Thinkingdog Publishing

You know these people. Everybody knows these people. The ones who do one thing so well that watching them feels a little bit like witnessing magic. You see them in sports all the time — the athlete who makes the impossible look like a Tuesday. But I don't have to turn on the television to find them. I have them right in my own family. Take my relative, the mechanic. I could bring this man an engine held together by rust, hope, and one very tired bolt, and say, “Something doesn't work.” That's it. That's all the information I give him. No diagnosis, no helpful details, just something doesn't work — which, as descriptions go, is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And he fixes it. Not only does he fix it — the engine comes back better than before. It purrs. It practically sends thank-you notes. I'm fairly certain that if I brought him a toaster and said “something doesn't work,” it would come back capable of flight. Then there's my s...

There’s a little thing that never shows up on an author bio page, or gets mentioned in the beautiful author interviews, though someone absolutely should. I don’t care how many books they’ve written – every writer will hit a wall. Not a little doubt, not just "hmm, I wonder if this scene is working" kind of thought. Oh no – a real wall, face first, seeing stars, hearing the sound effect kind of moment, and you are absolutely convicted that everything you’ve written is absolute, unmitigated rubbish. How do I know this? Because I have now written fifteen books. Fifteen. So you would think that I have done this often enough and I should, by all reasonable logic, have developed some kind of immunity. A vague memory perhaps, yeah, this usually happens, I’ve been here before, I know how this ends. Alas, there is no immunity. Here is exactly how it goes, in case you are a writer who needs to hear this, or a reader who wants to understand why authors occasionally look haunted ...

October is almost over. That magical month where the sweaters finally escape the back of the closet, the blankets stage a cozy rebellion over the couch, and suddenly sitting by a fire with a great book feels like the most important activity in the world. Now, I know what you’re thinking, I am usually a summer person through and through. Sun on my face, ice cream in hand, toes in sand… that is my natural habitat. But there’s something about October that makes me fall in love with spooky season. It’s the way the fog curls around the trees like a little ghosty tiptoeing home. The shadows that suddenly look a little suspicious, the subtle magic that hangs in the air, like someone whispered an incantation and left it floating there just for fun. This is exactly why I write my magical realism cozy mysteries the way I do. I want you to feel that moment of delightful suspense, when you’re expecting a ghost to pop out at any minute but also hoping it does, because honestly, ghosts are kind ...

Here’s something that’s either going to make you say “duh” or “are you kidding me?”  Over the course of writing seven books in my Magical Papillon Mysteries series (yes, seven… I know you only have six in your hands right now, but the others are coming, pinky promise), I have learned so much it’s almost embarrassing. Not in a tragic way. In a “how did I not know this before?” way. When I wrote the first Magical Papillon book, I thought I understood pacing. I thought I understood tension. I thought I understood when to let a ghost float dramatically through a wall and when to let a single mother drink her coffee in peace. Turns out, I did not. Enter Rosewood Hollow. That charming, magical, slightly nosy town that now feels as real to me as my own kitchen. Somewhere between book one and book seven, I learned that magic has rules. Ghosts have boundaries. Secrets need air. Action needs silence. And pauses? Pauses are powerful. Sometimes the most important moment in a story is the breat...

Five Fantastic Reasons Why Only Papillon Dogs Should Solve Mysteries (You're Welcome) Greetings, readers - Pixie here. I have recently been informed that humans still allow other humans to solve mysteries. Adorable! After careful consideration, extensive research, and at least three naps, I have compiled the definitive list of reasons why papillon dogs are clearly the superior detectives. Reason Number One: We already know everyone's business. Humans think they're being subtle. They're not. We know who sneaks midnight snacks, who claims they don't want a dog but secretly carries treats in their pockets, and who was definitely in the kitchen five minutes before the cookie disappeared. You call it investigation. We call it Tuesday. Reason Number Two: We hear everything. The suspicious whisper behind the garden gate. The creak on the staircase. The mysterious rustle in the bushes. The opening of a cheese wrapper from three counties away. N...

Here we are, it’s Tuesday. Or Thursday. Honestly, when you work from home, the days sort of blur into one long, caffeinated smear. Your manuscript is open, your cursor is blinking at you with the specific energy of a disappointed parent, and you, the person who once wrote three chapters in a fever dream, cannot write a single word. Welcome to the Writer’s Slump. I’ve been here, many many times. Through six books, an enchanted Papillon named Pixie, and enough coffee to flood a small municipality, I’ve learned that the best way out usually isn’t another productivity system. It’s giving yourself permission to play. Sometimes I go back and read something I’ve written that I actually love. Yes, there may be a few sentences that make me want to hide under the bed, but there are also those wonderful moments where the dialogue worked, the emotion landed, and I thought, Wait. Did I just do that? You did. That writer is still in there, even if she’s currently buried under self-doubt and unread e...