How I’m Writing Cozy Mysteries While the World Is Burning by Sarah E. Burr

(Spoiler: I’m not. Or at least, not very well.)

Lately, I’ve been staring at blinking cursors more than I’ve been writing chapters.

It feels strange, almost dissonant, to sit down and draft a scene about best friends arguing over scones or debating suspects in a charming small town when the news is filled with violence, injustice, and heartbreak. Every time I open my laptop, I’m aware of it. Violence against people is wrong. Murdering people is wrong. Genocide is wrong. Oppressing people is wrong. Lying to people is wrong. There are so many wrong things happening in the world right now.

And I write books about… fictional murder.

On the surface, it can feel trivial. Even tone-deaf. How am I supposed to tune out headlines and write about candle shops, bookstores, seaside cafés, and clever twists? How do I build light-hearted mysteries while the world feels so unbearably heavy?

The honest answer? Sometimes I can’t. Some days, the words come slowly. Some days, they don’t come at all. My mind wanders. My heart aches. I question whether what I’m doing matters.

But here’s what I keep coming back to. Cozy mysteries are not about glorifying violence. They are not about celebrating harm. They are about restoring order in a world that has been disrupted. They are about community. Friendship. Justice. Truth. They are about good people choosing to stand up, even when something terrible has happened. In a cozy mystery, murder is never “right.” It is the problem. It is the wrong that must be made right. And maybe that’s why these stories matter right now more than ever.

We live in a world where harm often feels unresolved. Where injustice stretches on. Where truth feels slippery. In a cozy mystery, justice is possible. The guilty are held accountable. The innocent are protected. The community survives. The light returns.

That isn’t escapism in the shallow sense. It’s hope. But hope can feel fragile when reality is loud.

There are moments when I wonder if writing about close friends solving mysteries in charming towns is enough. Should I be writing something darker? Something louder? Something that directly confronts the chaos?

And then I remember the emails. The messages from readers who say my books helped them through chemo. Through grief. Through caring for aging parents. Through anxiety spirals. The readers who tell me they needed a safe place to land for a few hours. Stories are not a distraction from the world. They are a way to survive it.

That doesn’t mean I ignore what’s happening. I don’t. I read. I listen. I vote. I donate. I have hard conversations. I sit with discomfort. I let myself feel anger and sadness because it’s warranted. But I also write about communities where people show up for each other. Where kindness is normal. Where truth wins. Where a group of friends refuses to let fear have the final word. Maybe writing cozy mysteries while the world is burning isn’t about pretending the fire doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s about tending small, steady flames of hope that guide readers during dark times.

I won’t pretend it’s easy. Some days, the writing feels almost impossible. I have closed documents and walked away more times than I can count. I have questioned myself more than usual. But when I do manage to write, when I find my way back into a scene where friends are gathered around a table, piecing together clues and laughing despite the danger, something shifts in me. It reminds me of what kind of world I want. A world where harm is acknowledged, not excused. Where wrongdoing is confronted, not normalized. Where communities protect their neighbors, regardless of what they believe or look like. Where the truth matters.

If that’s the world I want, then maybe writing it is not naive. Maybe it’s aspirational.

I don’t know if I have a neat conclusion here. I don’t have a productivity hack to offer. I’m not going to tell you I’ve figured out how to perfectly balance awareness and art. I haven’t. Some days I write well. Some days I don’t write at all. But I’m still here. Still trying. Still believing that light, even small light, is worth making.

If you’re struggling to create right now, too, please know you’re not alone. It’s okay if your output looks different. It’s okay if your heart needs time. It’s okay if the words come slowly.

The world may feel like it’s burning. But even in the middle of it, there is value in building places where justice is possible, kindness is powerful, and hope survives the final chapter.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s reason enough to keep writing.