Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

There’s something magical about mornings in a German village . Before the first streaks of light even dare to touch the rooftops, the bakers are already awake—aprons dusted with flour, ovens glowing like small suns, and the air heavy with the promise of freshly baked bread. When I was growing up, the bakery wasn’t just a shop. It was the place. The heartbeat of the morning. People would shuffle in, still half-asleep, clutching their baskets like loyal companions. There’d be a chorus of Guten Morgens, the creak of the old wooden door, and the rhythmic thwack of bread loaves landing on the counter. No one was in a hurry. You stood, you chatted, you shared your plans for the day—perhaps a complaint about the weather, or a compliment about Frau Schneider’s strudel (which, let’s be honest, always deserved applause). And oh, that smell. If you could bottle it, you’d own happiness itself. Later, when the sun climbed high and the bustle began, the same bakery would transform. The sleepy ea...

So—does anybody remember pen pals? No? Just me? Well then, buckle up, because I’m about to sound like a fossil digging through the dusty attic of childhood communication. Back in the day, every kid or teen magazine worth its neon sticker collection had a pen pal section. The premise was simple: you sent in your name, your address, and (brace yourself) a small fee to be paid in stamps. Actual, lick-and-stick, make-your-tongue-feel-like-sandpaper stamps. I know—gasp! The Stone Age. After a few weeks of waiting (because this was before instant gratification was invented), you’d get an envelope with names and addresses of kids around your age who were looking for friends in far-off towns or even other countries. That’s right—before sliding into DMs was a thing, we were carefully sliding letters into mailboxes. And oh, those letters. We wrote pages about nothing —our grades (inflated), our lives (glamorized), our friends (fictionalized if necessary). Nobody fact-checked, nobody car...

The Writing Process (Or, How I Accidentally Wrote a Book While Folding Laundry) At some point, if you write anything—novels, blog posts, shopping lists in cursive—someone is going to ask about your process . You’ll be at a book club, a festival, the dentist’s office with gauze in your mouth, and the question will come: “So, what’s your process?” Cue the polite smile. I say something reasonable like, “Oh, I research, then plan the structure, outline the scenes, work in beats...” Then I run away. Because here’s the truth. The real story. The real real story. I have no earthly idea how this works. None. My brain has always played this soundtrack of stories. I don’t ask for it. I don’t control it. It’s just there. While I’m folding towels. While I’m unloading the dishwasher. While I’m out walking the dog, trying to look like a normal adult who wears matching socks. There it is. A scene. A snippet of dialogue. A full-on argument between two characters who may or may not exist i...