Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

There was a time—ah, the golden days—when my favorite guilty pleasure was sneaking onto social media in the middle of writing. I’d be knee-deep in a tense chapter, or elbow-deep in a horrifyingly overcomplicated spreadsheet, and I'd whisper to myself: “Just five minutes... you’ve earned it.” Five minutes would turn into thirty, naturally. Maybe forty. I’d scroll, like, laugh at memes involving dogs in hats, argue with someone over the correct ranking of Halloween candy (Reese’s is #1, don’t @ me), and maybe even post a selfie if I was feeling wild. Back then, social media was my oasis . My little hideaway of chaos and dopamine and questionable life choices. A snack for the brain. A tiny vacation. But somewhere along the way, the snack became the meal. One day I woke up and social media was no longer my escape. It was on my to-do list. My to-do list! Right there, in between “write 1,000 words” and “don’t forget to eat something green.” The thing is, if you’re an author n...

 You know those wholesome motivational quotes like, “Be the reason someone smiles today” ? Yeah, well, I aimed for that. I really did. But sometimes life hands you a glitter grenade, and suddenly you're the reason someone’s clutching their emotional support coffee (or cabernet) like a life raft. ☕ It Started with Good Intentions... One day, I woke up and said, “Today’s the day I’m going to spread joy like confetti!” Except, I was out of actual confetti, so I improvised with passive-aggressive Post-it notes and a smile that made people wonder if I was okay. (I wasn’t. But I had snacks, so I was hanging in there.) At the coffee shop, I complimented a stranger’s socks. They looked at me like I had just asked them to join a cult. I smiled. They left quickly. So… not quite a smile, but I was the reason they power-walked back to their car with fresh adrenaline. 🍷 You Win Some, You Wine Some Later that afternoon, I tried again. I told a friend they looked radiant. They asked if I wa...

I know what the experts say. “Writers write.” “Butt in chair, fingers on keys.” “Power through the block!” Sure. Okay. I hear you. But after approximately six hours in the same chair, surviving on coffee, creative fumes, and the misguided hope that the next scene will magically write itself, I start to feel like Gollum from Lord of the Rings . Only less shiny. That’s when Blueberry enters the picture. Blueberry is my Papillon dog, my muse, and arguably the real boss of this household. She has the self-confidence of a rockstar on a reunion tour. When Blueberry decides it's time for agility practice, she does not negotiate. There are no polite suggestions. There is barking. There is trotting in place. There is staring . And there is absolutely no chance I’m going to get away with, “Five more minutes, sweetie.” I’ve learned that when Blueberry wants to move, I’d better move with her. So we go outside. We run, we leap, we weave through poles, sprint through tunnels, and some...

  I have a confession. You may have noticed that I give books away. A lot. It’s not because I enjoy throwing my hard work into the literary void like a parade float tossing candy to a sugar-starved crowd (though that does sound fun). No, there’s a method to my madness. A sneaky, strategic, brilliant (if I do say so myself) plan behind the generosity. But before we get to that, let’s talk about something I have waxed poetic about many times: Amazon reviews. If you’ve followed me for a while, you know I treat book reviews like they’re a rare and precious mineral. You may have even caught me dramatically swooning over a five-star review. (Or whispering sweet nothings to my laptop screen when a particularly glowing review comes in. Don't judge.) The truth is, for indie authors like me, reviews aren’t just nice—they’re survival. They tell Amazon’s mysterious algorithm that my books are worth recommending to new readers. They help readers decide if my story about a ghostly sidekic...

I’ll admit it right here in front of the internet and anyone snooping on my Wi-Fi connection: I am obsessed with small towns. Not in a mildly fond way, like I’m a fan of flannel or I occasionally fantasize about running a pie shop. No, no. I mean full-on, planning-my-escape-to-a-town-with-one-stoplight obsessed. You know the type of town where the mayor is also the mechanic and possibly the yoga instructor. The kind of place where people don’t use Google Maps to find your house—they just describe it as “the white cottage with the hydrangeas where the ghost dog lives.” Yes. That kind of small town. It’s not a coincidence that I chose to set my Magical Papillon Mysteries in just such a place: the delightfully peculiar village of Rosewood Hollow. A place that practically smells like cinnamon rolls, candle wax, and secrets. Because here’s the truth— we are all secretly (or not-so-secretly) drawn to the warm hug that is small-town life. Even if we’ve never lived in one. Even if ...

You know you’re not a digital native when the word “research” makes you smell paper and hear the satisfying thud of a heavy book landing on a table. Welcome to my childhood, where curiosity was rewarded not with Wi-Fi, but with a stack of alphabetically-organized mystery bricks called encyclopedias . Let me take you back. The year? Somewhere in the analog era. The place? Our living room, where we had the entire Bertelsmann encyclopedia collection proudly displayed like it was the crown jewel of human knowledge. We didn’t just own knowledge—we subscribed to it. One glorious volume arrived each month, like an academic advent calendar for nerdy children. Volume “A” to “Z,” with deep sighs of longing in between. I swear, I still remember the day Volume “P” arrived. I rushed to the mailbox like I was expecting a letter from a secret admirer. Nope. Just got the lowdown on Photosynthesis and Peru. But did that stop me from doing a dramatic reading of it over dinner? No, it did not. M...

  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...

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

This winter really kicked my rear end . I don’t know if it was actually colder, longer, and snowier than usual or if it just felt that way, but either way, I felt drained. A kind of low-grade listlessness settled over me, the kind that makes it hard to muster enthusiasm for much of anything. My creativity? It all but hibernated. I’ve always been a summer person. I thrive when the sun is shining, when I can get outside and move, when nature feels alive and bursting with possibility. There’s something about stepping into warm air that sparks energy in me, making ideas flow as easily as the breeze through the trees. But winter? Winter is different. The days are short, the nights are long, and the cold seeps into everything. Even with the glow of holiday lights or the beauty of fresh snow, I find myself counting down to spring. I try to embrace the season—hot tea, cozy blankets, the occasional twinkling snowfall—but the truth is, I have to actively fight my way through these three months...