Thinkingdog Publishing

I’ll admit it right here in front of the internet and anyone snooping on my Wi-Fi connection: I am obsessed with small towns. Not in a mildly fond way, like I’m a fan of flannel or I occasionally fantasize about running a pie shop. No, no. I mean full-on, planning-my-escape-to-a-town-with-one-stoplight obsessed. You know the type of town where the mayor is also the mechanic and possibly the yoga instructor. The kind of place where people don’t use Google Maps to find your house—they just describe it as “the white cottage with the hydrangeas where the ghost dog lives.” Yes. That kind of small town. It’s not a coincidence that I chose to set my Magical Papillon Mysteries in just such a place: the delightfully peculiar village of Rosewood Hollow. A place that practically smells like cinnamon rolls, candle wax, and secrets. Because here’s the truth—we are all secretly (or not-so-secretly) drawn to the warm hug that is small-town life. Even if we’ve never lived in one. Even if...

Growing up, I was a walking, talking mystery to my family. Honestly, if my dad and I hadn’t been so close, I might’ve been written off as an alien life form left on the doorstep. You see, my parents were the definition of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people. Good people. Honest people. The kind of people who fixed things with duct tape and cooked dinner while doing three other things at once. My mom could stretch a dollar until it begged for mercy. My dad could fix a car engine with a shoelace and a pocketknife. And there I was: doodling in the margins of my notebook, daydreaming about far-off lands and writing dramatic poetry about the moon. When it came time for me to "learn a trade," the recommendation was solid: secretarial work. It was practical. It made sense. It paid the bills. And it made me about as happy as a cat at a dog show. I spent forty years (yes, four-zero, not a typo) working jobs that made me feel like a square peg hammered into a round hole. I showed...

Structure. Just saying it out loud feels… mildly offensive . Like a distant relative showing up uninvited with a casserole. The kind of thing I absolutely rebelled against when I was seventeen. “Structure? Pfft. I don’t need no structure!” I shouted, probably in front of a mirror, probably with eyeliner smudged from some dramatic emotional revelation about freedom and individuality. And yet… here we are. Seventeen, eighteen… I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve written. And as I click open the latest Word document, my gut does a little shiver of recognition. Structure is actually… useful. There, I said it. Useful. Shocking, I know. Structure keeps you on track. It prevents that horrifying moment where you sit at your keyboard, staring blankly at the blinking cursor, muttering, “How does this story continue now?” It’s like the invisible hand holding a leash on your runaway imagination, and for once, it’s a leash you don’t entirely mind. But the real magic? Structure tells you wh...

Let's be honest, my fellow book lovers . We've all looked at our To-Be-Read piles and thought, "I should probably read what I have before buying more." It's a noble, sensible, and utterly boring thought that we immediately dismiss, right? Well, get ready to throw that sensibility out the window, because on October 22nd , we're all becoming book criminals! I'm thrilled to announce that I'm part of the massive, once-a-year, bookish crime spree known as the Stuff Your Kindle Crime Event ! For 24 glorious hours, hundreds of authors (including little old me!) are setting their books FREE. We're talking a whole library's worth of thrillers that will chill you, mysteries that will stump you, and cozy mysteries that will make you want to solve a murder in a quaint village while sipping tea. Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It: Mark your calendar: Circle, highlight, and set 12 alarms for October 22nd . Visit the scene of the crime: Head over ...

You know how some people get up at dawn to go fishing? They sit there in their boats, patiently waiting, casting, reeling, hoping for a big catch. Well, let me tell you about the real fisherman in our family. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t own a tackle box, and his fishing license would never hold up under scrutiny. I’m talking about our dog. Yes, you read that right. One of our dogs is a fisherman, though “fisherman” is maybe too generous a word. “Lake stander and occasional snapper” might be more accurate. But for the sake of his dignity, we call it fishing. And believe me, he takes it very, very seriously. Happens every time when we’re at the cabin (or the cottage, for those of us Canucks who know that’s the proper word). It’s early morning, the kind of crisp fall day where the mist is still rolling off the water, and most sane beings are wrapped in blankets with hot coffee in hand. But not him. Nope. Six o’clock sharp, he’s up, tail wagging, trotting down to the water like it’s h...

You know what makes an author’s heart soar higher than a caffeinated squirrel? Reviews. Glorious, wonderful, sparkly Amazon reviews. I know, I know. Every author says it: “Reviews are so important!” And readers nod along, probably thinking, “Cool, but I have things to do, like actually reading your book.” But here’s the deal: reviews are the magic fairy dust that makes books visible to new readers. And by “magic fairy dust,” I mean cold, unfeeling algorithms that decide whether my book gets recommended or buried under a mountain of “How to Train Your Goldfish” manuals. Now, I totally get it—writing a review sounds like work . You’ve just finished an emotional rollercoaster of a story (or, in the case of my books, a wild, magical mystery with talking Papillon dogs), and now I’m asking for more? But hear me out… Leaving a review doesn’t have to be a dissertation. No need for literary analysis, Shakespearean prose, or an MLA citation format. Amazon isn’t grading you. Here’s all it ta...

The other day, as I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook (which I swear was just for five minutes, but then somehow an hour disappeared—Facebook time is not real time), I saw an ad that stopped me cold. It asked: "Have you ever wished for a minor accident or illness—not serious, just enough to stay in bed for a few days and rest?" My immediate, gut reaction? Absolutely, yes. And apparently, I wasn’t alone. The comments were a chorus of, “Oh my gosh, YES!” and “All the time.” and “Where do I sign up for a light, non-life-threatening illness that involves tea, naps, and binge-watching detective shows?” Wait. Hold on. When did we, as a society, reach the point where the dream of self-care involves a medically justified break from life ? When did we go from "Omg, I hope I never get sick" to "Look, I don’t want anything permanent, but if the universe wanted to drop a mild, fever-free flu on me, I wouldn’t fight it” ? Welcome to the Productivity Cul...