Thinkingdog Publishing

One of the strangest things about getting older is discovering that some of the things you have been carrying around for years were never yours to begin with. I’m not talking about actual luggage. Sadly, my suitcase still weighs approximately the same as a small farm animal whenever I travel. I mean the invisible stuff, the questions. Did they like me? Did I say the wrong thing? Was that email too short? Too long? Too enthusiastic? Not enthusiastic enough? Should I have used one exclamation mark, three, none? At one point, I’m fairly certain I could have won an Olympic medal in overthinking. There would have been a ceremony, a tiny flag, and possibly a commemorative mug. Then somewhere along the way, something changed. I crossed an invisible little bridge and realized I was asking the wrong question. For years, I had been asking “Do they like me?” And suddenly, I found myself wondering “Do I even like them?” Now, before anyone dramatically collapses onto a Victorian fainting couch, I’m...

  5 Reason s Momm y Write s Coz y Mysteries (as told by me, her extremely important magical papillon sidekick) 1.      She’s Squeamish (Like… Dramatically So) Mommy cannot handle guts, gore, or anything that goes “splat” in an unfriendly way. I once saw her apologize to a wilted spinach leaf. Cozy mysteries are her safe little storytelling garden where the worst thing that happens is someone faints politely near a teapot. Much better for everyone’s nerves. Especially mine. I am delicate. 2.      She’s Always Looking for the Good in Everyone Even the suspicious baker with the twitchy eyebrow? “Probably just misunderstood,” she says. Mommy believes everyone has a soft center, like a perfectly baked muffin. So in her stories, villains get unmasked, but they also get explained . Justice… with a side of empathy. (And possibly lemon drizzle.) 3.      She’s Obsessed with Ghosts Not scar...

When I published the first book in my cozy mystery series, I had a fairly simple expectation. I thought I would spend my time writing stories, introducing readers to my characters, and perhaps celebrating the occasional book sale with entirely reasonable levels of excitement. What I did not expect was to become the target of what appeared to be an international effort to help me part with my money. The transformation happened almost overnight. One day I was simply a person who had written a book. The next day I seemed to have entered a parallel universe where hundreds of complete strangers had suddenly become deeply invested in my literary success.  My inbox filled up. Facebook messages began appearing. Comments showed up in unexpected places. Everywhere I turned, someone seemed eager to explain that my book possessed enormous potential and that, fortunately for me, they had a service that could unlock it.   It was strangely flattering at first. Apparently I had written...

Okay. So. Here's the thing. I sat down today with every intention of writing you the most brilliantly crafted, gloriously witty, perfectly cozy social media post about the Papillon series. You know the kind — the ones that make you laugh out loud, hit follow and then buy a slightly haunted cozy mystery involving a very small but extremely opinionated dog.  I had the vibe. I had the energy. I had the snacks. What I did not have, as it turns out, was a single solitary idea. I put my fingers on the keyboard. I stared at the screen. The screen stared back at me with the blank, unblinking patience of a particularly judgmental cat — except in my house, the judgy energy doesn't come from a cat. It comes from a five-pound Papillon named Blueberry who was, at that precise moment, watching me from her perch on the couch with an expression that said, very clearly, "Mom. What are you even doing." And honestly? Fair question, Blueberry. Fair question. Here's the thing nobody t...

There is a very specific expression Blueberry/ Pixie gets on her face whenever she sees me filming something important. Not when I am casually taking a picture of flowers. Not when I am trying to photograph tea beside a stack of books for the six hundredth “cozy author aesthetic” image of my career. No. She waits. Quietly. Patiently. Like a tiny fluffy theatre critic observing rehearsal from the back row. Then, the exact moment I begin recording a serious voiceover about writing, creativity, burnout, publishing, algorithms, reader connection, or “the emotional architecture of mystery fiction”... there she is. Trotting directly through the shot with the confidence of a retired silent film actress who knows perfectly well the audience came for her. Honestly, if she could smoke dramatically through a cigarette holder while murmuring, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she absolutely would. And the truly irritating part is that it works. I can spend three hours designi...

There is a weird silence at book fairs before the doors open. If you've ever done a signing, a craft show, a library event, or one of those enormous convention halls that smell weird, you know the one I mean. It's the sound of folding tables being adjusted for the fifth time, bookmarks being straightened into perfect little fans, and someone two tables over whispering, "Do you think this tablecloth looks okay?" And underneath all of it, every single author in the room is having the same thought. What if nobody stops at my booth? Not just the new ones. Not just the shy ones. All of us. The cozy mystery author with her paperbacks arranged beside a ceramic teacup, the fantasy writer with dragons on his banner, the artist behind the watercolour postcards trying not to stare directly down the aisle like a hungry raccoon waiting for snacks. We're all worrying about the same thing, and almost nobody admits it out loud. Oh, there's always someone performing bravery li...

There is a very particular kind of magic that settles over a book expo in the early morning before the doors open. The folding tables still wobble  on the convention hall floor. Someone nearby is wrestling with a banner stand that absolutely refuses to cooperate. The scent of coffee drifts through the room in brave little waves while authors smooth tablecloths, arrange stacks of books, and quietly wonder whether they remembered to pack enough change for cash sales. And there I sit behind my table of cozy mysteries, smiling warmly at passersby while attempting, through sheer force of will alone, to psychically encourage them toward my books. Go on, little murder mysteries, I think lovingly. Be irresistible. Sometimes people pause. Sometimes they pick one up and read the back cover. Sometimes they glance at me with the tiniest bit of cautious curiosity. Then inevitably comes the question. “Oh! Are you the author?” Now, the official answer is, of course: “Why yes. Yes, I am.” Which is...