Thinkingdog Publishing

  Stone Walls, Secret Whispers, and Why My Books Are Haunted When you grow up in Germany , old buildings aren’t a novelty. They’re just… Tuesday. Crooked timber frames. Weathered stone staircases. Heavy wooden doors that creak even when you swear no one touched them. Windows that look like they’ve seen at least three wars and a scandal or two. Entire streets where the buildings lean toward each other like they’re sharing gossip. I lived in places like that. Apartments with stairwells that echoed just a little too long. Ceilings so high your imagination had room to stretch. Basements that absolutely, positively were not haunted… except, you know, maybe just a little. When you grow up surrounded by history, you don’t have to try very hard to believe that walls remember things. That footsteps linger. That stories don’t always end when people do. So yes. There are ghosts in my books. Not because I sat down one day and thought, “Let’s add a ghost for fun.” But because when you’v...

Dear author— Yes, you . The one reading this with a mix of hope, doubt, and a half-finished draft sitting somewhere nearby. Somewhere in the world, someone is waiting for a story that only you can write. Not a perfect story. Not a polished, award-winning, magically-written-in-one-sitting story. Just yours . Even on the days you doubt yourself. Even on the days your inner critic is louder than your creativity. Even on the days you wonder if your words matter at all. They do. Your words still carry power. They still hold meaning. They still have the ability to make someone feel seen, understood, comforted, or inspired. Stories don’t need permission to matter—they just need to be written. Writing isn’t always easy. Some days it feels magical and effortless. Other days it feels like staring at a blinking cursor while questioning every life choice that led you there. And yet, you show up. Or at least you try . That counts more than you think. So keep writing. Keep dreaming....

I heard a quote recently that stopped me mid-thought, mid-coffee sip, mid–“why is the dog staring at me like that” moment. “Everybody has a story. Once you understand that story, their lives will make sense.” Excuse me while I just sit here and emotionally spiral for a minute. Because wow. That one line explains so much. So many of those moments where you watch someone do something and think, why on earth would you ever do that ? Why that choice? Why that reaction? Why that hill to die on? And the honest answer is usually this: you don’t know what came before. You don’t know the trigger. You don’t know the quiet history that shaped that decision long before you ever witnessed it. We see the moment. We don’t see the backstory. Which, as it turns out, is basically the entire job description of being a writer. In real life, we’re all walking around as finished scenes with missing chapters. You bump into someone in line at the grocery store who is unreasonably intense about c...

  Here we go again. That strange, awkward, emotionally confusing time of year where winter hasn’t technically left, spring is definitely late, and we’re all just standing around squinting at the weather forecast like it personally owes us something. You know the days I mean. One glorious afternoon appears out of nowhere. Blue sky. Sunshine. Birds doing that hopeful chirping thing like they’re auditioning for a Disney movie. You step outside and think, This is it. We made it. I survived winter. I am a resilient woodland creature. And then the very next morning you wake up to gray. Snow. Slush. The emotional equivalent of someone unplugging your happiness and shrugging. I am caught, once again, between hope and deep suspicion. I want to believe. I truly do. I want to put the winter boots away, stop wearing seventeen layers, and feel my face without pain. But experience has taught me that spring likes to flirt. It shows up just long enough to get your guard down, then vanishes...

  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...

You know that saying, “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life”? Yeah. About that. Whoever said it clearly never tried turning their passion into a business. This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity — and why, oh why, I’ve landed in this weird, exhausting place where being creative automatically means it must make money . This is a bit of a personal ramble, so pull up a chair, grab a cup of tea (or wine, I’m not judging), and let’s talk about it. If you’re reading this, chances are you’re creative too. You probably love reading, or painting, or baking, or sketching little masterpieces no one else ever sees. Maybe you’ve got a camera roll full of DIY projects you’ll finish “someday.” And if you’re not doing something creative right now, I bet you dream about it when you have more time. I’ve always been a dabbler — I design all my own book covers, play around with digital artwork, and I’ve even put some of my abstract art on clothing (yes, really...

Some days, I have no idea what to write . I sit there, staring at the cursor like it’s personally offended me. That blinking little line just dares me to type something worthwhile, but instead, I find myself thinking, “Well, this is awkward.” I think that’s part of the definition of being a writer. If you’ve never argued with your own cursor, are you even in the club? Lately, I’ve found a trick. I open a fresh document and type something silly, along the lines of, “Well here we go again—I have no idea how to finish this scene. Could be this happens, could be that happens…” And then—like magic—I’m writing again. Ideas come when you open a door for them. You just have to unlock it, fling it wide, and let them stroll in, preferably carrying snacks. Way too many years ago (and we’re not counting, thank you very much), I was forced to write every second I could. On the train, scribbling into a notebook balanced on my knee. On scraps of paper when the boss wasn’t looking. On receipts, n...