Thinkingdog Publishing

You know you have the best readers in the world when they politely demand the next book—with extra exclamation marks and not a hint of shame. So many of you have been asking (some quite insistently, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my day) about the next Magical Papillon Mystery . Those of you who asked on social media — thank you!!! To all of you, I say — bless your sweet, book-loving hearts, and fear not. Pixie will return! Here’s what happened… Last Christmas, after one (or more) festive Negronis with my very talented artist friend, I made the kind of pronouncement that can only come after equal parts gin, vermouth, and orange. I looked around her house — absolutely overflowing with paintings, colors, and canvases stacked like leaning towers of artistic chaos — and said something like, “Wouldn’t it make a great story if someone inherited a house full of original art, and every painting had a secret behind it, and they had to solve the mysteries one by one…?” Well. One...

So, here I was on a regular old Tuesday , birds chirping, coffee brewing. I sat down at my desk, fingers poised dramatically over the keyboard, inspiration about to strike—when… nothing loaded. I refreshed. I stared. I unplugged the modem and plugged it back in like a techno-priest performing a sacred ritual. Crossed my fingers, did it again.... Still nothing. The internet. Was. Out. And yours truly? Flying into a full-blown tizzy . Not a mild inconvenience. Not a quiet sigh and a cup of tea. No, we’re talking dramatic gasping, pacing, muttering to myself like a Victorian heroine who’d just received tragic news via telegram. Now, let me say this—writing, in its purest form, requires no internet. Not even a computer if you're hardcore enough. You can write with a pencil on a napkin while waiting for your latte. You can scribble in notebooks like it’s 1992 (Yes, I wrote entire books like this back then). But we don’t do that anymore, do we? No, because we writers have convenience ...

The other day, somebody bought me a t-shirt that made me stop in my tracks and think, wait a minute, do I have a twin somewhere out there? Because on the front of this glorious piece of cotton it said: “I’m not really antisocial, I just prefer dogs.” And in that moment, I felt seen . Like, really seen. As if some stranger had cracked open my brain, read all the scribbled notes inside, and thought, Yep. That’s her slogan. Because here’s the truth: I do prefer dogs. Not always, not in every single moment—but often enough that I might as well embroider it on a pillow. Dogs don’t care if you show up with messy hair or with anxiety trailing after you like a second shadow. They don’t judge your questionable taste in snacks (hello, cheese puffs for dinner) or side-eye you for binge-reading cozy mysteries when the laundry is staging a coup. If you treat them well, they’ll treat you better. If you mess up, they’ll forgive you before you’ve even finished apologizing. And unlike people, dog...

 They always say “write what you know,” right? At first, I thought they meant, “write about your soul-crushing office job and how Alyssa from accounting eats all the good donuts and Rick never refills the coffee pot.” You know, the usual psychological warfare of cubicle life. And sure, I could’ve written a blistering satire on office politics that would make Kafka weep. But here’s the truth: that wasn’t my heart talking. That was caffeine withdrawal and the lingering trauma of HR-mandated birthday parties. Back then, I wrote romance novels. They were lovely, sweeping stories. Handsome cowboys, city girls with trust issues, sunset kisses—you know the drill. People liked them. My mom liked them. The mailman once said one made him cry, though he might’ve been referring to his allergies. But something was off. I was writing about love, but my heart wasn’t in it—which is wildly ironic when you think about it. A romance author without romantic feelings about her own work. There’s a pl...

Hello, world. It’s me. Buddy. Yes— that Buddy . The suave, sophisticated, velvet-eared Papillon who just waltzed into this family like a tiny, handsome hurricane of charm. Tonight is my very first night here, and I’m typing this up on Mommy’s laptop while she thinks I’m “settling in.” Little does she know I’m already preparing my memoirs. You know, for future bestseller status. I live with an author now, so I’m basically obligated. Earlier today, I was feeling a bit lost. I won’t sugarcoat it—losing your family is hard. One minute you’re somewhere familiar, and the next you’re blinking in a brand-new world wondering where the cheese treats are. But then… everything shifted. I landed here. In this warm house. With soft lighting and blankets that smell like dryer sheets and hope. And suddenly, somehow, I wasn’t lost anymore. Let me introduce my new siblings. Kobe is fifteen and has the calm energy of a retired detective in a cozy mystery who has seen everything and just wants his di...

So Blueberry and I entered an agility competition recently. And before you ask—did we win anything? Not unless they start handing out ribbons for “Most Goofy Pair on the Course.” Let’s just say our teamwork is… interpretive. Blueberry’s got the skills, I’ve got the comedic timing. If there were a category for “creative detours,” we’d sweep it every time. She’s the one who could win medals—if it weren’t for me getting in her way, tripping over tunnels, and occasionally mistaking the exit for the entry. (That’s another post entirely.) But here’s where things got interesting. At the end of the event, there was a special “weave pole” challenge—48 slalom poles in a row. That’s right. Forty-eight. Even watching it made me tired. Blueberry? She looked at that sea of poles, gave a little tail flick, and sailed through like it was nothing. No hesitation. No counting. No mental spreadsheet of “ugh, 47 more to go.” Just—one, two, three… flow. I stood there in awe, watching ...

I Finally Said No – And Lived to Tell the Tale Let me tell you something miraculous, something that deserves fireworks, cake, and a commemorative plaque in bronze. I said no . Yes, you read that right. I, a lifelong serial people-pleaser, a polite Canadian who’s been conditioned since birth to apologize when someone else bumps into me , finally looked someone in the eye, took a deep breath, and said the sacred, elusive words: “I'm afraid I don’t have the time for that right now.” And then I didn’t burst into flames. I didn’t faint, cry, or spontaneously combust from the sheer force of uncomfortable self-respect. In fact, I survived. I thrived. I made tea and went on with my day, though I did momentarily feel like I’d just told someone I eat puppies for breakfast. Let me back up a little. For years—decades really—I’ve been the go-to gal for favors, errands, quick edits, last-minute "can-you-just-do-this-little-thing-for-me"s. People would ask, and my mouth, entire...

Oh hello. You're here for the author , aren’t you? Sarah something? Writes those cozy mysteries where people drink tea, find dead bodies, and somehow still have time to bake cookies? Yeah, her. Listen, I’m not saying she’s bad at it. I’m just saying… without me , there’d be a lot more plot holes and a lot fewer ghosts, magical clues, or talking dogs. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Pixie , the Papillon. Aka the real power behind the pen. Aka Editor-in-Chief at Thinkingdog Publishing. Aka the Reason She Ever Finishes a Book. You think she sits down at her desk, lights a candle, and gracefully types out a mystery masterpiece? No. She sits in pajamas that may or may not be from last Tuesday, holding a coffee cup like it’s the Holy Grail, muttering things like “Wait, did I already kill off the gardener?” and “Why is there a duck in this chapter?” That’s where I come in. The moment she veers too far off track—like, “Let’s make the killer a time-traveling pigeon farmer fr...

I don’t know how y’all do it . Truly. I am in absolute awe of the people who walk around with their phones chiming, pinging, jingling, and jangling like an overenthusiastic one-man band. It’s like their entire existence is set to the soundtrack of Incoming Notification Symphony No. 5 in B-flat minor. Me? I cannot. I will not. I refuse . The first thing I do when I get a new phone—before setting up email, before adding my contacts, before even connecting to Wi-Fi—is turn off notifications . Every single one of them. If a phone could gasp in horror, I swear mine would. “Oh, you don’t want to be alerted when someone breathes near your social media? You’re sure you don’t need to know immediately when Aunt Carol posts another blurry photo of her cat? You really don’t want to be reminded for the 47th time today that you left an item in your shopping cart?” No, phone. I do not. I want peace. I want quiet. I want my train of thought to pull out of the station without being derailed every...

If you’ve ever seen one of my videos, you might’ve caught a glimpse—just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment—of a massive old hickory tree standing like a stoic sentry in the park near my house. It’s an absolute beast of a tree. Towering. Majestic. With a trunk so wide it splits into two at the bottom like it’s got a dramatic flair for posing. This tree is old, scarred, and—dare I say it—glorious. Naturally, I became obsessed. I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with an elderly tree that looks like it’s been through several wars and come out the other side throwing shade (literally and figuratively)? Two autumns ago, while others were sipping pumpkin lattes and posting selfies with cinnamon sticks, I was crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, collecting hickory nuts like some sort of deranged woodland creature. But not just any nuts—oh no. I carefully selected only the viable ones. (I even did a float test in water, because yes, I am that person now.) Then came the c...

Have you ever shouted at the universe, shaken your fist at the sky, or quietly (or not-so-quietly) begged your coffee machine to please just do this one thing right for once ? Have you ever wished—deep down—that you had a wand to wave, a spell to chant, or a dragon to sic on your internet provider? Same. That’s why I write magic. Now, let me back up a bit. I’ve been in situations where life handed me lemons, but also forgot the sugar, the water, the pitcher, and the instructions. You know the kind: where things feel wildly unfair, like the villain is clearly winning, and you're stuck with the sidekick role—but without the witty one-liners or costume budget. So, what do you do when real life is missing sparkle, fairness, and the satisfaction of a dramatic entrance? You invent a world where things can change with a spell. Where you can say the thing you wish you said. Where justice doesn’t take years and three lawyers. Where kindness is a superpower, animals talk back (sometim...

Let me tell you a tale. Not one of haunted teapots or talking Papillon dogs (although Pixie would like a word), but of the realest mystery of all: how on earth I write books. You see, I used to be what we in the wild world of writing call a “pantser.” That’s right. No outline. No plan. No safety net. Just me, a cup of coffee, a keyboard, and a deeply misplaced confidence that the story would figure itself out. And for a long time, that worked. After all, I write about magic. My characters talk to ghosts, solve murders with help from enchanted pets, and navigate small-town charm with a sprinkle of witchiness. If ever there were stories that wanted to make their own decisions, it’s mine. Half the time, I’m just along for the ride while my characters whisper, “Step aside, mortal. We’ve got this.” But now? I’m on book eight of the Magical Papillon Mysteries . Six. That’s practically a small town of books. And let me tell you—by the time your characters have investigated a half-do...

So - here we go again: it’s 7:13 AM. I’m in my robe. I have one sock on. The dog is staring at me like I just told her I threw out all the treats. My laptop is open, the cursor blinking like it’s judging me, and I’m staring at my manuscript thinking: Who gave me permission to write a book? Was there a form? A permit? Did I miss the licensing exam? Welcome to Tuesday. Also known as: “Imposter Syndrome’s Favorite Day.” Here’s the thing—I thought imposter syndrome was something that happened only to other people. People who accidentally got promoted to CEO when they meant to send an email. Or someone who woke up famous and didn’t know how to use Instagram filters. But no. Imposter syndrome is an equal opportunity mischief-maker. And for writers? It’s practically a roommate. Don’t believe me? Let’s talk about John Steinbeck. You know, Of Mice and Men , The Grapes of Wrath , East of Eden —that guy. He once wrote this in his journal: “My many weaknesses are beginning to show their head...

When people ask me what I miss most about Germany, they expect me to say something dramatic like castles, cobblestones, or perhaps men in lederhosen playing accordions under ancient oak trees. But no. The truth is far simpler—and far sweeter. I miss Kaffee und Kuchen. In Germany, Sunday afternoons have a rhythm as steady as a church bell. Around three or four o’clock, no matter how busy the week has been, people pause. Coffee is brewed. Cakes—sometimes rich and chocolatey like a proper Black Forest, sometimes fruity, tart, and dusted with sugar, sometimes streusel-strewn and buttery—are sliced and plated. Families and friends gather around tables, whether in kitchens or crowded cafés, and for one golden hour the world slows down. It isn’t really about the cake, though heaven knows the cake is reason enough. It’s about connection. It’s about talking face to face rather than through texts or rushed phone calls. It’s about traditions that stitch the week together, offering the promise t...

There I was, minding my own business, when fate decided to play a cruel joke. I dropped my phone. Not from a rooftop, not into a pond, not even in one of those heart-stopping toilet disasters. Nope. It just slipped from my hand like it was auditioning for a role in a soap opera. Dramatic fall. Shattered screen. Exit stage left. So, I did what any reasonable person would do—I got a new one. Same brand, just the next model up. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. Wrong in the way a “surprise” villain shows up in chapter twenty-seven of a cozy mystery even though he hasn’t been in the book since chapter two. Apparently, in the five years since I last upgraded (yes, five years—I like to think of myself as loyal, not outdated), phones have learned how to argue with their owners. This new contraption asks me every five minutes if I “really meant to do that.” Why yes, Phone Overlord, I did mean to open my email. I’ve been opening my email since the dawn of Gmail, and I don’t need your judgment. And t...

I’ll admit it right here in front of the internet and anyone snooping on my Wi-Fi connection: I am obsessed with small towns. Not in a mildly fond way, like I’m a fan of flannel or I occasionally fantasize about running a pie shop. No, no. I mean full-on, planning-my-escape-to-a-town-with-one-stoplight obsessed. You know the type of town where the mayor is also the mechanic and possibly the yoga instructor. The kind of place where people don’t use Google Maps to find your house—they just describe it as “the white cottage with the hydrangeas where the ghost dog lives.” Yes. That kind of small town. It’s not a coincidence that I chose to set my Magical Papillon Mysteries in just such a place: the delightfully peculiar village of Rosewood Hollow. A place that practically smells like cinnamon rolls, candle wax, and secrets. Because here’s the truth—we are all secretly (or not-so-secretly) drawn to the warm hug that is small-town life. Even if we’ve never lived in one. Even if...

Growing up, I was a walking, talking mystery to my family. Honestly, if my dad and I hadn’t been so close, I might’ve been written off as an alien life form left on the doorstep. You see, my parents were the definition of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people. Good people. Honest people. The kind of people who fixed things with duct tape and cooked dinner while doing three other things at once. My mom could stretch a dollar until it begged for mercy. My dad could fix a car engine with a shoelace and a pocketknife. And there I was: doodling in the margins of my notebook, daydreaming about far-off lands and writing dramatic poetry about the moon. When it came time for me to "learn a trade," the recommendation was solid: secretarial work. It was practical. It made sense. It paid the bills. And it made me about as happy as a cat at a dog show. I spent forty years (yes, four-zero, not a typo) working jobs that made me feel like a square peg hammered into a round hole. I showed...

Structure. Just saying it out loud feels… mildly offensive . Like a distant relative showing up uninvited with a casserole. The kind of thing I absolutely rebelled against when I was seventeen. “Structure? Pfft. I don’t need no structure!” I shouted, probably in front of a mirror, probably with eyeliner smudged from some dramatic emotional revelation about freedom and individuality. And yet… here we are. Seventeen, eighteen… I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve written. And as I click open the latest Word document, my gut does a little shiver of recognition. Structure is actually… useful. There, I said it. Useful. Shocking, I know. Structure keeps you on track. It prevents that horrifying moment where you sit at your keyboard, staring blankly at the blinking cursor, muttering, “How does this story continue now?” It’s like the invisible hand holding a leash on your runaway imagination, and for once, it’s a leash you don’t entirely mind. But the real magic? Structure tells you wh...

Let's be honest, my fellow book lovers . We've all looked at our To-Be-Read piles and thought, "I should probably read what I have before buying more." It's a noble, sensible, and utterly boring thought that we immediately dismiss, right? Well, get ready to throw that sensibility out the window, because on October 22nd , we're all becoming book criminals! I'm thrilled to announce that I'm part of the massive, once-a-year, bookish crime spree known as the Stuff Your Kindle Crime Event ! For 24 glorious hours, hundreds of authors (including little old me!) are setting their books FREE. We're talking a whole library's worth of thrillers that will chill you, mysteries that will stump you, and cozy mysteries that will make you want to solve a murder in a quaint village while sipping tea. Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It: Mark your calendar: Circle, highlight, and set 12 alarms for October 22nd . Visit the scene of the crime: Head over ...

You know how some people get up at dawn to go fishing? They sit there in their boats, patiently waiting, casting, reeling, hoping for a big catch. Well, let me tell you about the real fisherman in our family. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t own a tackle box, and his fishing license would never hold up under scrutiny. I’m talking about our dog. Yes, you read that right. One of our dogs is a fisherman, though “fisherman” is maybe too generous a word. “Lake stander and occasional snapper” might be more accurate. But for the sake of his dignity, we call it fishing. And believe me, he takes it very, very seriously. Happens every time when we’re at the cabin (or the cottage, for those of us Canucks who know that’s the proper word). It’s early morning, the kind of crisp fall day where the mist is still rolling off the water, and most sane beings are wrapped in blankets with hot coffee in hand. But not him. Nope. Six o’clock sharp, he’s up, tail wagging, trotting down to the water like it’s h...