Thinkingdog Publishing

Some days, I have no idea what to write . I sit there, staring at the cursor like it’s personally offended me. That blinking little line just dares me to type something worthwhile, but instead, I find myself thinking, “Well, this is awkward.” I think that’s part of the definition of being a writer. If you’ve never argued with your own cursor, are you even in the club? Lately, I’ve found a trick. I open a fresh document and type something silly, along the lines of, “Well here we go again—I have no idea how to finish this scene. Could be this happens, could be that happens…” And then—like magic—I’m writing again. Ideas come when you open a door for them. You just have to unlock it, fling it wide, and let them stroll in, preferably carrying snacks. Way too many years ago (and we’re not counting, thank you very much), I was forced to write every second I could. On the train, scribbling into a notebook balanced on my knee. On scraps of paper when the boss wasn’t looking. On receipts, n...

Truth time? I have never had patience. Like… never. Waiting has never been in my vocabulary unless it’s the kind of “waiting” where you’re standing at the microwave watching popcorn explode in slow motion and muttering under your breath, “come on, come on, come on…” That’s kind of my normal. Do it now. Take it to the limit. Push that project through with sheer willpower and enough coffee to make my kitchen smell like a Starbucks exploded. But here’s the thing: lately I’ve started noticing this impatience everywhere. It’s like the whole world caught up to me and said, “Yeah, let’s all live at turbo speed now.” You don’t respond within five minutes? Clearly something is wrong. A new series drops? Forget waiting for weekly episodes—we need to binge it right now or risk being left behind in spoiler territory. Have a question? Why wait until Monday to ask a human being when you can fire it off to AI at 11:42 PM and have an answer before you even finish your cookie? On one hand,...

  🫐 Blueberry’s Listicle of the Week Opinions from a Magical Papillon Who Has Seen Things  Mommy has been muttering about “writer’s block” again. As if the words are hiding from her. Please. They’re simply waiting for better company. Blueberry’s Official Ranking of Places to Nap in a House Full of Ghosts  1. The exact center of Mommy’s manuscript pages. Warm from the printer, faintly scented with ink and desperation. Prime real estate.  2. The sunbeam that crosses the kitchen table between 2:15 and 2:47 p.m. One must time it precisely. Ghosts respect punctuality.  3. Around the old grandfather clock. The ticking lulls lesser beings; I find it rhythmic. Also, excellent vantage point for judging everyone below.  4. The windowsill overlooking the garden. One can monitor squirrels, passing spirits, and Mommy’s questionable fashion choices with equal efficiency.  5. Buddy’s bed, but only when he’s not in it. (He claims this is theft. I call it quality c...

A little while ago, Canada did what Canada does best and unleashed a truly horrible snowstorm. Not the polite, fluffy kind. No, this was the kind of snow that comes at you sideways, stings your face, and makes you question every life choice that led you outdoors. Blueberry the Papillon took one look at the situation and said absolutely not. And honestly? Same. She stood at the door like a tiny, dramatic statue of protest. No paw over the threshold. No curious sniff. No brave dash. Just a look that said, “I did not sign up for this nonsense.” Judging by the complete lack of footprints outside our front door, it seemed the rest of the neighborhood had reached the same conclusion. Draw your own conclusions from that. Eventually, cabin fever won. We all piled into the big car, mostly just to escape the walls closing in and remind ourselves that the outside world still existed. And that’s when we saw it. A young man. Doing push-ups. In front of a bar. On the sidewalk. Duri...

People sometimes ask me how many books I’ve written, and I always pause. Not because I’m being mysterious. Not because I’m modest. It’s because the honest answer lives somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, and even I’m not entirely sure where it landed and set up camp. Before you panic, calm down. Many of those books are quietly gathering digital dust somewhere, living their best invisible lives. Only fifteen of them are currently up on Amazon, polished, presentable, and waving enthusiastically at you like, “Pick me! I’m ready!” And yes, that was absolutely a wink. But here’s the part that made me laugh at myself today. A proper laugh. The kind where you realize something obvious far too late and just have to accept it with grace and coffee. With every single book, I learn something. Shocking, I know. I learn about story. About flow. About structure. About how a mystery should unfold so the reader feels clever instead of cheated. About pacing, tension, emotion, and w...

Circadian Rhythms and You Be You Let me start with a bummer, because life isn’t always cupcakes and cozy mysteries. When my mom passed away a few years ago, she was just about to get up—at three in the morning. Yes, three. In. The. Morning. I mean, who does that? My mom, that’s who. She’d get up when the rest of us were deep in dreamland, do a few things, rest, do a few more, rest again. That was her rhythm. Wash, rinse, repeat. As a teenager, I thought it was weird. You’re supposed to sleep in late, drag your bleary-eyed self to school or work, suffer through the day, then stay up until the wee hours laughing with friends, eating questionable pizza, and pretending you’re invincible. That’s the script! And yet… as I’ve gotten older, I find myself—brace for impact—doing the same thing. Gasp! I get up early. I mean really early. Before sunrise. Before the world even stretches. And I love it. There’s something delicious about that quiet hour when it’s just me, my coffee, my words, ...

There’s a very special kind of loyalty in this world, and no, it doesn’t come from your group chat, your coworkers, or that friend who “meant to text back.” It comes from your dog. Dogs are the quiet witnesses to everything. They saw your whole world fall apart. The bad days. The messy days. The “I’m fine” days that were very clearly not fine. They watched you sit on the floor staring into space, cry into your coffee, and question every life choice you’ve ever made… and they never flinched. They just stayed. No advice. No judgment. No “have you tried thinking positively?” Just a warm body leaning against you like, I’m here. That’s enough. Somehow, in the middle of chaos, dogs become emotional first responders without even knowing it. They don’t realize they’re helping you pick up the pieces. They don’t know they’re grounding you back into the present. They just know you’re their person, and that’s their whole job. They celebrated your tiny wins like you won an Olympic medal...