Thinkingdog Publishing

Here we are. The first of May. We made it. We actually survived winter. I feel like this winter deserves a small ceremony. Or at least a strongly worded letter. It was long, dramatic, and deeply committed to its role. But it’s over now. The light is back. The air smells different. And my soul has finally stopped hibernating like a disgruntled bear. Growing up in Germany, the first of May was always a holiday. They called it the “Day of Work,” which, to this day, feels like one of life’s great practical jokes. You celebrate work by… not working. Everyone just collectively agreed to stay home, enjoy the day, and not question the logic too deeply. Lately, I’ve found myself trying to remember the last time I had a proper day off. You know the kind. No writing. No plotting. No characters tapping you on the shoulder whispering, “Just one more chapter?” And here’s the thing. I don’t actually need one. I write cozy mysteries. I spin stories filled with small towns, gentle magic, curious secret...

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 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...

  There are days when I open the news and immediately regret having eyes. Everything is a hot mess. Everything is urgent. Everything is either on fire, arguing, or trending for all the wrong reasons. And while I absolutely believe in staying informed, there comes a point where my nervous system taps out, pours itself a cup of tea, and quietly whispers, nope . That’s usually the moment I retreat into my own cozy mysteries. Not because I’m avoiding reality. Not because I think the world should be wrapped in bubble wrap. But because sometimes you need proof—actual proof—that there is a place where things still make sense. Where people show up for each other. Where kindness exists, even when it’s a little messy and occasionally paired with gossip. Especially the gossip. In my cozy mysteries, I write worlds that feel like coming home after a long day. Worlds where neighbors might talk a little too much, secrets absolutely exist, and someone will definitely say the wrong thing ...

I heard a quote recently that stopped me mid-thought, mid-coffee sip, mid–“why is the dog staring at me like that” moment. “Everybody has a story. Once you understand that story, their lives will make sense.” Excuse me while I just sit here and emotionally spiral for a minute. Because wow. That one line explains so much. So many of those moments where you watch someone do something and think, why on earth would you ever do that ? Why that choice? Why that reaction? Why that hill to die on? And the honest answer is usually this: you don’t know what came before. You don’t know the trigger. You don’t know the quiet history that shaped that decision long before you ever witnessed it. We see the moment. We don’t see the backstory. Which, as it turns out, is basically the entire job description of being a writer. In real life, we’re all walking around as finished scenes with missing chapters. You bump into someone in line at the grocery store who is unreasonably intense about c...

  Here we go again. That strange, awkward, emotionally confusing time of year where winter hasn’t technically left, spring is definitely late, and we’re all just standing around squinting at the weather forecast like it personally owes us something. You know the days I mean. One glorious afternoon appears out of nowhere. Blue sky. Sunshine. Birds doing that hopeful chirping thing like they’re auditioning for a Disney movie. You step outside and think, This is it. We made it. I survived winter. I am a resilient woodland creature. And then the very next morning you wake up to gray. Snow. Slush. The emotional equivalent of someone unplugging your happiness and shrugging. I am caught, once again, between hope and deep suspicion. I want to believe. I truly do. I want to put the winter boots away, stop wearing seventeen layers, and feel my face without pain. But experience has taught me that spring likes to flirt. It shows up just long enough to get your guard down, then vanishes...

You know that saying, “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life”? Yeah. About that. Whoever said it clearly never tried turning their passion into a business. This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity — and why, oh why, I’ve landed in this weird, exhausting place where being creative automatically means it must make money . This is a bit of a personal ramble, so pull up a chair, grab a cup of tea (or wine, I’m not judging), and let’s talk about it. If you’re reading this, chances are you’re creative too. You probably love reading, or painting, or baking, or sketching little masterpieces no one else ever sees. Maybe you’ve got a camera roll full of DIY projects you’ll finish “someday.” And if you’re not doing something creative right now, I bet you dream about it when you have more time. I’ve always been a dabbler — I design all my own book covers, play around with digital artwork, and I’ve even put some of my abstract art on clothing (yes, really...

Some days, I have no idea what to write . I sit there, staring at the cursor like it’s personally offended me. That blinking little line just dares me to type something worthwhile, but instead, I find myself thinking, “Well, this is awkward.” I think that’s part of the definition of being a writer. If you’ve never argued with your own cursor, are you even in the club? Lately, I’ve found a trick. I open a fresh document and type something silly, along the lines of, “Well here we go again—I have no idea how to finish this scene. Could be this happens, could be that happens…” And then—like magic—I’m writing again. Ideas come when you open a door for them. You just have to unlock it, fling it wide, and let them stroll in, preferably carrying snacks. Way too many years ago (and we’re not counting, thank you very much), I was forced to write every second I could. On the train, scribbling into a notebook balanced on my knee. On scraps of paper when the boss wasn’t looking. On receipts, n...

Truth time? I have never had patience. Like… never. Waiting has never been in my vocabulary unless it’s the kind of “waiting” where you’re standing at the microwave watching popcorn explode in slow motion and muttering under your breath, “come on, come on, come on…” That’s kind of my normal. Do it now. Take it to the limit. Push that project through with sheer willpower and enough coffee to make my kitchen smell like a Starbucks exploded. But here’s the thing: lately I’ve started noticing this impatience everywhere. It’s like the whole world caught up to me and said, “Yeah, let’s all live at turbo speed now.” You don’t respond within five minutes? Clearly something is wrong. A new series drops? Forget waiting for weekly episodes—we need to binge it right now or risk being left behind in spoiler territory. Have a question? Why wait until Monday to ask a human being when you can fire it off to AI at 11:42 PM and have an answer before you even finish your cookie? On one hand,...

People sometimes ask me how many books I’ve written, and I always pause. Not because I’m being mysterious. Not because I’m modest. It’s because the honest answer lives somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, and even I’m not entirely sure where it landed and set up camp. Before you panic, calm down. Many of those books are quietly gathering digital dust somewhere, living their best invisible lives. Only fifteen of them are currently up on Amazon, polished, presentable, and waving enthusiastically at you like, “Pick me! I’m ready!” And yes, that was absolutely a wink. But here’s the part that made me laugh at myself today. A proper laugh. The kind where you realize something obvious far too late and just have to accept it with grace and coffee. With every single book, I learn something. Shocking, I know. I learn about story. About flow. About structure. About how a mystery should unfold so the reader feels clever instead of cheated. About pacing, tension, emotion, and w...

Circadian Rhythms and You Be You Let me start with a bummer, because life isn’t always cupcakes and cozy mysteries. When my mom passed away a few years ago, she was just about to get up—at three in the morning. Yes, three. In. The. Morning. I mean, who does that? My mom, that’s who. She’d get up when the rest of us were deep in dreamland, do a few things, rest, do a few more, rest again. That was her rhythm. Wash, rinse, repeat. As a teenager, I thought it was weird. You’re supposed to sleep in late, drag your bleary-eyed self to school or work, suffer through the day, then stay up until the wee hours laughing with friends, eating questionable pizza, and pretending you’re invincible. That’s the script! And yet… as I’ve gotten older, I find myself—brace for impact—doing the same thing. Gasp! I get up early. I mean really early. Before sunrise. Before the world even stretches. And I love it. There’s something delicious about that quiet hour when it’s just me, my coffee, my words, ...

I’ve spent a large portion of my life trying to make things work. And by “make things work,” I don’t mean gently nudging them along while sipping tea and humming happily. I mean fixing problems that weren’t technically mine, pushing projects uphill like a strange mythological creature, explaining myself repeatedly to people who had already decided not to listen, and over-delivering as if there were Olympic medals for emotional exhaustion. This skill set served me very well in my various jobs. I was reliable. Resourceful. The person you could hand a mess to and say, “Can you sort this out?” I could. I did. Repeatedly. With flair. And snacks. But somewhere along the way, I noticed something curious. I was very good at making things work… and very bad at resting afterward. By the end of many years, I wasn’t just tired. I was tired of being tired. Tired of proving. Tired of pushing. Tired of explaining why I deserved to be in the room when I was usually the one rearranging the furn...

There’s something magical about mornings in a German village . Before the first streaks of light even dare to touch the rooftops, the bakers are already awake—aprons dusted with flour, ovens glowing like small suns, and the air heavy with the promise of freshly baked bread. When I was growing up, the bakery wasn’t just a shop. It was the place. The heartbeat of the morning. People would shuffle in, still half-asleep, clutching their baskets like loyal companions. There’d be a chorus of Guten Morgens, the creak of the old wooden door, and the rhythmic thwack of bread loaves landing on the counter. No one was in a hurry. You stood, you chatted, you shared your plans for the day—perhaps a complaint about the weather, or a compliment about Frau Schneider’s strudel (which, let’s be honest, always deserved applause). And oh, that smell. If you could bottle it, you’d own happiness itself. Later, when the sun climbed high and the bustle began, the same bakery would transform. The sleepy ea...

So—does anybody remember pen pals? No? Just me? Well then, buckle up, because I’m about to sound like a fossil digging through the dusty attic of childhood communication. Back in the day, every kid or teen magazine worth its neon sticker collection had a pen pal section. The premise was simple: you sent in your name, your address, and (brace yourself) a small fee to be paid in stamps. Actual, lick-and-stick, make-your-tongue-feel-like-sandpaper stamps. I know—gasp! The Stone Age. After a few weeks of waiting (because this was before instant gratification was invented), you’d get an envelope with names and addresses of kids around your age who were looking for friends in far-off towns or even other countries. That’s right—before sliding into DMs was a thing, we were carefully sliding letters into mailboxes. And oh, those letters. We wrote pages about nothing —our grades (inflated), our lives (glamorized), our friends (fictionalized if necessary). Nobody fact-checked, nobody car...

The Writing Process (Or, How I Accidentally Wrote a Book While Folding Laundry) At some point, if you write anything—novels, blog posts, shopping lists in cursive—someone is going to ask about your process . You’ll be at a book club, a festival, the dentist’s office with gauze in your mouth, and the question will come: “So, what’s your process?” Cue the polite smile. I say something reasonable like, “Oh, I research, then plan the structure, outline the scenes, work in beats...” Then I run away. Because here’s the truth. The real story. The real real story. I have no earthly idea how this works. None. My brain has always played this soundtrack of stories. I don’t ask for it. I don’t control it. It’s just there. While I’m folding towels. While I’m unloading the dishwasher. While I’m out walking the dog, trying to look like a normal adult who wears matching socks. There it is. A scene. A snippet of dialogue. A full-on argument between two characters who may or may not exist i...

Every December 31st, I make a solemn vow to myself:   This year, I will not, under any circumstances, fall into that annual trap of making New Year’s resolutions. I say it with the same sincerity I use when telling myself I’ll only have “one cookie” or that I’ll “clean my office tomorrow.” It’s a heartfelt, straight-from-the-soul promise. And like all heartfelt promises made at 11:59 p.m. while wearing fuzzy socks and holding a glass of something bubbly, it lasts approximately forty-eight seconds. Because this year, I had one good idea. Just one. And I’ve already broken it. I truly believed I was finally going to learn to type like a Real Modern Human on a tiny six-inch glass phone screen. People do it everywhere — in line at the grocery store, strolling down the street, dangling off escalators, half-asleep in bed, probably clinging to the side of a mountain while texting “lol.” Meanwhile there's me, stabbing at my phone with the precision of a disgruntled pigeon. Everyone says...

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...