Thinkingdog Publishing

There’s a little thing that never shows up on an author bio page, or gets mentioned in the beautiful author interviews, though someone absolutely should. I don’t care how many books they’ve written – every writer will hit a wall. Not a little doubt, not just "hmm, I wonder if this scene is working" kind of thought. Oh no – a real wall, face first, seeing stars, hearing the sound effect kind of moment, and you are absolutely convicted that everything you’ve written is absolute, unmitigated rubbish. How do I know this? Because I have now written fifteen books. Fifteen. So you would think that I have done this often enough and I should, by all reasonable logic, have developed some kind of immunity. A vague memory perhaps, yeah, this usually happens, I’ve been here before, I know how this ends. Alas, there is no immunity. Here is exactly how it goes, in case you are a writer who needs to hear this, or a reader who wants to understand why authors occasionally look haunted ...

  5 Reason s Momm y Write s Coz y Mysteries (as told by me, her extremely important magical papillon sidekick) 1.      She’s Squeamish (Like… Dramatically So) Mommy cannot handle guts, gore, or anything that goes “splat” in an unfriendly way. I once saw her apologize to a wilted spinach leaf. Cozy mysteries are her safe little storytelling garden where the worst thing that happens is someone faints politely near a teapot. Much better for everyone’s nerves. Especially mine. I am delicate. 2.      She’s Always Looking for the Good in Everyone Even the suspicious baker with the twitchy eyebrow? “Probably just misunderstood,” she says. Mommy believes everyone has a soft center, like a perfectly baked muffin. So in her stories, villains get unmasked, but they also get explained . Justice… with a side of empathy. (And possibly lemon drizzle.) 3.      She’s Obsessed with Ghosts Not scar...

When I published the first book in my cozy mystery series, I had a fairly simple expectation. I thought I would spend my time writing stories, introducing readers to my characters, and perhaps celebrating the occasional book sale with entirely reasonable levels of excitement. What I did not expect was to become the target of what appeared to be an international effort to help me part with my money. The transformation happened almost overnight. One day I was simply a person who had written a book. The next day I seemed to have entered a parallel universe where hundreds of complete strangers had suddenly become deeply invested in my literary success.  My inbox filled up. Facebook messages began appearing. Comments showed up in unexpected places. Everywhere I turned, someone seemed eager to explain that my book possessed enormous potential and that, fortunately for me, they had a service that could unlock it.   It was strangely flattering at first. Apparently I had written...

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...