Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

Every year, like clockwork, people ask me, “So Sabine… how was your Christmas?” And every year I think, Well, how honest do you want me to be? Do you want the Instagram-ready version… or the real one where my Papillon, Blueberry, stole a shortbread cookie straight off the cooling rack? Now, let me get this out right away before anyone gasps into their peppermint cocoa—I know not everyone celebrates Christmas. Truly. I respect that. I cherish it. I even wholeheartedly agree that the world could probably use fewer rules about when and how we’re “supposed” to feel festive. But I can’t help it: this season is one of my favourites. It’s cozy, it’s sparkly, and it gives me an excuse to wear ridiculous socks with dancing reindeer on them. Still, holidays aren’t simple.  They’re beautiful and messy and sometimes heartbreakingly quiet. I remember the Christmas right after my mom passed. Nothing felt quite right. I wasn’t ready to be joyful, or festive, or even upright before noon. I drifted...

Parents today will never—never—understand how my dad successfully managed a real, live Christmas tree in the 1960s with actual burning candles clipped to the branches. Not LED candles. Not battery-operated flicker candles. I’m talking honest-to-goodness wax candles with flames that snapped, crackled, and bravely licked at the pine needles like tiny dragons with holiday spirit. And there we were beneath it: three children hopped up on sugar, and a few dachshunds who, for reasons known only to dogs, believed that Christmas was the ideal time for interpretive dance. Add in Lametta—yes, the shiny silver tinsel we draped strand by strand like it was haute couture—and you’ve got a festive setup worthy of a cozy mystery prologue. Any modern fire marshal would faint. Yet somehow, my father orchestrated this combustible symphony with the calm confidence of a man who believed strongly in supervision, tradition, and the power of a giant bucket of water placed discreetly beside the tree. We w...

The other day, somebody bought me a t-shirt that made me stop in my tracks and think, wait a minute, do I have a twin somewhere out there? Because on the front of this glorious piece of cotton it said: “I’m not really antisocial, I just prefer dogs.” And in that moment, I felt seen . Like, really seen. As if some stranger had cracked open my brain, read all the scribbled notes inside, and thought, Yep. That’s her slogan. Because here’s the truth: I do prefer dogs. Not always, not in every single moment—but often enough that I might as well embroider it on a pillow. Dogs don’t care if you show up with messy hair or with anxiety trailing after you like a second shadow. They don’t judge your questionable taste in snacks (hello, cheese puffs for dinner) or side-eye you for binge-reading cozy mysteries when the laundry is staging a coup. If you treat them well, they’ll treat you better. If you mess up, they’ll forgive you before you’ve even finished apologizing. And unlike people, dog...

Hello, world. It’s me. Buddy. Yes— that Buddy . The suave, sophisticated, velvet-eared Papillon who just waltzed into this family like a tiny, handsome hurricane of charm. Tonight is my very first night here, and I’m typing this up on Mommy’s laptop while she thinks I’m “settling in.” Little does she know I’m already preparing my memoirs. You know, for future bestseller status. I live with an author now, so I’m basically obligated. Earlier today, I was feeling a bit lost. I won’t sugarcoat it—losing your family is hard. One minute you’re somewhere familiar, and the next you’re blinking in a brand-new world wondering where the cheese treats are. But then… everything shifted. I landed here. In this warm house. With soft lighting and blankets that smell like dryer sheets and hope. And suddenly, somehow, I wasn’t lost anymore. Let me introduce my new siblings. Kobe is fifteen and has the calm energy of a retired detective in a cozy mystery who has seen everything and just wants his di...

I don’t know how y’all do it . Truly. I am in absolute awe of the people who walk around with their phones chiming, pinging, jingling, and jangling like an overenthusiastic one-man band. It’s like their entire existence is set to the soundtrack of Incoming Notification Symphony No. 5 in B-flat minor. Me? I cannot. I will not. I refuse . The first thing I do when I get a new phone—before setting up email, before adding my contacts, before even connecting to Wi-Fi—is turn off notifications . Every single one of them. If a phone could gasp in horror, I swear mine would. “Oh, you don’t want to be alerted when someone breathes near your social media? You’re sure you don’t need to know immediately when Aunt Carol posts another blurry photo of her cat? You really don’t want to be reminded for the 47th time today that you left an item in your shopping cart?” No, phone. I do not. I want peace. I want quiet. I want my train of thought to pull out of the station without being derailed every...

If you’ve ever seen one of my videos, you might’ve caught a glimpse—just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment—of a massive old hickory tree standing like a stoic sentry in the park near my house. It’s an absolute beast of a tree. Towering. Majestic. With a trunk so wide it splits into two at the bottom like it’s got a dramatic flair for posing. This tree is old, scarred, and—dare I say it—glorious. Naturally, I became obsessed. I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with an elderly tree that looks like it’s been through several wars and come out the other side throwing shade (literally and figuratively)? Two autumns ago, while others were sipping pumpkin lattes and posting selfies with cinnamon sticks, I was crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, collecting hickory nuts like some sort of deranged woodland creature. But not just any nuts—oh no. I carefully selected only the viable ones. (I even did a float test in water, because yes, I am that person now.) Then came the c...

Have you ever shouted at the universe, shaken your fist at the sky, or quietly (or not-so-quietly) begged your coffee machine to please just do this one thing right for once ? Have you ever wished—deep down—that you had a wand to wave, a spell to chant, or a dragon to sic on your internet provider? Same. That’s why I write magic. Now, let me back up a bit. I’ve been in situations where life handed me lemons, but also forgot the sugar, the water, the pitcher, and the instructions. You know the kind: where things feel wildly unfair, like the villain is clearly winning, and you're stuck with the sidekick role—but without the witty one-liners or costume budget. So, what do you do when real life is missing sparkle, fairness, and the satisfaction of a dramatic entrance? You invent a world where things can change with a spell. Where you can say the thing you wish you said. Where justice doesn’t take years and three lawyers. Where kindness is a superpower, animals talk back (sometim...

So - here we go again: it’s 7:13 AM. I’m in my robe. I have one sock on. The dog is staring at me like I just told her I threw out all the treats. My laptop is open, the cursor blinking like it’s judging me, and I’m staring at my manuscript thinking: Who gave me permission to write a book? Was there a form? A permit? Did I miss the licensing exam? Welcome to Tuesday. Also known as: “Imposter Syndrome’s Favorite Day.” Here’s the thing—I thought imposter syndrome was something that happened only to other people. People who accidentally got promoted to CEO when they meant to send an email. Or someone who woke up famous and didn’t know how to use Instagram filters. But no. Imposter syndrome is an equal opportunity mischief-maker. And for writers? It’s practically a roommate. Don’t believe me? Let’s talk about John Steinbeck. You know, Of Mice and Men , The Grapes of Wrath , East of Eden —that guy. He once wrote this in his journal: “My many weaknesses are beginning to show their head...

When people ask me what I miss most about Germany, they expect me to say something dramatic like castles, cobblestones, or perhaps men in lederhosen playing accordions under ancient oak trees. But no. The truth is far simpler—and far sweeter. I miss Kaffee und Kuchen. In Germany, Sunday afternoons have a rhythm as steady as a church bell. Around three or four o’clock, no matter how busy the week has been, people pause. Coffee is brewed. Cakes—sometimes rich and chocolatey like a proper Black Forest, sometimes fruity, tart, and dusted with sugar, sometimes streusel-strewn and buttery—are sliced and plated. Families and friends gather around tables, whether in kitchens or crowded cafés, and for one golden hour the world slows down. It isn’t really about the cake, though heaven knows the cake is reason enough. It’s about connection. It’s about talking face to face rather than through texts or rushed phone calls. It’s about traditions that stitch the week together, offering the promise t...

There I was, minding my own business, when fate decided to play a cruel joke. I dropped my phone. Not from a rooftop, not into a pond, not even in one of those heart-stopping toilet disasters. Nope. It just slipped from my hand like it was auditioning for a role in a soap opera. Dramatic fall. Shattered screen. Exit stage left. So, I did what any reasonable person would do—I got a new one. Same brand, just the next model up. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. Wrong in the way a “surprise” villain shows up in chapter twenty-seven of a cozy mystery even though he hasn’t been in the book since chapter two. Apparently, in the five years since I last upgraded (yes, five years—I like to think of myself as loyal, not outdated), phones have learned how to argue with their owners. This new contraption asks me every five minutes if I “really meant to do that.” Why yes, Phone Overlord, I did mean to open my email. I’ve been opening my email since the dawn of Gmail, and I don’t need your judgment. And t...

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...

Growing up, I was a walking, talking mystery to my family. Honestly, if my dad and I hadn’t been so close, I might’ve been written off as an alien life form left on the doorstep. You see, my parents were the definition of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people. Good people. Honest people. The kind of people who fixed things with duct tape and cooked dinner while doing three other things at once. My mom could stretch a dollar until it begged for mercy. My dad could fix a car engine with a shoelace and a pocketknife. And there I was: doodling in the margins of my notebook, daydreaming about far-off lands and writing dramatic poetry about the moon. When it came time for me to "learn a trade," the recommendation was solid: secretarial work. It was practical. It made sense. It paid the bills. And it made me about as happy as a cat at a dog show. I spent forty years (yes, four-zero, not a typo) working jobs that made me feel like a square peg hammered into a round hole. I showed...

Structure. Just saying it out loud feels… mildly offensive . Like a distant relative showing up uninvited with a casserole. The kind of thing I absolutely rebelled against when I was seventeen. “Structure? Pfft. I don’t need no structure!” I shouted, probably in front of a mirror, probably with eyeliner smudged from some dramatic emotional revelation about freedom and individuality. And yet… here we are. Seventeen, eighteen… I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve written. And as I click open the latest Word document, my gut does a little shiver of recognition. Structure is actually… useful. There, I said it. Useful. Shocking, I know. Structure keeps you on track. It prevents that horrifying moment where you sit at your keyboard, staring blankly at the blinking cursor, muttering, “How does this story continue now?” It’s like the invisible hand holding a leash on your runaway imagination, and for once, it’s a leash you don’t entirely mind. But the real magic? Structure tells you wh...

You know how some people get up at dawn to go fishing? They sit there in their boats, patiently waiting, casting, reeling, hoping for a big catch. Well, let me tell you about the real fisherman in our family. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t own a tackle box, and his fishing license would never hold up under scrutiny. I’m talking about our dog. Yes, you read that right. One of our dogs is a fisherman, though “fisherman” is maybe too generous a word. “Lake stander and occasional snapper” might be more accurate. But for the sake of his dignity, we call it fishing. And believe me, he takes it very, very seriously. Happens every time when we’re at the cabin (or the cottage, for those of us Canucks who know that’s the proper word). It’s early morning, the kind of crisp fall day where the mist is still rolling off the water, and most sane beings are wrapped in blankets with hot coffee in hand. But not him. Nope. Six o’clock sharp, he’s up, tail wagging, trotting down to the water like it’s h...

You know what makes an author’s heart soar higher than a caffeinated squirrel? Reviews. Glorious, wonderful, sparkly Amazon reviews. I know, I know. Every author says it: “Reviews are so important!” And readers nod along, probably thinking, “Cool, but I have things to do, like actually reading your book.” But here’s the deal: reviews are the magic fairy dust that makes books visible to new readers. And by “magic fairy dust,” I mean cold, unfeeling algorithms that decide whether my book gets recommended or buried under a mountain of “How to Train Your Goldfish” manuals. Now, I totally get it—writing a review sounds like work . You’ve just finished an emotional rollercoaster of a story (or, in the case of my books, a wild, magical mystery with talking Papillon dogs), and now I’m asking for more? But hear me out… Leaving a review doesn’t have to be a dissertation. No need for literary analysis, Shakespearean prose, or an MLA citation format. Amazon isn’t grading you. Here’s all it ta...

You know that saying: “It takes a thousand attaboys to make up for one ‘oh sh t.’”* Whoever said that? Genius. Pure, unfiltered genius. Because it is painfully, annoyingly, exasperatingly true. Let me take you behind the scenes of my other life . Yes, because while my writing career is still building (more chapters to come, friends), in the daylight hours I organize a huge outdoor art show in my hometown. And not to brag, but let’s just say, if there’s a job connected to this event, I do it. I’m like Mary Poppins with an endless bag—except instead of pulling out umbrellas and sugar cubes, I pull out spreadsheets, contracts, and more emails than any sane human should have to read. Part of my annual heroic efforts includes creating alllll the social media content. I’m talking images, videos, stories, text—you name it, I design it. Last year, I uploaded the whole glorious lot to a shared folder and told my nearly 200 artists : “Hey, it’s all there for you! Use it however you’d like....

Have you ever shouted at the universe , shaken your fist at the sky, or quietly (or not-so-quietly) begged your coffee machine to please just do this one thing right for once ? Have you ever wished—deep down—that you had a wand to wave, a spell to chant, or a dragon to sic on your internet provider? Same. That’s why I write magic. Now, let me back up a bit. I’ve been in situations where life handed me lemons, but also forgot the sugar, the water, the pitcher, and the instructions. You know the kind: where things feel wildly unfair, like the villain is clearly winning, and you're stuck with the sidekick role—but without the witty one-liners or costume budget. So, what do you do when real life is missing sparkle, fairness, and the satisfaction of a dramatic entrance? You invent a world where things can change with a spell. Where you can say the thing you wish you said. Where justice doesn’t take years and three lawyers. Where kindness is a superpower, animals talk back (someti...

There comes a time in a woman’s life —usually somewhere between muttering “I don’t need instructions” and yelling “WHY won’t this work?!” at a perfectly innocent browser tab—when she realizes she’s building a quiz for her cozy mystery readers. And not just any quiz, mind you. Oh no. This is the “Which Rosewood Hollow Character Are You?” quiz. Are you a Sarah? An Emma? A Pixie? (You wish you were Pixie.) Or possibly a Matthew, which means you're chronically skeptical and have a thing about gluten-free muffins. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Sabine, surely you just sent this off to an agency and had some sleek, high-end, interactive whiz-bang quiz built with fancy buttons, animated transitions, and background music that sounds like a Wes Anderson soundtrack played by hedgehogs on tiny harps.” Well. I could have. I could have dropped a few hundred bucks on a service. Or paid a developer to make it all look like it was sprinkled in tech-fairy dust. But here’s the thing:...