Thinkingdog Publishing

Truth time? I have a full-blown, popcorn-in-hand, rabbit-hole-diving addiction to watching videos about how to “do well on social media.” Not casually watching - Studying. Observing. Nodding thoughtfully as someone with perfect lighting and cheekbones blessed by the algorithm tells me that if I don’t post three reels a day, engage for forty-seven minutes before and after, use trending audio from a seventeen-second clip of a remix originally posted in 2024, and position my coffee mug at a 32-degree angle… I will vanish into the void. It is both fascinating and mildly terrifying, and I am not going to do any of it. You want to know how I know? Y’all are taking it so serious. Meanwhile, I am over here half-assing my social media presence because I know I have to. I know I should. I know visibility matters. I know marketing is important. I know the algorithm is a mysterious creature that must occasionally be fed. And yet. I don’t particularly want to be o...

There was a time—oh yes, gather ‘round, it feels slightly historical now—when Friday arrived like a dramatic movie soundtrack moment. You know the one. The clock hit five, and somewhere in the distance, invisible trumpets played. “It’s Friday!!!” Back then, that phrase meant freedom. Escape. Two glorious days where I did not have to think about spreadsheets, customer service emails, or that one person who believed—deep in their soul—that the phrase “the customer is always right” was a legally binding personality trait. Friday was less a day and more a rescue mission. I would shut down my computer with the kind of energy usually reserved for action heroes walking away from explosions. Weekend mode: activated. Brain: off. Joy: cautiously returning. And then… plot twist. I became a full-time author. Now let me tell you something no one puts on the inspirational Pinterest quote boards. When you start doing what you love for a living, you do not suddenly become someone who l...

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...

Did you know I record my own audiobooks? I know. It sounds very glamorous, doesn’t it? You might imagine a sleek studio, a glowing microphone, a sound engineer nodding approvingly while I read my words with theatrical perfection. Now allow me to gently replace that image with reality. Reality looks a lot like a cozy mystery author sitting in a carefully engineered blanket fort made of pillows, quilts, and pure determination, whispering dramatically into a microphone while praying the dog does not bark and the refrigerator does not suddenly decide to hum like a jet engine. Is it easy? No. Not even slightly. Recording an audiobook means discovering that your own tongue apparently has a personal vendetta against certain words. Words you wrote. Words you edited. Words you confidently believed were perfectly pronounceable until you had to say them out loud seventeen times. Then there are the unexpected discoveries. For example, you will learn exactly how many sounds exis...

  There comes a moment in life — somewhere between your first grey hair and the first time you willingly choose elastic-waist trousers — when you realize something profound: You have spent an impressive amount of time trying not to offend anyone. Not too loud. Not too strange. Not too ambitious. Not too dreamy. Not too… you. For a considerable portion of my life, I tried very hard to be what I believed was “expected.” Sensible. Polite. Predictable. Professional. The kind of person who nods in meetings, files papers in neat folders, and pretends spreadsheets are thrilling. I did the “normal.” I did the “responsible.” I smiled through jobs that felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small. Perfectly acceptable. Mildly painful. Entirely unnecessary. And do you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. The world did not applaud my normality. No one handed me a medal for “Most Inoffensive Human.” There was no parade for “Successfully Blended In.” Instead, somewhere ...

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...