Thinkingdog Publishing

  🫐 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...

I’ve spent a large portion of my life trying to make things work. And by “make things work,” I don’t mean gently nudging them along while sipping tea and humming happily. I mean fixing problems that weren’t technically mine, pushing projects uphill like a strange mythological creature, explaining myself repeatedly to people who had already decided not to listen, and over-delivering as if there were Olympic medals for emotional exhaustion. This skill set served me very well in my various jobs. I was reliable. Resourceful. The person you could hand a mess to and say, “Can you sort this out?” I could. I did. Repeatedly. With flair. And snacks. But somewhere along the way, I noticed something curious. I was very good at making things work… and very bad at resting afterward. By the end of many years, I wasn’t just tired. I was tired of being tired. Tired of proving. Tired of pushing. Tired of explaining why I deserved to be in the room when I was usually the one rearranging the furn...

Let me tell you a little secret from behind the scenes of my very professional author platform: I put actual effort into my social media. Like, the full package. I plan it out. I write the captions. I pick the music. I schedule it so it doesn’t look like I’m flying by the seat of my sweatpants. I even think about lighting and fonts and which filter screams “whimsical but with integrity.” And yet. The most successful posts? The ones that get the likes, the shares, the "OMG I love her" comments? Are the ones where Blueberry shows up. That’s it. She just shows up. No effort. No notes. No mood board. She doesn’t brainstorm content pillars. She doesn't try to grow an audience or tailor her brand voice. She doesn’t even know what her niche is. (Unless it's squirrel-chasing and chicken snacks.) She just exists — gloriously. Fluffily. Sassily. And people adore her. I’ll admit, it’s humbling. I mean, I’ve got a degree. I’ve got story arcs and character spread...