Thinkingdog Publishing

You know these people. Everybody knows these people. The ones who do one thing so well that watching them feels a little bit like witnessing magic. You see them in sports all the time — the athlete who makes the impossible look like a Tuesday. But I don't have to turn on the television to find them. I have them right in my own family. Take my relative, the mechanic. I could bring this man an engine held together by rust, hope, and one very tired bolt, and say, “Something doesn't work.” That's it. That's all the information I give him. No diagnosis, no helpful details, just something doesn't work — which, as descriptions go, is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And he fixes it. Not only does he fix it — the engine comes back better than before. It purrs. It practically sends thank-you notes. I'm fairly certain that if I brought him a toaster and said “something doesn't work,” it would come back capable of flight. Then there's my s...

October is almost over. That magical month where the sweaters finally escape the back of the closet, the blankets stage a cozy rebellion over the couch, and suddenly sitting by a fire with a great book feels like the most important activity in the world. Now, I know what you’re thinking, I am usually a summer person through and through. Sun on my face, ice cream in hand, toes in sand… that is my natural habitat. But there’s something about October that makes me fall in love with spooky season. It’s the way the fog curls around the trees like a little ghosty tiptoeing home. The shadows that suddenly look a little suspicious, the subtle magic that hangs in the air, like someone whispered an incantation and left it floating there just for fun. This is exactly why I write my magical realism cozy mysteries the way I do. I want you to feel that moment of delightful suspense, when you’re expecting a ghost to pop out at any minute but also hoping it does, because honestly, ghosts are kind ...

Here we are, it’s Tuesday. Or Thursday. Honestly, when you work from home, the days sort of blur into one long, caffeinated smear. Your manuscript is open, your cursor is blinking at you with the specific energy of a disappointed parent, and you, the person who once wrote three chapters in a fever dream, cannot write a single word. Welcome to the Writer’s Slump. I’ve been here, many many times. Through six books, an enchanted Papillon named Pixie, and enough coffee to flood a small municipality, I’ve learned that the best way out usually isn’t another productivity system. It’s giving yourself permission to play. Sometimes I go back and read something I’ve written that I actually love. Yes, there may be a few sentences that make me want to hide under the bed, but there are also those wonderful moments where the dialogue worked, the emotion landed, and I thought, Wait. Did I just do that? You did. That writer is still in there, even if she’s currently buried under self-doubt and unread e...