Thinkingdog Publishing

There was a time—not so long ago, but also somehow a lifetime ago—when the internet felt like opening a mysterious little door. You didn’t know what you were going to find. You clicked anyway. And then you just… stayed. Reading. Exploring. Falling down delightful rabbit holes that had absolutely nothing to do with what you originally came for. No pop-ups screaming at you. No perfectly curated lives making you question your existence. Just curiosity and a sense that something interesting was always waiting around the next click. It was fun. And now? Well. Now it’s… a lot. It’s ads stacked on ads stacked on “just one more ad before you get to the thing you actually wanted.” It’s perfectly lit videos with people who somehow look like they woke up flawless and live in homes that have never met a stray sock or a muddy paw. And here I am… In a 100-year-old house that creaks like it has opinions. The lighting? Let’s call it “moody” on a good day and “did a ghost just dim t...

Truth time? I have a full-blown, popcorn-in-hand, rabbit-hole-diving addiction to watching videos about how to “do well on social media.” Not casually watching - Studying. Observing. Nodding thoughtfully as someone with perfect lighting and cheekbones blessed by the algorithm tells me that if I don’t post three reels a day, engage for forty-seven minutes before and after, use trending audio from a seventeen-second clip of a remix originally posted in 2024, and position my coffee mug at a 32-degree angle… I will vanish into the void. It is both fascinating and mildly terrifying, and I am not going to do any of it. You want to know how I know? Y’all are taking it so serious. Meanwhile, I am over here half-assing my social media presence because I know I have to. I know I should. I know visibility matters. I know marketing is important. I know the algorithm is a mysterious creature that must occasionally be fed. And yet. I don’t particularly want to be o...

There are two kinds of people awake at three in the morning. The first group is peacefully asleep, dreaming about beaches, vacations, and fluffy clouds. The second group is writers. Specifically… writers whose brains decide that 3:07 a.m. is the perfect time to launch a full creative production meeting . I wish I were exaggerating. Picture this: the house is quiet. The world is asleep. Even the moon seems to be minding its own business. I’m lying in bed trying very hard to drift off into dreamland. Instead, my brain leans over the metaphorical desk, slams a stack of imaginary papers down, and says: “Okay team, hear me out. What if… magical kingdoms… ancient prophecy… morally complicated hero… and it’s a trilogy.” Excuse me? A trilogy? It is three in the morning. I cannot remember where I put my glasses yesterday, but apparently I am now outlining an entire fantasy saga . And not just a vague idea either. Oh no. My brain goes all in. There’s world-building. Ther...

  There comes a moment in life — somewhere between your first grey hair and the first time you willingly choose elastic-waist trousers — when you realize something profound: You have spent an impressive amount of time trying not to offend anyone. Not too loud. Not too strange. Not too ambitious. Not too dreamy. Not too… you. For a considerable portion of my life, I tried very hard to be what I believed was “expected.” Sensible. Polite. Predictable. Professional. The kind of person who nods in meetings, files papers in neat folders, and pretends spreadsheets are thrilling. I did the “normal.” I did the “responsible.” I smiled through jobs that felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small. Perfectly acceptable. Mildly painful. Entirely unnecessary. And do you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. The world did not applaud my normality. No one handed me a medal for “Most Inoffensive Human.” There was no parade for “Successfully Blended In.” Instead, somewhere ...

There’s a theory I’ve been quietly nurturing between cups of coffee and dramatic plot twists. I think you have to be an introvert to be a writer. Hear me out. Who else voluntarily spends hours sitting alone in a room, staring at a laptop, blinking occasionally, while internally sprinting across rooftops in a town that doesn’t exist? Who else battles enemies they invented, panics because their hero is about to fall off a cliff, and then desperately scrambles to think of something—anything—before gravity wins? Writers. That’s who. And not just any writers. Cozy mystery writers. Paranormal cozy mystery writers. The sort of people who think, “You know what this murder investigation needs? An enchanted Papillon and a dash of Christmas spirit.” I sit there, looking perfectly calm from the outside. Maybe even serene. Meanwhile, inside my head, Rosewood Hollow is in chaos. Someone’s been poisoned. Someone else is lying. My heroine is in danger. And I am frantically trying to deci...

There is a myth floating around the internet. A persistent little fairy tale. Apparently, somewhere between publishing my first cozy mystery and lovingly introducing the world to magical dogs, ghosts, and small-town secrets, I became independently wealthy. I would very much like to know when that happened. Because according to my inbox, I am absolutely swimming in consultant-level disposable income. Every single day, without fail, I receive approximately seven emails. Sometimes more. They arrive like clockwork. They are polite. They are enthusiastic. They are confident. “Dear Author, Let me put your book on my premium reader list.” Which book, my friend? I have fifteen. Are we talking about the one with the ghost? The one with the magical Papillon? The one with the small-town murder wrapped in Christmas cookies and secrets? A hint would be delightful. Next email. “Let me optimize your categories and keywords.” Marvelous. Again — which book? I would love to know whi...

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...

I grew up in a small town. And when I say small, I don’t mean “quaint tourist brochure small.” I mean the kind of small where the most exciting event of the year is the volunteer fire department festival, closely followed by the church raffle. You showed up for both, by the way. Not attending would have been suspicious. This was one of those corners of the country where everyone knew not only your name, but whose child you were, what you had for lunch yesterday, and whether you were walking a little too fast for a Tuesday. Privacy was… aspirational. Naturally, when we needed to get away from it all, we went to a cabin. In a town that was even smaller. I wish I were kidding. As an out-of-towner, you knew everybody in about a week flat. By week two, people nodded knowingly when you walked by. By week three, someone’s aunt had decided you needed more sweaters. This is how community works when there are approximately twelve people and a cow. But here’s the thing—it was beauti...

There’s a dangerous myth floating around out there, and I hear it all the time. “I don’t have anything to write about.” Which is fascinating, because five minutes earlier, you were telling me about a weird look a stranger gave you in the grocery store, your dog absolutely refusing to pee for reasons known only to her, and a sentence you overheard in line that made you stop mid-thought. But sure. Nothing to write about. Here’s the truth I’ve learned as an author—and especially as a cozy mystery author. The big moments are overrated. The small, throwaway, blink-and-you-miss-it moments? Those are where the magic lives. The glance. The pause. The overheard sentence. The dog who suddenly plants her feet like she’s staging a protest because the grass feels emotionally wrong today. Recently, I was having a few drinks with my artist friend. Nothing fancy. Just gabbing, laughing, shooting the breeze the way you do when the world slows down enough for real conversation. Her house, by...