Thinkingdog Publishing

There are many things I love in this life. Cozy mysteries. Plot twists. The smell of coffee in a quiet morning. The dramatic flutter of Papillon ears in the wind. What I do not love? Wasting time. Now here’s the funny part. I write cozy mysteries. My series, the Magical Papillon Mysteries, features a single mom with supernatural abilities, a telepathic Papillon dog, and enough small-town secrets to keep everyone whispering behind lace curtains. On paper, it sounds quaint. Peaceful. Slow-paced. In reality? Being an author is like juggling flaming swords while someone keeps adding chainsaws. I am a writer. I am also a dog servant. A social media manager. A web designer. An accountant. A marketer. A scheduler. A newsletter fairy. An amateur tech support hotline. Somewhere in there, I’m supposed to eat and sleep. There are at least eleven thousand tasks I never knew existed before I decided to publish a book. No one tells you that “author” secretly means “CEO o...

The other day someone asked me a question that made me pause. This was the kind of pause where your brain suddenly stops, blinks twice, and goes, Wait… are we having an existential moment now? Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that today. The question was simple enough. “How do you deal with it?” I smiled politely. That’s usually my default response when people ask questions that could potentially spiral into deep philosophical territory before I’ve had enough coffee. “How do you write these cozy mysteries,” they continued, “knowing you’ll probably never make any money off them?” And that’s when the pause really happened. Because technically… they’re not wrong. I have not gotten rich writing paranormal cozy mysteries featuring an enchanted Papillon dog. Not yet, anyway. Paramount has not called to option the film rights. Hollywood has not sent a limousine. No one has appeared at my door waving a giant check while dramatic orchestral music swells in the back...

There are two kinds of people awake at three in the morning. The first group is peacefully asleep, dreaming about beaches, vacations, and fluffy clouds. The second group is writers. Specifically… writers whose brains decide that 3:07 a.m. is the perfect time to launch a full creative production meeting . I wish I were exaggerating. Picture this: the house is quiet. The world is asleep. Even the moon seems to be minding its own business. I’m lying in bed trying very hard to drift off into dreamland. Instead, my brain leans over the metaphorical desk, slams a stack of imaginary papers down, and says: “Okay team, hear me out. What if… magical kingdoms… ancient prophecy… morally complicated hero… and it’s a trilogy.” Excuse me? A trilogy? It is three in the morning. I cannot remember where I put my glasses yesterday, but apparently I am now outlining an entire fantasy saga . And not just a vague idea either. Oh no. My brain goes all in. There’s world-building. Ther...

There’s a theory I’ve been quietly nurturing between cups of coffee and dramatic plot twists. I think you have to be an introvert to be a writer. Hear me out. Who else voluntarily spends hours sitting alone in a room, staring at a laptop, blinking occasionally, while internally sprinting across rooftops in a town that doesn’t exist? Who else battles enemies they invented, panics because their hero is about to fall off a cliff, and then desperately scrambles to think of something—anything—before gravity wins? Writers. That’s who. And not just any writers. Cozy mystery writers. Paranormal cozy mystery writers. The sort of people who think, “You know what this murder investigation needs? An enchanted Papillon and a dash of Christmas spirit.” I sit there, looking perfectly calm from the outside. Maybe even serene. Meanwhile, inside my head, Rosewood Hollow is in chaos. Someone’s been poisoned. Someone else is lying. My heroine is in danger. And I am frantically trying to deci...

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...

There is a moment in almost every good story when things get a little heavy. Emotions tighten. Stakes rise. Someone is making a questionable life choice. And then—right on cue—an animal wanders in and quietly saves the scene without even trying. That is not an accident. This is a love letter to animal companions in fiction and real life. The scene-stealers. The grounding forces. The ones who soften the hard moments and make the joyful ones feel truer. This is for Pixie. For Blueberry. And for every dog you’ve ever loved who somehow knew exactly when to sit beside you and when to sass you into better decisions. Pixie, my darling Pixie, deserves her own paragraph and possibly her own throne. She is enchanted and magical, yes—but she is also a sassy diva of the highest order. The kind who will comment on your life choices with devastating accuracy while still being absolutely, unquestionably, ride-or-die loyal. She is fabulous without apology. Supportive without being soft. Sarcasti...

There’s a dangerous myth floating around out there, and I hear it all the time. “I don’t have anything to write about.” Which is fascinating, because five minutes earlier, you were telling me about a weird look a stranger gave you in the grocery store, your dog absolutely refusing to pee for reasons known only to her, and a sentence you overheard in line that made you stop mid-thought. But sure. Nothing to write about. Here’s the truth I’ve learned as an author—and especially as a cozy mystery author. The big moments are overrated. The small, throwaway, blink-and-you-miss-it moments? Those are where the magic lives. The glance. The pause. The overheard sentence. The dog who suddenly plants her feet like she’s staging a protest because the grass feels emotionally wrong today. Recently, I was having a few drinks with my artist friend. Nothing fancy. Just gabbing, laughing, shooting the breeze the way you do when the world slows down enough for real conversation. Her house, by...

  If You Love Magical Cozy Mysteries, You’re Already One Of My People There’s a particular kind of reader who finds their way to magical cozy mysteries. You might not call yourself out on it in public, but you know who you are. You like your mysteries clever, your danger politely contained, your communities a little quirky, and your magic woven in like it’s always belonged there. You believe animals understand more than they let on. You suspect small towns hide big secrets. And you absolutely want a happy ending waiting for you with a cup of tea. Welcome. You’re in excellent company. This is my little love letter to magical cozy mystery readers everywhere—and yes, a handy guide for everyone wondering what on earth a magical cozy mystery really is. One: You Like Your Magic Subtle, Not Splashy In magical cozy mysteries, the magic doesn’t crash through the door wearing a cape. It hums quietly in the background. It lives in intuition, small rituals, unexplained connections...

There’s something funny about the end of the year. Some people are counting down with fireworks, champagne, glitter, and questionable hats that will appear in photos no one remembers taking. Meanwhile, in my house, we approach December 31st with the tactical precision of a military operation because, well… we have dogs. And dogs do not appreciate the European “Sylvester” tradition of exploding the sky for entertainment. Growing up in Germany, New Year’s Eve was a literal blast—fireworks everywhere, people cheering in the streets, the whole world sparkling. But now? Now I have small fluffy creatures who think fireworks are the opening act of the apocalypse. So we celebrate quietly, with blankets, snacks, and repeated promises that the big booms outside are absolutely not the end of days. But while the sky may stay quiet, my imagination certainly didn’t this year. Around this time last December, I had this wild spark of an idea for an art-history-themed mystery. I told myself, “Sabi...