Thinkingdog Publishing

The other day someone asked me a question that made me pause. This was the kind of pause where your brain suddenly stops, blinks twice, and goes, Wait… are we having an existential moment now? Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that today. The question was simple enough. “How do you deal with it?” I smiled politely. That’s usually my default response when people ask questions that could potentially spiral into deep philosophical territory before I’ve had enough coffee. “How do you write these cozy mysteries,” they continued, “knowing you’ll probably never make any money off them?” And that’s when the pause really happened. Because technically… they’re not wrong. I have not gotten rich writing paranormal cozy mysteries featuring an enchanted Papillon dog. Not yet, anyway. Paramount has not called to option the film rights. Hollywood has not sent a limousine. No one has appeared at my door waving a giant check while dramatic orchestral music swells in the back...

There are two kinds of people awake at three in the morning. The first group is peacefully asleep, dreaming about beaches, vacations, and fluffy clouds. The second group is writers. Specifically… writers whose brains decide that 3:07 a.m. is the perfect time to launch a full creative production meeting . I wish I were exaggerating. Picture this: the house is quiet. The world is asleep. Even the moon seems to be minding its own business. I’m lying in bed trying very hard to drift off into dreamland. Instead, my brain leans over the metaphorical desk, slams a stack of imaginary papers down, and says: “Okay team, hear me out. What if… magical kingdoms… ancient prophecy… morally complicated hero… and it’s a trilogy.” Excuse me? A trilogy? It is three in the morning. I cannot remember where I put my glasses yesterday, but apparently I am now outlining an entire fantasy saga . And not just a vague idea either. Oh no. My brain goes all in. There’s world-building. Ther...

  There comes a moment in life — somewhere between your first grey hair and the first time you willingly choose elastic-waist trousers — when you realize something profound: You have spent an impressive amount of time trying not to offend anyone. Not too loud. Not too strange. Not too ambitious. Not too dreamy. Not too… you. For a considerable portion of my life, I tried very hard to be what I believed was “expected.” Sensible. Polite. Predictable. Professional. The kind of person who nods in meetings, files papers in neat folders, and pretends spreadsheets are thrilling. I did the “normal.” I did the “responsible.” I smiled through jobs that felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small. Perfectly acceptable. Mildly painful. Entirely unnecessary. And do you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. The world did not applaud my normality. No one handed me a medal for “Most Inoffensive Human.” There was no parade for “Successfully Blended In.” Instead, somewhere ...

There’s this idea floating around that writers have “perfect writing days.” You know the ones. The charming cottage. The soft morning light. The gentle breeze fluttering linen curtains. The coffee brewed to aromatic perfection. The laptop humming obediently. The muse hovering nearby like a polite Victorian ghost, waiting to dictate brilliance. Somewhere in the background, I imagine a string quartet. I keep waiting for that day. It has not arrived. Instead, what usually shows up is this: I sit down to write and my laptop decides it is the perfect time to update seventeen things simultaneously. None of which I asked for. None of which seem to help my life in any measurable way. I glare at it. It whirs louder. We both know who’s going to win. Sometimes, in a moment of dramatic defiance, I grab another laptop. This one, of course, has absolutely no research on it. None of my notes. None of the carefully collected details about motives, timelines, magical Papillons, suspicio...

🐾 Blueberry’s 7 Reasons Why Dogs Should Totally Run the World (Especially Magical Dogs. Especially Divas.) Hello, humans. Blueberry here. Papillon. Muse. Telepath. Occasional snack inspector. After careful observation from my velvet throne (also known as “the couch I was absolutely not allowed on”), I have concluded that it is time. Dogs should run the world. Here are my findings.       1. We Already Understand Loyalty Better Than Politicians In Sabine’s Magical Papillon Mysteries , Pixie — who is clearly based on someone fabulous — would never betray her human. Not for power. Not for money. Not even for steak. We choose our people and we stick with them. Imagine a world led by creatures who understand devotion, pack bonds, and the sacred oath of “I sit by you when you cry.” Exactly.   2. We Have Superior Conflict Resolution Skills When two dogs disagree, we sniff. We posture. We maybe bark dramatically. Then we move on because someone found a sti...

       There’s a quiet kind of magic in doing things that serve absolutely no useful purpose — other than making your heart ridiculously happy. As cozy mystery readers, we already understand this better than most. We willingly step into fictional towns where everyone knows your name, the tea is always hot, the cats are unusually intelligent, and the biggest problem of the day is usually solved by page 312. And honestly? That’s not frivolous. That’s survival. Reading one more chapter when you should be doing something else. Lighting a candle before you open a book. Rereading a favorite mystery because you already know it will make you feel safe, comforted, and quietly delighted. None of these things are “productive” in the traditional sense. But they are restorative. They remind us who we are when the world feels too loud. Joy doesn’t need to justify itself. It doesn’t need a moral lesson or a measurable outcome. Sometimes joy exists simply because it ...

There are two kinds of walks. There are the determined, fitness-tracker-beeping, “we are MAKING TIME” walks. And then there are the walks you take when you share your life with a small, fluffy creature who believes every pile of leaves may contain buried treasure, secrets, or possibly a criminal mastermind. When you live with a dog — or are owned by one, which feels more accurate — you walk. A lot. Blueberry, my Papillon with the investigative spirit of a seasoned detective, does not “exercise walk.” She does not march. She does not power-stride. She stops. She sniffs. She wanders. She conducts what I can only assume are highly classified forensic investigations on twigs. Every leaf pile is suspicious. Every rustle is worth examining. Every breeze carries breaking news. And so we amble. Very slowly. At first, years ago, I would try to hurry her along. Come on, Blueberry. Let’s go. We have things to do. Deadlines. Laundry. Emails. Imaginary murders to solve. But ...