Thinkingdog Publishing

There’s something about January light—it slants through the window as though it’s trying to whisper, “So… what now?” And every year I give that light the same answer: “Honestly? Probably the same thing I was doing yesterday.” Because here we are, off into a brand-new year, standing at the doorway as if it’s a shiny party we weren’t totally prepared for but decided to attend anyway. Everyone around me starts talking resolutions, gym memberships, juice cleanses, ambitious goals with color-coded planners—meanwhile I’m over here with a notebook full of ideas for magical Papillon mysteries, a coffee mug that says Writer at Work (Probably) , and two Papillons who have decided the only real resolution worth making is More Snacks . Blueberry, the diva princess of fluff and mischief, approves of my non-resolutions. Buddy, my newly adopted eleven-year-old gentleman scamp, has no idea what a New Year’s resolution is but confidently assumes it involves belly rubs and making sure I never type mo...

 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...

  I once read that inspiration strikes like lightning. That’s a lie. At least for me. Inspiration sneaks up on me like a cat deciding whether to knock over a glass of water. It circles, it considers, it waits until I’m in the shower with no access to a notebook and then it pounces. So where does my inspiration come from? Well, buckle up, because it’s a weird and wonderful mix. First, there’s nature. And not just in a “how poetic, the whispering pines” kind of way. No, I mean nature nature . The kind where I go on my daily walks and see a squirrel making direct eye contact with me while committing crimes against a bird feeder. Or when a branch creaks ominously in the wind, and I’m instantly imagining a Victorian ghost lady pointing toward a hidden clue. Or that one time I saw a crow drop an acorn directly on a jogger’s head, and I started wondering if animals hold grudges. And speaking of animals, let’s talk about the real queen of my inspiration: my Papillon dog. My tiny, f...