Thinkingdog Publishing

There was a time I wanted my writing to sparkle — every sentence polished like a diamond, every metaphor clever enough to make my English teacher rise from her chair in slow applause. I’d tinker with sentences for hours, swapping “walked” for “meandered” or “ambled,” then back again, trying to sound like A Serious Author™. You know the type. The kind who drinks coffee with too much intensity and uses “juxtaposition” in casual conversation. But somewhere between the endless editing and the overthinking, I realized something uncomfortable: I was writing to impress other writers, not to move readers. It hit me one day when my best friend — not a writer, not even a big reader — read a scene from one of my drafts and said quietly, “That part made me cry.” She didn’t care about my sentence rhythm. She didn’t notice the metaphor I’d sweated over for an hour. She felt something. And that’s when I understood: readers don’t fall in love with your words. They fall in love with your truth. We...

So - here we are....  It’s a peaceful afternoon. Birds are chirping. The dog is asleep. A mug of coffee cools beside my keyboard. I’m sitting at my desk, deeply focused on crafting the next scene in my cozy mystery novel. My characters are in the middle of a heated debate—someone has been murdered, after all—and things are getting dramatic. Suddenly, my husband peeks into the room and says, “Sorry, did you say something?” Oh no, dear. I wasn’t talking to you . I was talking to myself. Loudly. With feeling. And perhaps a bit of a British accent. This, my friends, is where the writerly madness truly shines. Now before anyone calls for a wellness check, allow me to explain. I’m not losing my marbles (though I admit they do rattle suspiciously from time to time). I’m just... rehearsing. Because when you write cozy mysteries filled with grumpy detectives, nosy neighbors, flustered suspects, and talking Papillon dogs (yes, Pixie has opinions and she’s not afraid to share them), y...

So, here’s the thing—I know we have coyotes in our area. It’s not exactly a secret. They’re basically our unofficial neighbors at this point. Lately, they’ve been as regular as the subway—every ten minutes, one trots by our window like it’s the 7:30 express to Downtown Trouble. Now, I’m a vigilant dog mom. I’ve got fences, gates, lights, and the kind of situational awareness usually reserved for Secret Service agents. My little Papillon, Blueberry, never sets a paw outside without me. We go as a team, like a very small and furry version of the Secret Service detail I mentioned—minus the suits, though Blueberry would totally rock a tiny one. But a few days ago, we were walking our old boy, Kobe—fifteen years old, gentle as a cloud, moving at a dignified senior pace. He stopped to sniff a bush. Harmless, right? A completely innocent dog moment. Except—apparently—not. Because that harmless bush… growled. Before I could even process what was happening, a coyote shot out of it like it ...

Let me set the record straight once and for all: inspiration does not strike like lightning. I know, I know. The myth is seductive. You imagine me walking along a sun-dappled forest path with my Papillon pup, Blueberry, a latte in one hand and a notebook in the other, when suddenly— ZAP! —an idea for the next great cozy mystery crackles from the heavens and lands fully formed into my brain. A plot! A twist! The killer was the garden club president all along! If only. Here’s the real story. Most days, I shuffle into my office (read: corner of the house where I've carved out 3.5 feet of creative territory), still wearing pajamas, hair looking like I lost a fight with a hedge, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee. I sit down, take a deep breath, and think, Today’s the day I finish Chapter Four. I’m feeling it. And… nothing. No killer, no motive, not even a misplaced teacup. It’s like my brain has gone on strike and is currently picketing outside my window with a sign that says, “...

At the end of every year, the same thing happens. Like clockwork, my social feeds turn into a literary Olympics. Suddenly everyone’s posting reading stats as if they’ve just returned victorious from Mount Everest holding a pack of bookmarks instead of climbing gear. There are pie charts. There are bar graphs. There are people who somehow—while presumably sleeping, working, raising kids, and occasionally eating—managed to read 147 books, 62 audiobooks, and a partridge in a pear tree. And I sit there in my cozy corner of the internet, sipping my tea and thinking, Wow. That’s impressive. And then immediately after that: How? When? Do these people have a personal time-turner? Is there a reading portal? A secret club? Should I be taking notes? Meanwhile, a small voice inside me whispers, “You finished a novella this month. You’re doing great, sweetie.” Here’s the thing no one tells you during the year-end reading frenzy: whether you read two books last year or two hundred, you are still...

This might come as a surprise.....  But I can’t sing. No, really. I sound like a frog who’s just stubbed his toe and is trying to croak out a sad ballad about it. And yet… I love to sing. I love music. I grew up with it. My grandma was an actual, real-life, honest-to-Pavarotti coloratura soprano. She hit high notes like most of us hit snooze buttons—effortlessly and often. She sang in opera houses. People clapped. She wore fabulous dresses. She was a diva in the best sense of the word. And then there’s me. Genetics skipped a beat. I didn’t get a drop of that vocal magic. But I did inherit the passion. So, like any slightly embarrassed, secretly hopeful person, I sang quietly in the car. In the shower. Alone in the house. Sometimes into my dog’s ears (she forgave me). But here’s the kicker—I became a writer. And then I did the unthinkable: I started recording my own audiobooks. Why? Because I’m either very brave or very foolish. Possibly both. Now, recording audiobooks isn’t just re...

Every December 31st, I make a solemn vow to myself:   This year, I will not, under any circumstances, fall into that annual trap of making New Year’s resolutions. I say it with the same sincerity I use when telling myself I’ll only have “one cookie” or that I’ll “clean my office tomorrow.” It’s a heartfelt, straight-from-the-soul promise. And like all heartfelt promises made at 11:59 p.m. while wearing fuzzy socks and holding a glass of something bubbly, it lasts approximately forty-eight seconds. Because this year, I had one good idea. Just one. And I’ve already broken it. I truly believed I was finally going to learn to type like a Real Modern Human on a tiny six-inch glass phone screen. People do it everywhere — in line at the grocery store, strolling down the street, dangling off escalators, half-asleep in bed, probably clinging to the side of a mountain while texting “lol.” Meanwhile there's me, stabbing at my phone with the precision of a disgruntled pigeon. Everyone says...

There’s something about January light—it slants through the window as though it’s trying to whisper, “So… what now?” And every year I give that light the same answer: “Honestly? Probably the same thing I was doing yesterday.” Because here we are, off into a brand-new year, standing at the doorway as if it’s a shiny party we weren’t totally prepared for but decided to attend anyway. Everyone around me starts talking resolutions, gym memberships, juice cleanses, ambitious goals with color-coded planners—meanwhile I’m over here with a notebook full of ideas for magical Papillon mysteries, a coffee mug that says Writer at Work (Probably) , and two Papillons who have decided the only real resolution worth making is More Snacks . Blueberry, the diva princess of fluff and mischief, approves of my non-resolutions. Buddy, my newly adopted eleven-year-old gentleman scamp, has no idea what a New Year’s resolution is but confidently assumes it involves belly rubs and making sure I never type mo...