Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

There is a moment in almost every good story when things get a little heavy. Emotions tighten. Stakes rise. Someone is making a questionable life choice. And then—right on cue—an animal wanders in and quietly saves the scene without even trying. That is not an accident. This is a love letter to animal companions in fiction and real life. The scene-stealers. The grounding forces. The ones who soften the hard moments and make the joyful ones feel truer. This is for Pixie. For Blueberry. And for every dog you’ve ever loved who somehow knew exactly when to sit beside you and when to sass you into better decisions. Pixie, my darling Pixie, deserves her own paragraph and possibly her own throne. She is enchanted and magical, yes—but she is also a sassy diva of the highest order. The kind who will comment on your life choices with devastating accuracy while still being absolutely, unquestionably, ride-or-die loyal. She is fabulous without apology. Supportive without being soft. Sarcasti...

There’s a new ailment going around the creative world, and it’s highly contagious. Symptoms include staring at your unfinished manuscript, sighing heavily, and mumbling something like, “I should be writing.” Yes, my friends, I’m talking about writing guilt —and though I hadn’t heard of it until recently, I seem to have earned an honorary PhD in the subject. Here's what happened.... A little while ago, I had a solo art show . One entire gallery. My artwork. My setup. My everything. It sounds glamorous, right? Cue the applause, the soft lighting, the elegant hors d’oeuvres—except, behind the scenes, it’s less “artistic reverie” and more “running a small logistics company while trying to look charming in public.” I was the planner, the promoter, the installer, the social butterfly. It was exhilarating… and exhausting. And right in the middle of it all—between hanging canvases and smiling through small talk—this tiny voice piped up in my head: “You haven’t written your 1,000...

  A lot of people have asked me lately, usually right after “What are you working on next?” and right before “Can Blueberry please narrate my life?” — how is Buddy doing? Is he settling in? Is he adjusting? Is he surviving life with a self-proclaimed magical Papillon? If you missed it last year, yes — I adopted another Papillon. His name is Buddy, he is eleven years old, and he arrived with big eyes, a hopeful heart, and absolutely no idea what he was walking into. Blueberry, of course, had opinions. She would like it officially noted that she is the magical Papillon. Capital M. Capital P. She insists Buddy is a “muggle Papillon,” which feels both unfair and suspiciously on brand. Still, despite her protests (and her dramatic sighing), I have a strong feeling he’s growing on her. Not that she’d ever admit it. In the beginning, she made sure to establish the rules. She demonstrated her agility skills with the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete auditioning for applause. She...