Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

Truth time? I have never had patience. Like… never. Waiting has never been in my vocabulary unless it’s the kind of “waiting” where you’re standing at the microwave watching popcorn explode in slow motion and muttering under your breath, “come on, come on, come on…” That’s kind of my normal. Do it now. Take it to the limit. Push that project through with sheer willpower and enough coffee to make my kitchen smell like a Starbucks exploded. But here’s the thing: lately I’ve started noticing this impatience everywhere. It’s like the whole world caught up to me and said, “Yeah, let’s all live at turbo speed now.” You don’t respond within five minutes? Clearly something is wrong. A new series drops? Forget waiting for weekly episodes—we need to binge it right now or risk being left behind in spoiler territory. Have a question? Why wait until Monday to ask a human being when you can fire it off to AI at 11:42 PM and have an answer before you even finish your cookie? On one hand,...

  🫐 Blueberry’s Listicle of the Week Opinions from a Magical Papillon Who Has Seen Things  Mommy has been muttering about “writer’s block” again. As if the words are hiding from her. Please. They’re simply waiting for better company. Blueberry’s Official Ranking of Places to Nap in a House Full of Ghosts  1. The exact center of Mommy’s manuscript pages. Warm from the printer, faintly scented with ink and desperation. Prime real estate.  2. The sunbeam that crosses the kitchen table between 2:15 and 2:47 p.m. One must time it precisely. Ghosts respect punctuality.  3. Around the old grandfather clock. The ticking lulls lesser beings; I find it rhythmic. Also, excellent vantage point for judging everyone below.  4. The windowsill overlooking the garden. One can monitor squirrels, passing spirits, and Mommy’s questionable fashion choices with equal efficiency.  5. Buddy’s bed, but only when he’s not in it. (He claims this is theft. I call it quality c...

A little while ago, Canada did what Canada does best and unleashed a truly horrible snowstorm. Not the polite, fluffy kind. No, this was the kind of snow that comes at you sideways, stings your face, and makes you question every life choice that led you outdoors. Blueberry the Papillon took one look at the situation and said absolutely not. And honestly? Same. She stood at the door like a tiny, dramatic statue of protest. No paw over the threshold. No curious sniff. No brave dash. Just a look that said, “I did not sign up for this nonsense.” Judging by the complete lack of footprints outside our front door, it seemed the rest of the neighborhood had reached the same conclusion. Draw your own conclusions from that. Eventually, cabin fever won. We all piled into the big car, mostly just to escape the walls closing in and remind ourselves that the outside world still existed. And that’s when we saw it. A young man. Doing push-ups. In front of a bar. On the sidewalk. Duri...