Thinkingdog Publishing

The other day, as I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook (which I swear was just for five minutes, but then somehow an hour disappeared—Facebook time is not real time), I saw an ad that stopped me cold. It asked: "Have you ever wished for a minor accident or illness—not serious, just enough to stay in bed for a few days and rest?" My immediate, gut reaction? Absolutely, yes. And apparently, I wasn’t alone. The comments were a chorus of, “Oh my gosh, YES!” and “All the time.” and “Where do I sign up for a light, non-life-threatening illness that involves tea, naps, and binge-watching detective shows?” Wait. Hold on. When did we, as a society, reach the point where the dream of self-care involves a medically justified break from life ? When did we go from "Omg, I hope I never get sick" to "Look, I don’t want anything permanent, but if the universe wanted to drop a mild, fever-free flu on me, I wouldn’t fight it” ? Welcome to the Productivity Cul...

You know that saying: “It takes a thousand attaboys to make up for one ‘oh sh t.’”* Whoever said that? Genius. Pure, unfiltered genius. Because it is painfully, annoyingly, exasperatingly true. Let me take you behind the scenes of my other life . Yes, because while my writing career is still building (more chapters to come, friends), in the daylight hours I organize a huge outdoor art show in my hometown. And not to brag, but let’s just say, if there’s a job connected to this event, I do it. I’m like Mary Poppins with an endless bag—except instead of pulling out umbrellas and sugar cubes, I pull out spreadsheets, contracts, and more emails than any sane human should have to read. Part of my annual heroic efforts includes creating alllll the social media content. I’m talking images, videos, stories, text—you name it, I design it. Last year, I uploaded the whole glorious lot to a shared folder and told my nearly 200 artists : “Hey, it’s all there for you! Use it however you’d like....

I live in a beautiful place. Like breathtaking sunrise over the lake while birds sing your personal soundtrack kind of beautiful. And no, I am not writing this from the balcony of my lakeside mansion while sipping artisanal espresso made by a butler named Giles. I live here because I moved in when this part of town was considered “the wrong side of the tracks.” Back then, the only things appreciating the view were me, a couple of squirrels, and a retired guy named Bob who walked shirtless year-round (we never spoke of winter). But I got lucky. I settled in, built a life, and now I get to walk to a little sliver of land—what I call my nature recharge zone. It’s got a trail (sort of), trees that lean in like gossiping grandmothers, hedges bursting with birds, and a beach the size of a postage stamp. In short, it's perfect. WAS perfect. Enter: The Town. Cue the menacing music. The town, in its infinite and completely questionable wisdom, has decided to “beautify” this space. Th...

October has arrived , my friends, and with it comes that crisp, pumpkin-scented breeze that whispers, “Hey, you should be writing instead of sniffing every cinnamon candle in the store.” Now, I don’t know about you, but summer around here was busy. Between art shows, book releases, and wrangling the latest audiobook production into existence, I managed to blink and suddenly September was gone. I also managed to ignore the elephant on my desktop—otherwise known as the first draft of book seven (!!!) in my Magical Papillon Mysteries series. It has been sitting there, waiting patiently, like a half-baked pie that really needs to go back in the oven. Here’s the problem: I also have a perfectly delicious outline for book eight. Oh, book eight is shiny. Book eight is whispering, “Pick me, pick me!” in the way that only brand-new ideas can. But alas, I am not allowed to start book eight until I whip book seven into shape and send it off to my editor. Think of it as literary tough love. ...