Thinkingdog Publishing

So Blueberry and I entered an agility competition recently. And before you ask—did we win anything? Not unless they start handing out ribbons for “Most Goofy Pair on the Course.” Let’s just say our teamwork is… interpretive. Blueberry’s got the skills, I’ve got the comedic timing. If there were a category for “creative detours,” we’d sweep it every time. She’s the one who could win medals—if it weren’t for me getting in her way, tripping over tunnels, and occasionally mistaking the exit for the entry. (That’s another post entirely.) But here’s where things got interesting. At the end of the event, there was a special “weave pole” challenge—48 slalom poles in a row. That’s right. Forty-eight. Even watching it made me tired. Blueberry? She looked at that sea of poles, gave a little tail flick, and sailed through like it was nothing. No hesitation. No counting. No mental spreadsheet of “ugh, 47 more to go.” Just—one, two, three… flow. I stood there in awe, watching ...

Oh hello. You're here for the author , aren’t you? Sarah something? Writes those cozy mysteries where people drink tea, find dead bodies, and somehow still have time to bake cookies? Yeah, her. Listen, I’m not saying she’s bad at it. I’m just saying… without me , there’d be a lot more plot holes and a lot fewer ghosts, magical clues, or talking dogs. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Pixie , the Papillon. Aka the real power behind the pen. Aka Editor-in-Chief at Thinkingdog Publishing. Aka the Reason She Ever Finishes a Book. You think she sits down at her desk, lights a candle, and gracefully types out a mystery masterpiece? No. She sits in pajamas that may or may not be from last Tuesday, holding a coffee cup like it’s the Holy Grail, muttering things like “Wait, did I already kill off the gardener?” and “Why is there a duck in this chapter?” That’s where I come in. The moment she veers too far off track—like, “Let’s make the killer a time-traveling pigeon farmer fr...

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...

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...

Let's be honest, my fellow book lovers . We've all looked at our To-Be-Read piles and thought, "I should probably read what I have before buying more." It's a noble, sensible, and utterly boring thought that we immediately dismiss, right? Well, get ready to throw that sensibility out the window, because on October 22nd , we're all becoming book criminals! I'm thrilled to announce that I'm part of the massive, once-a-year, bookish crime spree known as the Stuff Your Kindle Crime Event ! For 24 glorious hours, hundreds of authors (including little old me!) are setting their books FREE. We're talking a whole library's worth of thrillers that will chill you, mysteries that will stump you, and cozy mysteries that will make you want to solve a murder in a quaint village while sipping tea. Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It: Mark your calendar: Circle, highlight, and set 12 alarms for October 22nd . Visit the scene of the crime: Head over ...

The other day, as I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook (which I swear was just for five minutes, but then somehow an hour disappeared—Facebook time is not real time), I saw an ad that stopped me cold. It asked: "Have you ever wished for a minor accident or illness—not serious, just enough to stay in bed for a few days and rest?" My immediate, gut reaction? Absolutely, yes. And apparently, I wasn’t alone. The comments were a chorus of, “Oh my gosh, YES!” and “All the time.” and “Where do I sign up for a light, non-life-threatening illness that involves tea, naps, and binge-watching detective shows?” Wait. Hold on. When did we, as a society, reach the point where the dream of self-care involves a medically justified break from life ? When did we go from "Omg, I hope I never get sick" to "Look, I don’t want anything permanent, but if the universe wanted to drop a mild, fever-free flu on me, I wouldn’t fight it” ? Welcome to the Productivity Cul...

October has arrived , my friends, and with it comes that crisp, pumpkin-scented breeze that whispers, “Hey, you should be writing instead of sniffing every cinnamon candle in the store.” Now, I don’t know about you, but summer around here was busy. Between art shows, book releases, and wrangling the latest audiobook production into existence, I managed to blink and suddenly September was gone. I also managed to ignore the elephant on my desktop—otherwise known as the first draft of book seven (!!!) in my Magical Papillon Mysteries series. It has been sitting there, waiting patiently, like a half-baked pie that really needs to go back in the oven. Here’s the problem: I also have a perfectly delicious outline for book eight. Oh, book eight is shiny. Book eight is whispering, “Pick me, pick me!” in the way that only brand-new ideas can. But alas, I am not allowed to start book eight until I whip book seven into shape and send it off to my editor. Think of it as literary tough love. ...

There are dog people. There are cat people. And then there are those magical unicorns who manage to love both. Me? I’ve always been a dog person, no hesitation, no fence-sitting. At the tender age of seven, I marched into dog ownership with my very first dachshund. Her name? Spot. I know, I know. You’re thinking, “Wow, that’s original.” In my defense, I was seven, and frankly, every dog book I’d ever read led me to believe that if you named a dog anything other than Spot, Fido, or Rover, it simply wouldn’t fetch. Also - look at her face! Spot was the beginning of a lifelong love affair. With the exception of a few (tragically dogless) years, I’ve always had a furry companion—or two or three—by my side. Some people collect stamps. I collect dogs. Now, I’ll admit something that every dog lover secretly knows: this is a story that never ends well. Dogs are with us for such a heartbreakingly short time. But still, given the choice, I’ll sign up for the heartbreak every single time. Th...

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:...

You know what’s harder than plotting a cozy mystery where the Papillon always sniffs out the clues before the humans do? Harder than writing a romantic subplot that doesn’t sound like it belongs in a greeting card from 1992? Harder than naming five suspects who all have plausible motives, mysterious pasts, and an odd relationship with baked goods? Facebook ads. Yes. Facebook ads. I’m not kidding – at all. I have just survived the most excruciating, ridiculous, time-warping four hours of my life trying to program in a few simple ads for my books. I went in optimistic. Hopeful, even. Maybe a little smug. I thought, how hard could it be? (Spoiler alert: that was my first mistake.) First, Facebook (Meta? ZuckLand? Whatever they’re calling it now) required me to set up not one, but approximately 437 separate accounts, business pages, ad managers, pixel integrations, and possibly a small sacrificial offering to the algorithm gods. I clicked through pages. I filled in boxes. I uploade...

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...