Thinkingdog Publishing

People sometimes ask me how many books I’ve written, and I always pause. Not because I’m being mysterious. Not because I’m modest. It’s because the honest answer lives somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, and even I’m not entirely sure where it landed and set up camp. Before you panic, calm down. Many of those books are quietly gathering digital dust somewhere, living their best invisible lives. Only fifteen of them are currently up on Amazon, polished, presentable, and waving enthusiastically at you like, “Pick me! I’m ready!” And yes, that was absolutely a wink. But here’s the part that made me laugh at myself today. A proper laugh. The kind where you realize something obvious far too late and just have to accept it with grace and coffee. With every single book, I learn something. Shocking, I know. I learn about story. About flow. About structure. About how a mystery should unfold so the reader feels clever instead of cheated. About pacing, tension, emotion, and w...

I’ve spent a large portion of my life trying to make things work. And by “make things work,” I don’t mean gently nudging them along while sipping tea and humming happily. I mean fixing problems that weren’t technically mine, pushing projects uphill like a strange mythological creature, explaining myself repeatedly to people who had already decided not to listen, and over-delivering as if there were Olympic medals for emotional exhaustion. This skill set served me very well in my various jobs. I was reliable. Resourceful. The person you could hand a mess to and say, “Can you sort this out?” I could. I did. Repeatedly. With flair. And snacks. But somewhere along the way, I noticed something curious. I was very good at making things work… and very bad at resting afterward. By the end of many years, I wasn’t just tired. I was tired of being tired. Tired of proving. Tired of pushing. Tired of explaining why I deserved to be in the room when I was usually the one rearranging the furn...

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...

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...

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....

Let me tell you a little secret. One that I, like most writers I know, don’t say out loud unless coaxed with chocolate or caffeine or the promise of a free tote bag. Ready? I regularly think I’m a fraud. Yep. Impostor syndrome is basically my sidekick. My unwanted sidekick. Like a clingy ex who keeps showing up at book signings whispering, “You don’t belong here.” You see, writing is deeply personal . We’re not assembling IKEA furniture (though honestly, my last attempt at a bookshelf made me feel equally unqualified). When you write, you’re pulling thoughts from your soul, arranging them into fragile sentences, and then sending them out into the big bad world hoping someone doesn’t say, “Well, that’s garbage.” There’s no magical scroll that arrives by owl post declaring: “Congratulations, you are now officially a Writer™.” No license, no laminated badge, not even a quirky business card. If you’re waiting for someone to officially knight you with a pen and say, “Arise, Word Wa...

Let me tell you a little secret about being an author. It’s not glamorous. It’s not all sipping lattes in quaint bookstores while scribbling in leather-bound notebooks. And it’s definitely not an express ticket to fame. There’s this myth floating around that writing one book—just one—will turn you into the next literary sensation. That you'll hit publish, wake up the next morning with a fan club, a movie deal, and Oprah knocking on your door. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… nope. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. The Reality: Years of Writing (and Rewriting… and Crying… and More Writing) I’ve been writing since I was fourteen. That’s a lot of years spent typing away, dreaming up characters, and questioning my life choices when a plot hole the size of Texas appears out of nowhere. I have thirteen books on Amazon. That sounds impressive, right? But what if I told you that lurking in the depths of my hard drive are twenty-five first drafts th...

  Let’s rewind to about a year ago when I decided to dabble in audiobooks. You know, like a casual hobby—except nothing in my life ever stays casual. I either go all in or I abandon ship before even getting my feet wet. This time, I went all in. I got myself a fancy Zoom P4 deck, a solid Samson dynamic microphone, and a whole mess of software that I initially had no idea how to use. I figured, how hard could it be? (Spoiler: very hard ). But I wasn’t worried. Why? Because I know my learning style. Some people take courses. Some people hire coaches. Some people watch endless YouTube tutorials. And then there’s me—stubbornly determined to learn everything by trial and error. I prefer to tinker, to break things, to question my life choices when I realize I recorded an entire chapter with my mic turned off. "Why don’t you just take a course?" my brother, the actual audio engineer, asked repeatedly. (This is the same brother who once set up my first microphone and watche...

There comes a time in every writer’s life when they sit down with a cup of coffee (or let’s be honest, something stronger) and ask themselves: Why do I do this to myself? I’ve written thrillers. I’ve written romance. I’ve written thrillers again because apparently, I enjoy stress. But no matter where my writing adventures take me, I always— always —come back to cozy mysteries. And you know what? They’re my most successful books, too. So, why cozies? Simple. Have you looked outside lately? The world is one sigh away from an absolute meltdown. I mean, it’s a lot. Every time I scroll the news, I have to resist the urge to grab my dog and escape to a remote island where WiFi doesn’t exist. But instead of moving to the middle of nowhere, I write cozy mysteries. Why? Because I need to believe that somewhere, somehow, a kinder world still exists. A world where people bake pies instead of doom-scrolling. A world where a cup of tea and a bit of small-town gossip can actually solv...

 You know those wholesome motivational quotes like, “Be the reason someone smiles today” ? Yeah, well, I aimed for that. I really did. But sometimes life hands you a glitter grenade, and suddenly you're the reason someone’s clutching their emotional support coffee (or cabernet) like a life raft. ☕ It Started with Good Intentions... One day, I woke up and said, “Today’s the day I’m going to spread joy like confetti!” Except, I was out of actual confetti, so I improvised with passive-aggressive Post-it notes and a smile that made people wonder if I was okay. (I wasn’t. But I had snacks, so I was hanging in there.) At the coffee shop, I complimented a stranger’s socks. They looked at me like I had just asked them to join a cult. I smiled. They left quickly. So… not quite a smile, but I was the reason they power-walked back to their car with fresh adrenaline. 🍷 You Win Some, You Wine Some Later that afternoon, I tried again. I told a friend they looked radiant. They asked if I wa...

  I have a confession. You may have noticed that I give books away. A lot. It’s not because I enjoy throwing my hard work into the literary void like a parade float tossing candy to a sugar-starved crowd (though that does sound fun). No, there’s a method to my madness. A sneaky, strategic, brilliant (if I do say so myself) plan behind the generosity. But before we get to that, let’s talk about something I have waxed poetic about many times: Amazon reviews. If you’ve followed me for a while, you know I treat book reviews like they’re a rare and precious mineral. You may have even caught me dramatically swooning over a five-star review. (Or whispering sweet nothings to my laptop screen when a particularly glowing review comes in. Don't judge.) The truth is, for indie authors like me, reviews aren’t just nice—they’re survival. They tell Amazon’s mysterious algorithm that my books are worth recommending to new readers. They help readers decide if my story about a ghostly sidekic...