On Living in Rural Alberta and Writing Psychological Thrillers

I love my rural home, where the most frequent visitors are birds, squirrels, deer, and coyotes. When fresh snow blankets the world and I’m greeted by a parade of tracks crisscrossing the yard and driveway, I’m reminded that despite the quiet and solitude, we are never truly alone. Those delicate prints call to mind the yips of a coyote hunting party, the high‑pitched cry of owls tracking their prey, and the soft scrape of a porcupine’s quills as it waddles across the deck.

People in suburbs or cities rarely need reminding of the presence of others. The hum of traffic, the wail of sirens, the constant murmur of human life—those sounds are proof of community. But for those of us tucked deep into the woods, it’s easy to forget the world that rages on beyond the tree line.

In this quiet isolation, I lose myself in the stories I weave. My mind is free from distraction—aside from the occasional interruption from my dog or husband. Here, scenes unfold like films behind my eyes long before they ever reach the page. I can rearrange a moment, replay a reaction, or dissect a character’s emotional unraveling before it slips away. And when something doesn’t fit, the delete key is always there, ready to erase what doesn’t serve the truth of the story.

Most days, the sights and sounds of my world wrap around me like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. But it’s the unexpected ones—the growl of tires on gravel, the sudden flash of headlights on the road that ends at our property line, the unexpected thud of footsteps on the porch, a voice cutting through the stillness—that send ice shooting through my veins. The deer, coyotes, and countless other creatures mean me no harm. It’s the two‑legged predators I can’t trust.

But maybe I’m paranoid and spend too much of my day in a world filled with the threat of violence and the sting of betrayal.

Time to abandon the keyboard, put the kettle on and settle by the fireplace.