time passes. The animal parents know it, and they don’t make this kind of fuss. Did you, like me, watch the pair of attentive eagle parents out in Big Bear Valley this spring, raising their chicks under a mounted camera for all of us to see? Did you, like me, feel a pang when those two feathered babies flew away into the yonder, leaving Mom and Dad Eagle behind?

On the one hand, the parents’ stoicism was inspiring. Their eggs hatched, their fledglings fledged, and then they just got back to eagle business. They didn’t weep into their fish, fretting about days gone by. They didn’t write essays about their empty nest.

On the other hand… There’s one big difference between them and us, isn’t there? Those chicks weren’t their first babies, and they probably won’t be their last. Next year, spring will come to Big Bear, and Mr. and Mrs. Eagle will simply start the process all over again. For you and me, though, it’s one and done. We had our shot at parenthood and now we just have to…let go.

That’s what everyone likes to tell me, anyway: “Just let go! Enjoy your new chapter!” Such strange advice. It calls to mind that old poster of the kitten dangling off the tree branch, clinging for dear life. There’s a reason the poster caption reads, “Hang in There, Baby!” and not, “Just Let Go!”

Yes, I’ll always be their mother. Of course I will. But never again in quite the same way. You know it, too, don’t you? That’s why you’re clutching that steering wheel like the poster-kitten clings to its branch. The “letting go” part is easy: It’s the falling part that hurts.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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First, your rose-colored glasses got a little foggy. No problem: You wiped them clean. Then, they fell to the ground. Now, the scratches have turned to gouges. The bridge is bent, the rims are mangled, and one of those infuriating tiny hinge screws has disappeared, leaving the whole mess to dangle crookedly from one ear.

In a rage, you finally toss the damn glasses and give them a stomp for good measure. You’re done. Done. You tried to make the world a better place, to make a stand, to right the wrongs. But you’re just one person with one pair of horribly deformed eyewear, and you simply can’t do it anymore.

You have Optimism Fatigue.

Of course you do. How could you not? You’re overwhelmed and undermined, desperately trying to dodge bad-news bullets like Neo in The Matrix—but without the benefit of slow-mo or a cool leather jacket. It doesn’t work, right? The bullets are too fast. The world is too big. The problems are too plentiful.

And so, you start telling yourself a story.

“No one cares.” (They do.)

“I should just give up.” (You shouldn’t.)

“Nothing I do will make a difference.” (It will.)

I get it, more than you know. A little over a decade ago, when my own rose-colored glasses were still shiny and new, I started a nonprofit called Operation Delta Dog. These days, the organization is (thankfully) run by people much savvier than I, and is still going strong in its mission to rescue shelter dogs and train them to work as service dogs for disabled veterans. But back then, it was just me, myself, and an idea to try to curb veteran suicides by training dogs to help with the symptoms of PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI).

Did it work? Did we manage to reduce the number of veteran suicides in New England? Impossible to say. But 12 years later, Operation Delta Dog has placed more than 100 rescued dogs with more than 100 veterans. That’s 200 lives, give or take, that have been directly affected by one small nonprofit organization and its many volunteers, staffers, and donors. And I have to believe that all that effort has paid off in countless tangible and intangible ways.

Will I ever have proof of it? Nope.

And still, we continue.

Remember that time you brought a brown bag of groceries to the food bank? Somebody was able to feed their kids that day, thanks to you. You’ll never meet them. You’ll never see that cereal poured into a bowl at a breakfast table somewhere across town. And still, you continue.

The school needed a volunteer, and you showed up. You sat through the meetings, organized the fundraisers, and gathered the supplies. Did you ever get a thank-you? Doubtful. And still, you continue.

Your hands got dirty in the community garden, at the animal shelter, at the library used-book sale. And what did you have to show for it in the end? Nothing but a sore back and the vague hope that something had changed for the better. And still, you continue.

And what about that time you attended the gathering for environmental protections, or cancer research, or women’s rights? Ran in a 5K to raise funds? Went to a town meeting after a long day at work? Maybe the laws didn’t change. Maybe your congressperson didn’t care. And still, you continue.

Or perhaps you’ve been helping with your voice: Lifting spirits at church by belting out songs in the choir, leaving supportive messages on friends’ Facebook posts, or even just calling out a hello to an elderly neighbor as you pass. You might never observe someone’s face light up when they hear your song or read your comments. You might be left to wonder if any of it made any difference at all. And still, you continue.

And now, today, we have the fight for democracy itself, suffocating in its urgency, unrelenting in its despair. What can one person possibly do against all that?

Alone? Not much. Together? A whole hell of a lot, though it will never be as fast or as measurable as we want.

That’s the way it is with helping, with trying. The outcomes often seem invisible—and yet, they are everywhere. Like dust in the air, the results of your efforts encircle you and all the people and networks around you. You move your arms, you puff your breath, and they swirl. Unseen, but immensely, undeniably powerful.

Changing the status quo is difficult and messy work. Optimism Fatigue is just part of the process. An unwelcome and annoying part, but a part nonetheless. In many ways, it’s not unlike the soreness you feel after a good workout or a long walk. The ache is how you know it’s working—the strain is making your muscles stronger. And you and I are going to need every muscle we’ve got for the fight ahead.

We won’t need perfect strength, perfect performance, or perfect idealism. We will need each other, though. And don’t worry: If you’re having trouble seeing the possibilities, I have a few extra pairs of rose-colored glasses to share.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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Last week I got “spam bombed.” Never heard of it? Neither had I, until I woke up, poured my coffee, and opened my email inbox to find nearly five thousand messages enticing me to partake in everything from surfing vacations to knitting newsletters, archery competitions, and pickle-of-the-month subscriptions.

Turns out, the “bombing” is a distraction tactic used by criminals. The hope is that you’ll be too overwhelmed by the spam hurricane to notice the one genuine email that alerts you to an actual fraud. I did eventually manage to figure out which account the thieves had burrowed into, and the damage was minimal. That’s the good news.

The bad news? To accomplish that feat, I had to examine each individual subject line, mark it as spam, and then “block” the address. Click, click, and click. Did I mention there were five thousand of these suckers? Needless to say, the only other thing I uncovered that day was a mighty case of carpal tunnel.

As I made my way down the interminable list, reading and clicking and swearing, the strangest thought occurred to me: What if I really was this fictional person the emails think I am? The kind of woman who buys Daft Punk tickets, appraises antiques, and eats “Really Raw Honey, Straight from the Hive?” If nothing else, she seems to have an awfully interesting life.

Case in point: “Your new account with Darlington Hippodrome has been created!” Huh. What sorts of things, I wonder, might happen in a Darlington Hippodrome? I don’t know, but I’m also not opposed to finding out.

My alter ego seems to be a world traveler, which is nice. I’m a member of Globetrotter Austria, for one, along with the Grand Bazaar Istanbul Club and Canada FlyMiles. I seem to have a lot to do in Africa, specifically, what with all the participation in “Cancel Cancer Africa,” “Odds on Africa,” and “Ahoy Africa.” I’ve also been invited to visit Colorado Springs, a destination which promises “a cure for the manicure.” Finally.

With all that traveling, I suppose it makes sense that I’m also multilingual. This becomes obvious as I scroll through messages written to me in German, Italian, Czech, Arabic, French, Chinese, Russian, Japanese, and... Hungarian, maybe? If I’m so fluent, I can’t help but wonder why I’ve signed up for French classes, as evidenced by the new login information for le CouCou French Language Institute. C’est un mystère.

But don’t worry: I’m not limiting myself, education-wise. I was happy to receive a note announcing that “Your University of California application has been received!” (Fingers crossed…) If that falls through, though, I still have plenty of other options, including pending registrations at Lafayette College, McDonald Community College, and Passion University, where the motto must be something like, “Gosh darn it, we have a Passion for learning!” But I didn’t read far enough to find out.

My memberships at Breastmilk Memoreez and BabyWombWorld seem to be at odds with my sign-up at the Melbourne Infertility Clinic—not to mention my affiliation with a Catholic convent in Brazil. This girl likes to keep her options open, I guess. I’m also all-in on Motorsport Watches of Belgium, GrannyZone, Manhole Covers LTD, and Indiana Genealogy, where my new username is, of course, “Huckleberry Brick.”

After a while, I thought nothing could surprise me. Not even an invitation from The Matador Society. Then I came across a subject line that read simply: “Please confirm your email subscription to Hell.”

I have to assume the line was cut off mid-sentence, and if I had opened the email I would have found greetings from the Hello Kitty Costume Boutique, perhaps, or the Helluva Good Tractor Pull Association. But who knows? At that point, I was about 3,000 emails into this diabolical process, so a subscription to actual Hell felt about right.

Speaking of subscriptions, Dear Reader, do I have some GOOD NEWS for you! You’ve been selected for an EXCLUSIVE, ONE-TIME OPPORTUNITY to earn unlimited miles, feed starving rabbits, AND screw with U.S. Customs regulations as a member of the HappyTime Traveling Carrot Club! Just hit reply, type in your social-security number, mother’s maiden name, and debit-card PIN, and we’re good to go. But hurry, because—and I can’t stress this enough—this offer WILL NOT last forever. (Only until I email you again in, oh…roughly four minutes.) Happy clicking! And yes, I will save you a seat in Hell.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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Seven years ago, my husband was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS). After a long hospital stay and countless appointments, medications, and painful procedures, the doctors set him free to a future that promised much of the same. He should prepare, they told him, for nothing more than a quick and steady progression of this terrifying, degenerative disease. And probably eventual confinement in a wheelchair. Goodbye, good luck, happy hunting.

But that’s not quite how things have turned out.

To understand why, you first have to understand my husband. He’s a mechanical engineer, an ever-curious scientist, and an inventor. In other words: a problem solver. And so, after a brief period of understandable grief, he decided to attack this problem like he would any other—with research, dogged determination, and an open mind. Few people are better suited for the task. This guy loves nothing more than a good bar graph, a fresh pack of highlighter pens, and a dense scientific paper written in type so small it will make your eyes water. Before long, he’d bought and read enough books on the topic to stack them from floor-to-ceiling in our home office. (Granted, our ceilings aren’t terribly high, but still.)

Finally, months later, he emerged from this research cave with a pen stuck behind his ear and an idea on his mind. Based on everything he’d read, heard, and seen, he’d decided he was going to try something new. Something called the “ketogenic diet,” a.k.a. “Keto.”

I was skeptical, to say the least.

As far as I knew, Keto was just another one of the fad diets that had swept our lovably pudgy nation in recent years. Then I borrowed one of the (many) books from the towering home-office stack (The Big Fat Surprise by Nina Teicholz) and learned that the ketogenic diet had actually been around since the early 1900s, when doctors were using it with much success to treat seizures and childhood epilepsy. All in all, this low-carb, high-fat approach had a pretty good track record.

Then, around midcentury, everything changed. A host of sweeping nutritional directives swept through the American landscape, mostly spurred on by powerful agricultural lobbies, ill-informed politicians, corporate bottom lines, and fragile male egos. And just like that, protein-based nutritional approaches were as extinct as Wooly Rhino steaks at a caveman campfire. Instead, we all found ourselves (quite happily) eating lots and lots of carbohydrates—as recommended by the newly created “food pyramid.” The pyramid has since been replaced by “MyPlate” in the U.S. and similar initiatives around the world, but the legacy of health woes continues.

After learning about this stranger-than-fiction history and examining countless studies about chronic disease, my husband decided that a ketogenic diet was at least worth a try. Within a few months, he began to feel better. And within a year, virtually all of his MS symptoms disappeared. Every. Last. One. He was thrilled—and I was thrilled for him, of course.

I was also perplexed.

Unlike my husband, I am not a scientist. If you’re now looking for a detailed explanation of how and why this all happened, you’ve come to the wrong place. (Though I’ll include some reading recommendations below, in case you’re itching to fire up your own set of highlighter pens). I don’t know how it worked, friends. I only know that it did.

First and most notably, he regained the feeling in his feet—feeling that had been reduced to constant pins-and-needles since the first MS attack. Now, the pins-and-needles were gone. His arthritis pain was gone, too, as were various skin irritations. All of his breathing troubles normalized. He also got rid of his insomnia, his low-energy problems, and his brain fog. The digestive issues and persistent muscle weakness? Disappeared. Nowadays, in his mid-50s, he lifts weights four times per week and says he feels better than he has since his 20s. (And I can certify that he looks pretty damn good, too.)

And finally, as the sugar-free icing on this medium-rare meat cake, my husband’s baffled doctors agreed that he could stop taking his MS medications. He still goes in for regular MRIs, but each scan shows the same, now-predictable results: No new progression of the disease. At all.

Now let’s open the floor to questions, because I know you’ve got ‘em!

Q. What exactly does he eat?

A. After a few years of experimentation and monitoring of symptoms, he’s now settled into a diet that includes mainly just meat, eggs, and dairy in various combinations.

Q. But isn’t that a little…extreme? A little weird?

A. Yes! Compared to what most people eat.

Q. Doesn’t eating that sort of diet cause colon cancer? And kidney stones? And scurvy?

A. As it turns out, no. Believe me: I was as surprised as you. (But don’t take my word for it, because as I’ve mentioned, I have mostly no idea what I’m talking about. See bibliography below if you’d like more information.)

Q. Do you follow a ketogenic diet, too?

A. I don’t. The palate wants what it wants, and my palate, alas, wants a different sort of menu.

Q. Wait. So you and your husband eat different foods at every meal?

A. Most of the time, yes.

Q. Isn’t that a little…extreme? A little weird?

A. You already asked that question.

Q. Okay, then: Isn’t it a hassle?

A. It does create more dishes in the sink, for sure. And timing challenges. And nightly negotiations over who gets to use which appliance. Sometimes we bump into each other in the kitchen. But like most people thrust into a new and evolving situation, we are learning to adjust.

Q. But Trisha, you’ve spent most of your life mouthing off about animal rights and all that sort of stuff. Doesn’t it bother you to be around that much meat all the time?

A. Honestly? Yes, sometimes. But this isn’t about me.

Q. Doesn’t such a restrictive diet create a whole host of challenges in your day-to-day lives? Not to mention vacations, lunch dates, birthday parties, picnics, day trips, holiday get-togethers, and pretty much anything else that involves food, which is pretty much everything?

A. Absolutely, and frequently.

Q. And you’ve handled all those challenges with grace, patience, and good humor, right?

A. I have not. But that continues to be my goal.

It has to be. Because here’s the bottom line: There is no “i” in marriage. Oh, wait a sec… What I mean is, there should be a “we” in marriage, given that the institution is, above all, a team effort. When one of you gets a diagnosis, you both get a diagnosis. When one of you needs to make changes, you both need to make changes.

And when one of you wants to shout from the rooftops to share his newfound knowledge with the world in the hopes of helping other people who might also be suffering, and the other one happens to be a writer… Well, I guess you get something like what you’re reading right now: A decidedly unscientific and unlikely tale about an inventor who has somehow, against all odds, invented a new and better future for himself. Out of bacon.

If I sound proud, that’s because I am. But I’m not surprised. Not one little bit.

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Want to learn more? Here are some Substack recommendations:

• Unsettled Science (https://unsettledscience.substack.com/)

• Uncertainty Principles (uncertaintyprinciples.substack.com)

• Your Nutritionist Recommends (https://mariacross.substack.com/)

And some reading recommendations:

• What if It's All Been a Big Fat Lie? Gary Taubes, The New York Times Magazine, July 7, 2002 (https://www.nytimes.com/2002/07/07/magazine/what-if-it-s-all-been-a-big-fat-lie.html)

• The Big Fat Surprise: Why Butter, Meat and Cheese Belong in a Healthy Diet, Nina Teicholz (ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 9781451624434)

• Good Calories, Bad Calories: Fats, Carbs, and the Controversial Science of Diet and Health, Gary Taubes (ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1400033462)

• Nutrition Coalition (https://www.nutritioncoalition.us/)

• Low-Carb Action Network (https://lowcarbaction.org/)

• Diet Doctor (https://www.dietdoctor.com/)

• Diagnosis: Diet (https://www.diagnosisdiet.com/)

And some YouTube recommendations:

• Dr. Eric Westman - Adapt Your Life (https://www.youtube.com/@AdaptYourLife)

• Low Carb Down Under (https://www.youtube.com/@lowcarbdownunder)

• Public Health Collaboration (https://www.youtube.com/@PHCukorg)

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  Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

  Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

  The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

  Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

  A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

Back in 2013, when Operation Delta Dog was just a brand-new baby organization, we ran out of money. (Go figure.) And then we ran out of money again. In the course of that first year, I begged, pleaded, posted, sold t-shirts, sold my soul, and did pretty much everything else I could think of to raise enough cash to get us through to our first planned fundraising event in November: The Walk & Wag for Veterans.

Months passed. The summer heat waned. Apples began to ripen in the orchards. And as the green on the trees evaporated into red and gold, the green in our bank account evaporated right along with it. Finally, I had to face the facts. I had tried, and I had failed. We weren’t going to make it to November. We weren’t even going to make it another week. Operation Delta Dog was done.

I was literally researching the legalities and procedures for closing down a nonprofit, tears blurring my vision, when I got word of a miracle: A dear family friend had heard about our plight and stepped in with a donation. A big donation. An absurdly generous, life-changing donation. His name was Roger Roach.

Thanks to Roger, we made it to that first Walk & Wag for Veterans in 2013, where we raised $25,000 and survived through the end of the year. Thanks to Roger, we made it through 2014, too. And our 10^th Anniversary in 2023. Because Roger didn’t stop with that first generous donation to Operation Delta Dog: He did it in every year that followed. And he asked for absolutely nothing in return.

This weekend, I got the heartbreaking news that Roger had passed away. I’m told he passed peacefully with his family by his side. I believe he had a few others by his side, too, at least in spirit: Namely, the more than 100 disabled U.S. veterans and 100 shelter dogs whose lives he forever transformed—and possibly even saved. And the hundreds more that will follow.

According to Maya Angelou, “Your legacy is every life that you touch.” If that’s true, then Roger’s legacy will far outlive him, and will continue to light up our world for untold years to come.

Thank you, Roger, for being you. As anyone who knew you understands, that alone was more than enough.

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Operation Delta Dog is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization with a mission to reduce the veteran suicide rate by rescuing shelter dogs and training them to work as service dogs for U.S. veterans who suffer from PTSD, Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and related issues. The dogs get the homes they need, and the veterans get the help they deserve! For more information or to make a donation, please visit OperationDeltaDog.org.

Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy < Get your copies here!

Like most bad relationships, this one snuck up on me. A little flirting, a little naiveté, a whole lot of hidden agendas, and before you know it, bam. You’re in the ditch. In my defense, the whole thing did sound pretty harmless at the start: “artificial intelligence.” Kind of like “faux fur” or “costume jewelry.” What’s not to love? And just like that, I went from watching IBM’s Deep Blue computer play chess—How fun! How cute!—to dodging cyberattacks, deepfakes, and spyware in the blink of a 21^st-century eye.

Admittedly, I’m not the best person to be keeping tabs on these things. In a world full of techie “early adopters,” I’m a late adopter. Like, showing up to the orphanage when the kid is already 17-and-a-half kind of late. It won’t surprise you to learn that I’m old enough to remember cranking down car windows, cranking wall-mounted pencil sharpeners, and cranking loose tape back into cassettes. (Lots of cranking, back in the day.) All that’s in the past, of course, and I eventually adapted to new technologies as the need arose. But I was happy to brag that I’d at least managed to avoid the scourge of A.I. interference in my daily life.

That is, until this morning, when I opened a new document in Word and found myself confronted by a jarring and perplexing sentence: “Select the icon or press Alt + I to draft with Copilot.” The message was accompanied by a weird little symbol that looked like two old Band-Aids floating on the surface of pond scum.

What the hell was this?

Though I’d never heard of “Copilot,” it wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening: This must be one of those A.I. writing “assistants” I’d heard so much about, inserting itself, uninvited, onto my page.

I deleted the sentence, but the stubborn icon remained. After much Googling and a frantic conversation with my early-adopter son, I managed to disable the cyber-intruder. (FYI, the solution is “File, Options, Copilot, Disable Copilot,” in that order. In case you’re wondering.) After about ten minutes, I was once again in control of my document.

So why did I still feel so violated?

It takes effort and imagination to create something new. And that effort and imagination is the point, isn’t it? Not the finished product, but the surprising, glorious process of creating it? That’s what we should be teaching our children and grandchildren: to stretch their inventiveness. To try, and fail, and try again. To dig into their depths and pull out talents and strengths that they never even knew were there.

Instead, we’re giving our kids A.I. “assistants.” We’re saying, “Hey, it’s okay to avoid the hard things. You’d probably be no good at it anyway, so why not just cheat? It might be tough to draft that letter to your boss, or create a character for your role-playing game, or write that term paper, or solve the problem, or think a distinctive thought. So here. Here’s a workaround.”

Forget survival of the fittest: This is survival of the quitters. The plagiarists. The ill-prepared, incurious loafers. Worse, we’re applauding it every step of the way. Each day, another corporation announces its A.I. “innovations” to fanfare and celebration. They’re stealing copyrighted works. They’re pitting groups against groups, wiping out jobs, dumbing down our discourse, and handing out cheat codes for the game of life, all to benefit the bottom lines of companies that are already wildly profitable.

And we’re just going to…let them? Where’s the outrage? Where’s the good ol’ can-do, hands-on, when-the-going-gets-tough-the-tough-get-going American spirit? I have a hard time picturing Patrick Henry shouting: “Give me liberty or give me death! Unless liberty is hard! Then let’s just forget about it! Tyranny is fine!” Or Paul Revere checking his GPS to figure out which way to ride. If they’d had to rely on phone batteries back then, we’d all be playing football with our feet today.

The sad truth is, I’ve been kidding myself with my smug repudiation of all things A.I. in my life. After all, when was the last time I contacted a customer-service department and “spoke” to anyone other than a ChatBot? How many of my daily activities are dictated by apps on my phone, from making appointments to checking the weather, feeding parking meters, clipping coupons, and figuring out how to get from here to there? Could I even get through a day without my pocket-sized wizard? Do I even want to find out? To quote the illustrious HAL 9000: “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Even music, that most ancient and instinctual thing, now arrives to my ears in the form of playlists generated by an algorithm. And let’s not forget the elephant in this very big, very cybernetic room: basic human interaction, or the lack thereof. Why is in-person conversation suddenly harder to come by than a phone booth? The so-called “epidemic of loneliness” is easy to understand when we admit that we don’t have social lives so much as social-media lives, all of it controlled by unseen hands.

I hope like hell that we haven’t already lost. That we can still turn this thing around, reach out to each other—really reach out to each other, like with hands, not just DMs—and recapture the fellowship, dignity, and ingenuity that allowed to us to create all this A.I. in the first place.

That hope was renewed, however slightly, by that frantic conversation with my son as he helped me disable the Copilot interface. Once the A.I. writing “assistant” had been wiped away, I was surprised to hear him breathe a sigh of relief as loud as my own. “Good,” he said. “I hate that shit.”

I suppose I should have told him to watch his language. Choose a different word, perhaps. But considering that he had just joined me in the valiant battle to regain control of my own words from an authoritarian technological overlord, I figured I’d just let that one slide.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy from Tiny Fox Press < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

HELP WANTED

Job Title: President of the United States of America (POTUS)

Date of posting: November 5, 2024

Job position description:

We’re looking for a part-time, bombastic POTUS to visit the office occasionally between rounds of golf. The ideal candidate will have experience in Bible sales, bankruptcy, and hobnobbing with brutal global dictators. Applicants should also have experience in the legal field, preferably as a defendant and/or convicted felon.

If part-time is too much, job sharing is a possibility. We’re happy to consider co-POTUSes, with preference given to unelected, infantile billionaires. Or flip-flopping memoir writers with demonstrated talent for sneering and sniggering like the rich jock in every 80s teen movie. We’re flexible.

The company has quite enjoyed its recent experiences with Category 5 hurricanes and catastrophic floods, so we’d like to keep those adventures coming with a candidate who will successfully tamp down all efforts to address, or acknowledge, climate change. Or environmental protections of any kind. (And yes, that includes those adorable Bald Eagle babies out in Big Bear. Cut those woke nest cameras, STAT!)

Speaking of tamping down: Females, minorities, and gays have been getting uppity of late here in the US of A. Ideal applicants will display a clear intention—preferably with the use of snappy acronyms and brightly colored hats—to stem that tide and return the company to its natural state of imbalance.

The POTUS will also serve as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, though we prefer applicants to have a history of actively dodging military service and disparaging wounded veterans and dead soldiers. Out loud. In public. We also welcome any and all VA slashing suggestions, such as indiscriminately firing thousands of staffers, eroding veteran-suicide-prevention hotlines, and reducing VA medical centers’ purchase-card limits to $1. (Yes, $1. As in, one hundred cents. We said what we said.)

And this perhaps goes without saying, but: Women need not apply. Or make any silly attempts to control their own destinies or anatomies. Duh.

Benefits

-Health care, dental, life insurance

-Ability to pardon oneself from all ongoing prosecutions

-Hawking branded merch

-Finding new and fun ways to alienate the entire global community

-Dismantling the US of A’s pesky educational and healthcare systems

-Enjoying a good belly laugh while the citizens of Ukraine succumb to their neighbor’s violent subjugation

-Starting trade wars, torpedoing the stock market, and draining the retirement savings of millions of “weak and stupid” old folks (a.k.a., “Let them eat cake! As long as they don’t use food stamps to buy it!”)

-Disappearing problematic employees. Or nonproblematic employees. You choose!

-Returning our company’s focus to defeating the true evils that plague our bottom line: Namely, drag queens who enjoy singing classic Donna Summer songs, and the audience members who enjoy singing along

Location

Oval Office, Washington, D.C. Or, any private resort owned by the candidate. No restrictions needed for classified documents or top-secret battle plans in either location. Unsecured text chats are fine, too.

Contact/application information

Please send resume and cover letter to polling locations throughout US of A headquarters.

Complete sentences, coherent thoughts, and respectful discourse not necessary. Not even preferred. In fact, because we’ve found headquarters to be a bit too dull lately, we’re seeking an applicant who is willing to spice things up a bit. “Become a dictator on day one,” so to speak. Go after “shithole countries.” Encourage more “days of love” like the one the company enjoyed on January 6, 2021. Lots of “grabbing ’em by the pussy.” Whatever it takes. Company management is open to all kinds of ideas for workplace improvement—not for all employees, of course. But for some.

Start date: January 20, 2025, though short-list candidates should feel free to begin threatening and terrorizing all perceived “enemies from within” at any time during the hiring process. As one promising applicant recently put it, “I need the kind of generals that Hitler had.” That’s exactly the kind of clarity and eloquence we’re seeking here at the US of A. If you think you’re up for the challenge, our human resource managers look forward to hearing from you soon.

Update (Posted November 6, 2024):

Thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled. Check back again in four years, when the application process might, or might not, be open to new candidates. It’s just too soon to say.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy from Tiny Fox Press < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

“My goodness, thank you all so much for this incredible honor. I’m truly humbled and proud to receive this award from the literary community that I admire so much. I’m speechless. Well, I would be speechless if I hadn’t already prepared this speech, ha, ha!

Apologies for the note cards, here… Lots to remember! And so many people to thank. I’d like to start with my family, of course, and all my fellow writers. And let’s not forget my wonderful agent and editors. But most of all, I’d like to dedicate this award to the one who made it all possible. The fuel to my fire. The springboard to my success:

My stomach.

Dear, dear Stomach. As coauthors go, you’ve always been one of the best. All those words just don’t materialize out of nowhere, after all—they require a little help. Help like Quiche Lorraine, roast beef sandwiches, and Nachos El Grande. Gummy bears by the pound. Ravioli and meatballs. Hot coffee in the morning, and hot toddies at night. Whatever it takes.

Now, I know things have been a little tricky between us lately, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising. Fifty-plus years of collaboration don’t come without a few bumps. But I want you to know that I see you, I appreciate you, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get our partnership back on track.

If you remember, we got off to a great start. Well, mostly great. Our childhood collab had its challenges, what with all the boxed mac-and-cheese, birthday cake, and McDonald’s “orange drink” immediately followed by two-hour sessions on the trampoline. You didn’t love that. But occasional projectile vomiting aside, we did manage to produce some phenomenal work. Case in point: Our seminal Detective Ladybug Playground Mysteries, published on yellow construction paper with the help of a borrowed stapler.

Our college years saw much the same give-and-take. Just switch out the colors: Instead of “orange drink” and yellow paper, there were a lot of red Solo cups and two-liter bottles of Purple Passion. That was also the period of my unfortunate flirtation with songwriting and feminist books-in-verse, but you bore it all with good will.

Our relationship stayed mostly predictable into the early-adult years. If I’m honest, I just didn’t think about you all that much. (Nothing personal… I’m not close with most of my organs.) Then came those pregnancies in our thirties. That brought out a whole new side of you, didn’t it? Suddenly you were all “Give me raw meat!” and “Stay the hell off that glider chair!” I ignored your demands at my peril. But when you weren’t being bossy, you helped me write all those fun “Mommy Confidential” columns for the newspaper.

Our forties rolled by in a gastrointestinal blur, mostly because I was more worried about packing other people’s lunch boxes than my own. Kidding—I didn’t have any lunch boxes. I probably didn’t have any lunch. For a decade. Who remembers? Still, we kept at it, writing manuscripts that turned out to be half decent. Then, better than descent. Then, actually published by an actual publisher.

Then. Came. The fifties.

The half-century mark. And there you were, out of the shadows at last. All those years, you’d been ignored. “Well, no more, missy,” you told me. The message was loud and clear: I’d had my day. This was your show, now. I call that show, “WAIT, WHAT CAN’T I EAT NOW?” It’s streaming, on all channels, around the clock.

The trouble started at my local ice-cream stand. I began telling anyone who would listen that the mint chip was bad. Spoiled, maybe? Then another flavor, with the same result. I switched brands and locations, only to find that this shop, too, was trying to kill me. It was an ice-cream conspiracy.

It took a full year and countless more poisonings (milk, cream cheese, ranch dressing, mozzarella) for light to dawn on this foggy head. The culprit was lactose. Lactose? I didn’t even know what the heck that was. But you knew, didn’t you, Stomach? And you’d decided: No more.

With one fell swoop, you’d taken away most of my favorite foods. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. Just another one of middle age’s indignities. But you couldn’t stop there, could you? Nooooo. Now, suddenly, I can’t eat sugar substitutes. Or apples. You’re not crazy about caffeine anymore, either, or any kind of alcohol. And I guess I can forget about eating or drinking anything at all after 9pm.

Basically, you want me to live like a monk. While I’m at it, I might as well invest in a few monk’s robes, too, because despite not being able to eat anything good in my fifties, I also somehow manage to gain 15 pounds per week. Per day? Whatever it is, it defies all biological principles. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to find the “Mid-Life, Lactose-Intolerant, Stubborn Body Fat” section of the clothing store. So a flowy friar’s frock it is.

Sorry. I digress. And I seem to have lost my place in the notecards, here…

I guess what I’m trying to say is: This writing thing, this creativity thing, has always been a partnership. Didn’t we have fun back in the days when nausea was the exclusive province of seasickness and people guzzled “orange drink” without any idea of what it actually contained? When a full, happy belly was the perfect fuel for an active imagination? I know I took you for granted. But that happens in all long-term relationships, right? I swear, I can change if you can.

Let’s start here, tonight, at this beautiful awards ceremony. I think we’ve earned a glass of champagne, don’t you? Maybe a passed canape or two? If I promise to limit my intake, can you promise to limit our bathroom breaks to just, I don’t know…one or two an hour?

When they told us to take a bite out of life, dear Stomach, I think they might have meant it literally. So let’s do it. Just you, me, this incredible award, all these wonderful people, and a handful of Lactaid pills. Unlike us, friend, the night is young. And full of delicious possibilities.”

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(Note: This story first appeared on BookTrib.com on April 1, 2025. https://booktrib.com/2025/04/01/my-coauthor-is-slacking-on-the-job/)

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick's End, Herrick's Lie, and Herrick's Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

Wake, bleary-eyed. Look for dog. Feel initial confusion, followed by slow, dreadful recollection.

Cry. Wipe your face, then cry again. Decide to stop crying. Toss back the covers and drop your feet to the ground. Stare at the empty dog bed longer than is necessary. Leave the room.

Make coffee. Drink coffee. It’s somehow tasteless, but warm. Warm is good.

People must be told the news. Which people? How many? Will anyone really care? He wasn’t their dog, after all. But yes, people must be told. This dog was a good dog. A great dog. He touched many lives with his cuteness, even if only tangentially. People must be told.

Determine to make a Facebook post. That will spread the news quickly without having to speak to anyone directly. And not speaking to anyone directly suddenly feels like a very important thing to do. Or…not do? Whatever. This is not the day to be sorting out double negatives.

Pictures are needed. Can’t make a Facebook post about a formerly adorable, now-dead dog without pictures. Right? Now-dead. Repeat the words to yourself a few times. Dead. Gone. No longer here. Passed. Went over the Rainbow Bridge. You will have to choose one of these expressions to write the caption. Which will you choose? None of them seem real, or remotely applicable to the furry, lovable, snuggly best friend who was curled up at your feet just yesterday. But yes, you will have to choose one of those expressions. And you will need pictures.

Search for pictures. Find pictures. Look at approximately 10,652 pictures of your formerly adorable, now-dead dog.

Return to bed.

Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Start the whole damn thing all over again.

Wake, bleary-eyed. Etcetera. The coffee is now cold, and must be warmed up.

A new resolve takes hold. Pictures must be chosen. The news must be shared, and this dog must be remembered. Period. People must know that he lived, that he was tremendous in every possible way, and that he will be missed. Whether or not they care is irrelevant. They will gather in the town square, and they will look at his pictures. It’s all that’s left to do for him now.

Grit teeth and gather pictures. Arrange them in a pleasing way. Choose euphemism, write short-but-sweet caption, and share post.

There. You’ve done it. The news is shared.

Now what?

Make lunch. Take one bite, chew, and swallow. The food fights to make its way down a dry throat and lands like a stone. New plan: No lunch. More coffee.

Start to hear things. The click of claws on the hardwood floor. A sigh. Panting. A creak in the next room. None of that is actually there, but you hear it all anyway.

Attempt to do work. To concentrate on anything other than this hideous thing. Fail miserably.

Walk past the bowls that haven’t yet been put away. The water bowl is empty. Feel the pull, the intense need, to carry the bowl to the sink and fill it with water. Remind yourself that there’s no need to fill it now. Consider putting the bowls away, then decide against it. Not yet. Not now.

Feel the panic rise, again. The irrational, illogical panic. What have you done? How could you have just left him there, at the vet’s office? What if he wakes up and gets scared? What if he’s looking for you? What if he thinks you’ve abandoned him? Maybe you should go back there, right now. Maybe a mistake has been made. A horrible, horrible mistake.

Inhale. Exhale. Remind yourself that he won’t be waking up. This is not sleep. This is something else. Something that you’ve faced before. It’s a concept that’s impossible to grasp with this puny, simple, human mind, but you must try to grasp it anyway. To accept it.

Check Facebook. The comments are starting to appear, now. So many kind words, so many kind people. They make you feel better. Others have been here, too, in this terrible, undefinable place, in The Day After Your Dog Dies. They’re sending their condolences and sympathies, and you’re scooping it all up like ice cream.

The doorbell rings. You listen for the bark, but hear none. Oh, right. No more barking when the doorbell rings. Right. That one bite of lunch hardens in the pit of your stomach.

Approach the door to find a thoughtful friend bearing gifts of lemon cake and tulips. Teary and touched, you accept the offering, give sincere thanks, and step back inside.

Awful, awful silence. Enough silence to burst an eardrum.

Wander the house. Turn on the TV. Turn off the TV. See a shape in the corner of your eye, think it’s him—then remember. Look at the clock, tell yourself that it’s time for the daily walk—then remember. Remember, remember, remember, all day long.

Dinner time. His favorite time of the day. Was his favorite time of the day. Now there’s half-a-bag of kibble left in the pantry with no one there to eat it. An entire drawer full of treats and chewies with no one there to chew them. Leftover medicine. Hanging leashes. Dog beds and dog stairs and dog towels and dog blankets and dog coats and dog everything, everywhere, in every corner of this goddamn, dogless house.

Do laundry.

Check Facebook, again. More compassionate comments, broken-heart emojis, and sympathetic gifs. These make you cry, again, but they also make you smile. Make you feel lucky for all you’ve had, all you’ve lost, and all you still hold on to.

Write a weird little thing. Call it, “What You Do the Day After Your Dog Dies.” Feel infinitely better, but can’t explain exactly why.

Go to bed. Close your eyes and do the math: You’ve been 34 hours without him, now. Tomorrow will be dismal too, but maybe a little less dismal than today. Maybe.

Assume you won’t be able to sleep, then feel the exhaustion take hold.

Start to drift off, hoping against hope to see him, one last time, in a dream.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy from Tiny Fox Press < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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A, E, I, O, U… and sometimes Y. Sometimes. It’s not always a vowel. Some days it is, and some days it isn’t. That can’t be easy, especially when all the other letters and “units of grammatical organization” are usually as rigid as a frat boy driving through a bikini car wash.

Everybody else has their marching orders. The letter X, for example, knows to wait on the bench until a rare xylophone comes along. There’s no miscommunication, no resentment—the X simply stays hydrated, stays ready, and doesn’t question its importance to the alphabet. The letter K, similarly, has one job and one job only: to keep things hard (not unlike the fellow at the car wash, but totally unlike its flip-flopping wussbag colleague, the letter C). Participles don’t dangle, compound modifiers wouldn’t dream of showing up to the party without their pal, the hyphen, and subjects and verbs know better than to disagree. About anything. Everyone seems to know exactly where they’re supposed to be, who they’re supposed to be, and what they’re supposed to be doing.

The letter Y? Not so much.

I know the feeling.

Did it ever occur to you, English Language, that maybe the letter Y wants to be just one thing, for a change? Something less complicated, less confused, and less floundering? What the hell is the matter with me? the letter Y might want to scream. Am I a consonant, or am I a vowel? Every other damn letter gets a clear job description. A lane to follow. A place to belong. So why not me? Maybe the letter Y tosses and turns in midlife angst each night, tangling its curlicue tail in the sheets, wondering why it feels so hot one minute and so cold the next.

If it does sometimes dissolve into a state of dread and desolation—and I’m not saying it does, but if it does—then the mood probably doesn’t last for long. This is the letter Y, after all. As the previous night’s sleeplessness gives way to a peeking golden sun, I’m guessing that Y wakes to embrace an entirely opposing approach: Hey, why not take on all this uncertainty as a personal challenge? A point of pride? Who wants to be exactly like everyone else?

You can’t box me into your little…boxes, it might harrumph, wishing it had a pair of arms to fold and a chest to fold them on. You can’t label me. I’m not as simple as all that. Sure, some days I might be all vowelly, all ‘myth’ and ‘tryst’ and ‘sky.’ But that doesn’t mean that’s all I am. Sometimes I need to be ‘year,” or ‘yellow,’ or ‘yard.’ Or even ‘papaya,’ goddammit. I’m complex. I contain multitudes. And that’s okay, isn’t it?

Of course it’s okay. Okay, but not always easy. And all that chin-jutting probably gets a little tiring after a while. Sure, change is inevitable. Natural. Yadda, yadda, yadda. No doubt, the letter Y understands that. But maybe, sometimes, it wishes that all the incessant reshuffling could just…slow down. Just a bit. Chances are, it had become happily settled into being a vowel. Chances are, it loved vowelling. And then, suddenly, it gets yanked by the collar into a new and slightly terrifying stage of life: “Consonants needed! Let’s go, Y! You’re up! No more dawdling!”

Don’t panic, the letter Y tells itself. This will probably work out fine. And after all, it’s not like I have a choice. ‘Spy’ and ‘shy’ and ‘wry’ were lovely—wonderful, even—but they’re in the past. Now, it’s time to look to the future, to ‘yak’ and ‘yarn’ and ‘yawn.’ And maybe a little ‘coyote’ and ‘teriyaki,’ too. That could be interesting, right? Maybe it could even be great.

Right?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. And sometimes no.

T.M. Blanchet is the author of Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key (The Neath Trilogy) from Tiny Fox Press. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans.

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The Neath Trilogy from Tiny Fox Press < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

Subscribe now

Subscribe now