Thinkingdog Publishing

There are two kinds of walks. There are the determined, fitness-tracker-beeping, “we are MAKING TIME” walks. And then there are the walks you take when you share your life with a small, fluffy creature who believes every pile of leaves may contain buried treasure, secrets, or possibly a criminal mastermind. When you live with a dog — or are owned by one, which feels more accurate — you walk. A lot. Blueberry, my Papillon with the investigative spirit of a seasoned detective, does not “exercise walk.” She does not march. She does not power-stride. She stops. She sniffs. She wanders. She conducts what I can only assume are highly classified forensic investigations on twigs. Every leaf pile is suspicious. Every rustle is worth examining. Every breeze carries breaking news. And so we amble. Very slowly. At first, years ago, I would try to hurry her along. Come on, Blueberry. Let’s go. We have things to do. Deadlines. Laundry. Emails. Imaginary murders to solve. But ...

There’s a theory I’ve been quietly nurturing between cups of coffee and dramatic plot twists. I think you have to be an introvert to be a writer. Hear me out. Who else voluntarily spends hours sitting alone in a room, staring at a laptop, blinking occasionally, while internally sprinting across rooftops in a town that doesn’t exist? Who else battles enemies they invented, panics because their hero is about to fall off a cliff, and then desperately scrambles to think of something—anything—before gravity wins? Writers. That’s who. And not just any writers. Cozy mystery writers. Paranormal cozy mystery writers. The sort of people who think, “You know what this murder investigation needs? An enchanted Papillon and a dash of Christmas spirit.” I sit there, looking perfectly calm from the outside. Maybe even serene. Meanwhile, inside my head, Rosewood Hollow is in chaos. Someone’s been poisoned. Someone else is lying. My heroine is in danger. And I am frantically trying to deci...

When you write cozy mysteries, you see things a little differently. No. Not in a “how would I dispose of a body?” kind of way. Please. I write about charming villages, magical dogs, and suspicious bake sale politics. We are not digging holes in forests. It’s not the process of murder that fascinates me. It’s the why. It’s the tiny, deliciously odd human behaviors that make my writer brain sit up straighter than a librarian who just heard someone dog-ear a page. Take the gentleman I see most mornings in the park while walking Blueberry. He walks the paths in a very specific order. Not random. Not “oh, I feel like turning left today.” No. It’s choreographed. Precise. Measured. He counts his steps. I know this because his lips move ever so slightly, and every time he reaches the same tree, he pivots. Exact angle. Exact spot. Every. Single. Morning. And there I am, supposedly walking my adorable Papillon, but internally I am spiraling into a full-blown character study. Wh...

Stop me if you've been here before.... You're finally getting away, going on vacation, and you're thinking - yes, think of all the reading I'm going to do! For me, it used to look like this—I’d gather a stack of books. Not one or two, but twenty. Maybe twenty-five. A full, ambitious pile that reflected not just who I was, but who I thought I should be: more well-read, more disciplined, more “on top” of my reading life. I told myself I’d finally have the time. That I’d sit for hours, uninterrupted, moving from one book to the next with focus and intention. And then reality would arrive. A chapter here. A few pages there. Maybe a longer stretch if it rained. But nowhere near the marathon I had imagined. For a long time, that gap felt like failure. The Hidden Pressure We Put on Ourselves As an author—especially an indie author—it’s easy to blur the line between passion and performance. Reading becomes more than enjoyment. It turns into: Research Market awarenes...

Solving Ghostly Mysteries with My Human Pixie’s Official and Fluffy Opinion on How the Real Detective Work Gets Done Hi. It’s me. Pixie. Yes, that Pixie. Star of the Magical Papillon Mysteries. Dog detective. Crumb catcher. Fluffy genius. Sidekick to one well-meaning but slightly clueless human named Sarah. Let me explain something important: Humans? They’re adorable, but they wouldn’t solve a mystery if it was gift-wrapped and left in their coffee cup. I mean, have you seen their ears? So small. So tragically unfloppy. I can hear a ghost sneeze from three haunted houses away. Sarah? She once thought a banshee was the dryer acting up. Don’t even get me started on noses. Sarah likes to say, “Oh, I wish I had your nose, Pixie!” AS IF. Trust me, she doesn’t. If she had my nose, she’d know Aunt Lily’s been sneaking beef jerky into the bookstore and that Mr. Jenkins wears the same socks four days in a row. And let me tell you, that’s a crime in itself. Every time a new...

There is a myth floating around the internet. A persistent little fairy tale. Apparently, somewhere between publishing my first cozy mystery and lovingly introducing the world to magical dogs, ghosts, and small-town secrets, I became independently wealthy. I would very much like to know when that happened. Because according to my inbox, I am absolutely swimming in consultant-level disposable income. Every single day, without fail, I receive approximately seven emails. Sometimes more. They arrive like clockwork. They are polite. They are enthusiastic. They are confident. “Dear Author, Let me put your book on my premium reader list.” Which book, my friend? I have fifteen. Are we talking about the one with the ghost? The one with the magical Papillon? The one with the small-town murder wrapped in Christmas cookies and secrets? A hint would be delightful. Next email. “Let me optimize your categories and keywords.” Marvelous. Again — which book? I would love to know whi...

Here we are. The first of May. We made it. We actually survived winter. I feel like this winter deserves a small ceremony. Or at least a strongly worded letter. It was long, dramatic, and deeply committed to its role. But it’s over now. The light is back. The air smells different. And my soul has finally stopped hibernating like a disgruntled bear. Growing up in Germany, the first of May was always a holiday. They called it the “Day of Work,” which, to this day, feels like one of life’s great practical jokes. You celebrate work by… not working. Everyone just collectively agreed to stay home, enjoy the day, and not question the logic too deeply. Lately, I’ve found myself trying to remember the last time I had a proper day off. You know the kind. No writing. No plotting. No characters tapping you on the shoulder whispering, “Just one more chapter?” And here’s the thing. I don’t actually need one. I write cozy mysteries. I spin stories filled with small towns, gentle magic, curious secret...