Thinkingdog Publishing

There is a very specific expression Blueberry/ Pixie gets on her face whenever she sees me filming something important. Not when I am casually taking a picture of flowers. Not when I am trying to photograph tea beside a stack of books for the six hundredth “cozy author aesthetic” image of my career. No. She waits. Quietly. Patiently. Like a tiny fluffy theatre critic observing rehearsal from the back row. Then, the exact moment I begin recording a serious voiceover about writing, creativity, burnout, publishing, algorithms, reader connection, or “the emotional architecture of mystery fiction”... there she is. Trotting directly through the shot with the confidence of a retired silent film actress who knows perfectly well the audience came for her. Honestly, if she could smoke dramatically through a cigarette holder while murmuring, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she absolutely would. And the truly irritating part is that it works. I can spend three hours designi...

There is a weird silence at book fairs before the doors open. If you've ever done a signing, a craft show, a library event, or one of those enormous convention halls that smell weird, you know the one I mean. It's the sound of folding tables being adjusted for the fifth time, bookmarks being straightened into perfect little fans, and someone two tables over whispering, "Do you think this tablecloth looks okay?" And underneath all of it, every single author in the room is having the same thought. What if nobody stops at my booth? Not just the new ones. Not just the shy ones. All of us. The cozy mystery author with her paperbacks arranged beside a ceramic teacup, the fantasy writer with dragons on his banner, the artist behind the watercolour postcards trying not to stare directly down the aisle like a hungry raccoon waiting for snacks. We're all worrying about the same thing, and almost nobody admits it out loud. Oh, there's always someone performing bravery li...

There is a very specific moment that happens to me at gatherings. You know the kind. Someone is balancing a plate of something beige and vaguely festive, someone else is explaining their sourdough starter like it’s a personality trait, and then… it happens. “What do you write again?” “Cozy mysteries,” I say. Pause. Head tilt. “Wait… what’s a cozy mystery?” And this, my friends, is where the magic begins. I lean in a little, because this deserves drama. “Well,” I say, lowering my voice just enough to make it intriguing, “there’s a murder.” Eyebrows go up. Fork pauses mid-air. “But it’s polite,” I add. “No gore. No nightmares. Just… vibes.” Cue the laugh. The polite little “ha ha… huh, that’s cute.” The kind that says they’re not entirely convinced I haven’t just invented a genre to justify my love of tea and fictional crimes. And this is where I say, “Follow me for a minute, will you?” Because here’s the thing. You read true crime, don’t you? You listen to th...

There was a time—oh yes, gather ‘round, it feels slightly historical now—when Friday arrived like a dramatic movie soundtrack moment. You know the one. The clock hit five, and somewhere in the distance, invisible trumpets played. “It’s Friday!!!” Back then, that phrase meant freedom. Escape. Two glorious days where I did not have to think about spreadsheets, customer service emails, or that one person who believed—deep in their soul—that the phrase “the customer is always right” was a legally binding personality trait. Friday was less a day and more a rescue mission. I would shut down my computer with the kind of energy usually reserved for action heroes walking away from explosions. Weekend mode: activated. Brain: off. Joy: cautiously returning. And then… plot twist. I became a full-time author. Now let me tell you something no one puts on the inspirational Pinterest quote boards. When you start doing what you love for a living, you do not suddenly become someone who l...

There’s something rather magical about this particular moment in time. Here we are… suspended gently between Canada Day and the Fourth of July. Like the literary equivalent of sitting on a porch swing with a cup of tea in one hand and something slightly stronger in the other, watching the world celebrate in bursts of red, white, and… well, more red and white. Full disclosure: I live in Canada. Further disclosure: many of you do not. In fact, you are everywhere. The United States, Australia, New Zealand, across Europe… scattered beautifully across time zones and continents like the most delightful cast of characters I could never quite fit into one book (though don’t think I haven’t considered it). And that got me thinking. Why on earth would I limit myself to celebrating just one country… when I could celebrate with all of you? It feels like the most natural thing in the world, really. After all, stories don’t belong to borders. A cozy mystery doesn’t check your passpo...

You know that saying, “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life”? Yeah. About that. Whoever said it clearly never tried turning their passion into a business. This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity — and why, oh why, I’ve landed in this weird, exhausting place where being creative automatically means it must make money . This is a bit of a personal ramble, so pull up a chair, grab a cup of tea (or wine, I’m not judging), and let’s talk about it. If you’re reading this, chances are you’re creative too. You probably love reading, or painting, or baking, or sketching little masterpieces no one else ever sees. Maybe you’ve got a camera roll full of DIY projects you’ll finish “someday.” And if you’re not doing something creative right now, I bet you dream about it when you have more time. I’ve always been a dabbler — I design all my own book covers, play around with digital artwork, and I’ve even put some of my abstract art on clothing (yes, really...