Thinkingdog Publishing

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’s a podcast I’m a little obsessed with . It’s all about scammers who somehow convince the rest of us to fork over our hard-earned money in exchange for… well… dreams, delusions, and in some cases, dubious investments in psychic dolphin therapy. (Okay, I made that last one up. But tell me it doesn’t sound real.) Every time I listen, I shake my head and go, “How could they fall for that?!” And then I remember. Oh yes. I too have walked the path of the gullible. Let’s rewind time to a much, much, much younger version of me. Younger Me, bless her heart, had a weakness for mystery, magic, and online auctions. This is the tale of The Haunted Ring With a Genie In It™ . I swear I’m not making this up. I stumbled across this listing: a haunted ring. With a genie. Real, ancient, probably cursed. But with powers . Powers I could unleash if I performed a SEVENTEEN STEP RITUAL. (Yes. Seventeen. Because eight steps would’ve been too easy and eighteen just felt needy.) Naturally, I bought...

Friends, readers, fellow caffeine-dependent life forms— This is your friendly neighborhood author reporting live from... somewhere just shy of the Arctic Circle. Okay, maybe not that far north, but it feels like it. Especially when your only connection to civilization involves plugging in the Starlink and hoping the squirrels don’t chew through the cable. Now, you know me. I’m all about showing up, putting on the writing pants (they're stretchy, obviously), and getting the words down. I love a good “sit down and do the thing” moment. That’s my jam. But sometimes, you’ve got to do something radical. You have to... stop. I know. Take a breath. I’ll wait while you recover from that bombshell. Truth is, the creative well doesn’t refill itself, especially not when I’m knee-deep in deadlines, plotting magical mysteries, and making sure Pixie the Papillon doesn’t unionize for more treats and magical screen time. So I did something wild: I packed up, left the to-do list behind...

There’s nothing quite like pouring your heart, soul, and an irresponsible amount of coffee into a novel—only to have someone on the internet declare it “the worst book I’ve ever read” right after publication day. First of all… dramatic much? If you’re reading this post and you’ve ever gotten a bad review, welcome to the club . We have cookies. And tissues. And a secret spreadsheet where we compare the most dramatic one-star zingers and rate them for flair and emotional devastation. There's even an entire podcast where they read one-star reviews out loud - and make fun of them. But seriously. Let’s talk about it. Bad reviews happen to everybody. And I mean everybody . I once looked up reviews for a wildly famous author who’s sold more books than there are cats on the internet (and that’s saying something), and guess what? One-star reviews galore. Someone said their “writing style reminded them of damp lettuce.” I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s harsh. So what do we ...

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...

Dear Human Readers, Hi. It’s me. Pixie. The fluffy superstar of the Magical Papillon Mysteries —and the uncredited, unpaid, and completely underappreciated behind-the-scenes talent of this entire household. So apparently, this week’s blog post is “About the Author.” But really, who knows her better than me ? I see all. I hear all. I nap through most of it. So buckle up, because I'm about to tell you what it’s really like living with a writer who moonlights as an audiobook narrator—and spoiler alert: it involves a lot of dramatic whisper-talking and an unreasonable amount of “SHHHH-ing.” Let’s talk about the Little Room. No, not the bathroom. The other little room. The one filled with foam panels and wires and that giant puffy microphone that looks like it should be chasing Indiana Jones through a cave. This, apparently, is where “the magic happens.” I call it the Box of Solitude and Unjust Barking Bans. Every day, Mom walks in there with her mug of tea (that I’m not ...

 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...

Let’s set the scene: It’s a bright Tuesday morning. I’m sipping my coffee, scrolling through social media like any responsible adult procrastinating on chapter edits. And there it is. Not one, not two, but fifteen comments dragging someone’s handmade soap like it personally committed a felony. “I’d never use this on my worst enemy. ” “Looks like slugs.” “Bet it smells like despair.” I mean… wow. That escalated faster than my heart rate when I remember I left the laundry in the washer three days ago. And this isn’t about soap, or art, or books, or fashion, or whatever passion someone was brave enough to share with the world. This is about the sudden popularity of… let’s call it the Snark Olympics . And friend, everyone seems to think they’re going for gold. When did meanness become the default? When did “this isn’t for me” turn into “this person must be publicly humiliated and possibly banished to the nether realms”? Now, I’m not saying we all need to sprinkle glitter ...

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...

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 ...