Thinkingdog Publishing

There is a very specific expression Blueberry/ Pixie gets on her face whenever she sees me filming something important. Not when I am casually taking a picture of flowers. Not when I am trying to photograph tea beside a stack of books for the six hundredth “cozy author aesthetic” image of my career. No. She waits. Quietly. Patiently. Like a tiny fluffy theatre critic observing rehearsal from the back row. Then, the exact moment I begin recording a serious voiceover about writing, creativity, burnout, publishing, algorithms, reader connection, or “the emotional architecture of mystery fiction”... there she is. Trotting directly through the shot with the confidence of a retired silent film actress who knows perfectly well the audience came for her. Honestly, if she could smoke dramatically through a cigarette holder while murmuring, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she absolutely would. And the truly irritating part is that it works. I can spend three hours designi...

 There is a moment — somewhere between hitting "publish" and refreshing your sales dashboard for the seventeenth time in a single afternoon — where you realize something: you can do everything right and still have absolutely no control over the outcome. You can write a great book, the kind where you sit back after the final sentence and think, well, that was mildly brilliant, someone alert the literary authorities. You can edit it within an inch of its life, polishing every comma, wrestling every sentence into submission, whispering sweet motivational speeches to your manuscript at 2AM while cradling a cup of tea that went cold hours ago.  You can position it and promote it and send it out into the world dressed in its very best metaphorical outfit. And still, none of it belongs to you once it leaves your hands.  You don't control the reviews. You don't control the rankings. You don't control whether people get it — and that last one, I'll admit, carries a...

I am tired. Not the “oh I stayed up a little too late reading” kind of tired. Not even the “my dog insisted 5:47 AM was a perfectly reasonable time to begin the day” kind of tired. No. I am the kind of tired that comes from falling down a social media rabbit hole so deep, I’m fairly certain I passed at least three alternate dimensions and a dancing algorithm named Chad. Somewhere along the way, I watched approximately ten thousand videos—give or take a dramatic exaggeration—on how to “optimize your content,” “hack the algorithm,” and “go viral overnight.” Yech. Every single one promised a formula. A trick. A secret. A step-by-step plan to become wildly successful if I would just… be slightly shinier, slightly louder, slightly more something . And do you know what I realized? None of them were me. Not one. I am not a 30-year-old with flawless contouring, botox and a ring light that could guide ships safely to shore. I do not have a “hot take” about anything except ...

There’s something wildly comforting about a simple phrase. “Just Do It.” It’s bold. It’s clean. It doesn’t overthink things. It doesn’t spiral into a late-night identity crisis while holding a cup of reheated coffee and wondering if it should also start a podcast, a newsletter, a YouTube channel, and possibly learn interpretive dance for marketing purposes. It just… does it. And honestly? That’s where the magic is. Because here’s what I’ve learned the hard way (and by “hard way,” I mean slightly frazzled, mildly sleep-deprived, and being judged by a very fluffy Papillon named Blueberry): the moment we quietly sneak one tiny word into that phrase— all —everything changes. “Just Do It All.” Oh. Oh no. Now suddenly we are no longer inspired athletes in a motivational montage. We are overwhelmed authors staring at a never-ending checklist that includes social media posting schedules, ad campaigns, newsletter funnels, branding strategies, reader magnets, SEO optimization, an...

There is a myth floating around the internet. A persistent little fairy tale. Apparently, somewhere between publishing my first cozy mystery and lovingly introducing the world to magical dogs, ghosts, and small-town secrets, I became independently wealthy. I would very much like to know when that happened. Because according to my inbox, I am absolutely swimming in consultant-level disposable income. Every single day, without fail, I receive approximately seven emails. Sometimes more. They arrive like clockwork. They are polite. They are enthusiastic. They are confident. “Dear Author, Let me put your book on my premium reader list.” Which book, my friend? I have fifteen. Are we talking about the one with the ghost? The one with the magical Papillon? The one with the small-town murder wrapped in Christmas cookies and secrets? A hint would be delightful. Next email. “Let me optimize your categories and keywords.” Marvelous. Again — which book? I would love to know whi...