Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

The Writing Process (Or, How I Accidentally Wrote a Book While Folding Laundry) At some point, if you write anything—novels, blog posts, shopping lists in cursive—someone is going to ask about your process . You’ll be at a book club, a festival, the dentist’s office with gauze in your mouth, and the question will come: “So, what’s your process?” Cue the polite smile. I say something reasonable like, “Oh, I research, then plan the structure, outline the scenes, work in beats...” Then I run away. Because here’s the truth. The real story. The real real story. I have no earthly idea how this works. None. My brain has always played this soundtrack of stories. I don’t ask for it. I don’t control it. It’s just there. While I’m folding towels. While I’m unloading the dishwasher. While I’m out walking the dog, trying to look like a normal adult who wears matching socks. There it is. A scene. A snippet of dialogue. A full-on argument between two characters who may or may not exist i...

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...