Thinkingdog Publishing

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’s a new ailment going around the creative world, and it’s highly contagious. Symptoms include staring at your unfinished manuscript, sighing heavily, and mumbling something like, “I should be writing.” Yes, my friends, I’m talking about writing guilt —and though I hadn’t heard of it until recently, I seem to have earned an honorary PhD in the subject. Here's what happened.... A little while ago, I had a solo art show . One entire gallery. My artwork. My setup. My everything. It sounds glamorous, right? Cue the applause, the soft lighting, the elegant hors d’oeuvres—except, behind the scenes, it’s less “artistic reverie” and more “running a small logistics company while trying to look charming in public.” I was the planner, the promoter, the installer, the social butterfly. It was exhilarating… and exhausting. And right in the middle of it all—between hanging canvases and smiling through small talk—this tiny voice piped up in my head: “You haven’t written your 1,000...

At the end of every year, the same thing happens. Like clockwork, my social feeds turn into a literary Olympics. Suddenly everyone’s posting reading stats as if they’ve just returned victorious from Mount Everest holding a pack of bookmarks instead of climbing gear. There are pie charts. There are bar graphs. There are people who somehow—while presumably sleeping, working, raising kids, and occasionally eating—managed to read 147 books, 62 audiobooks, and a partridge in a pear tree. And I sit there in my cozy corner of the internet, sipping my tea and thinking, Wow. That’s impressive. And then immediately after that: How? When? Do these people have a personal time-turner? Is there a reading portal? A secret club? Should I be taking notes? Meanwhile, a small voice inside me whispers, “You finished a novella this month. You’re doing great, sweetie.” Here’s the thing no one tells you during the year-end reading frenzy: whether you read two books last year or two hundred, you are still...

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...

So, here I was on a regular old Tuesday , birds chirping, coffee brewing. I sat down at my desk, fingers poised dramatically over the keyboard, inspiration about to strike—when… nothing loaded. I refreshed. I stared. I unplugged the modem and plugged it back in like a techno-priest performing a sacred ritual. Crossed my fingers, did it again.... Still nothing. The internet. Was. Out. And yours truly? Flying into a full-blown tizzy . Not a mild inconvenience. Not a quiet sigh and a cup of tea. No, we’re talking dramatic gasping, pacing, muttering to myself like a Victorian heroine who’d just received tragic news via telegram. Now, let me say this—writing, in its purest form, requires no internet. Not even a computer if you're hardcore enough. You can write with a pencil on a napkin while waiting for your latte. You can scribble in notebooks like it’s 1992 (Yes, I wrote entire books like this back then). But we don’t do that anymore, do we? No, because we writers have convenience ...

Oh hello. You're here for the author , aren’t you? Sarah something? Writes those cozy mysteries where people drink tea, find dead bodies, and somehow still have time to bake cookies? Yeah, her. Listen, I’m not saying she’s bad at it. I’m just saying… without me , there’d be a lot more plot holes and a lot fewer ghosts, magical clues, or talking dogs. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Pixie , the Papillon. Aka the real power behind the pen. Aka Editor-in-Chief at Thinkingdog Publishing. Aka the Reason She Ever Finishes a Book. You think she sits down at her desk, lights a candle, and gracefully types out a mystery masterpiece? No. She sits in pajamas that may or may not be from last Tuesday, holding a coffee cup like it’s the Holy Grail, muttering things like “Wait, did I already kill off the gardener?” and “Why is there a duck in this chapter?” That’s where I come in. The moment she veers too far off track—like, “Let’s make the killer a time-traveling pigeon farmer fr...

You know what’s harder than plotting a cozy mystery where the Papillon always sniffs out the clues before the humans do? Harder than writing a romantic subplot that doesn’t sound like it belongs in a greeting card from 1992? Harder than naming five suspects who all have plausible motives, mysterious pasts, and an odd relationship with baked goods? Facebook ads. Yes. Facebook ads. I’m not kidding – at all. I have just survived the most excruciating, ridiculous, time-warping four hours of my life trying to program in a few simple ads for my books. I went in optimistic. Hopeful, even. Maybe a little smug. I thought, how hard could it be? (Spoiler alert: that was my first mistake.) First, Facebook (Meta? ZuckLand? Whatever they’re calling it now) required me to set up not one, but approximately 437 separate accounts, business pages, ad managers, pixel integrations, and possibly a small sacrificial offering to the algorithm gods. I clicked through pages. I filled in boxes. I uploade...

Let’s talk about the writing process. Ah yes, the process. That majestic, mythical, Instagrammable creature every indie author is apparently supposed to post about. You’ve seen the posts, right? The ones with a steaming mug of tea, a perfectly posed cat, a candle flickering beside a stack of color-coded index cards, and captions like: “Today I let my protagonist tell me where the story wanted to go…” Meanwhile, over here in the chaotic land of reality, my protagonist just refused to cooperate, the dog barked at a ghost (probably), and my coffee’s been microwaved three times. And I’ll be honest with you: if I waited around for my story to tell me where to go, I’d still be staring at Chapter One wondering why my main character is named Blergle. Here’s my writing process: Step One: Put butt in chair. Step Two: Put fingers on keyboard. Step Three: Make stuff up. That’s it. That’s the whole enchilada. No scented candles. No lunar rituals. No twenty-part TikTok series about ho...

If you ever see a kid in the corner at a party with their nose in a book, oblivious to the games, snacks, and mild chaos around them—yep, that was me . Always reading. Always scribbling something. Sports? Please. I was too short to make any team that didn’t require a step stool. Science? It was fun until they asked me to memorize the periodic table—pass. But reading? Writing? Oh, baby, that was my jam. I tried my hand at writing my first mystery novel at age 14. My protagonists were (shockingly) teenage kids who solved crimes. There were flashlights, a lot of sneaking around old buildings, and absolutely no understanding of how actual criminal investigations work. But hey—what I lacked in forensic accuracy, I made up for in enthusiasm and lots of dialogue tagged with “he said dramatically.” Then came the romance years. You know the ones. All fluttery hearts, brooding strangers, and small towns with improbably high numbers of single billionaires. I loved it. I still do. There’s noth...

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection .  If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect . And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.) You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot . Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.” But here’s the thing – I wrote this . It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something t...