Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

  Some writers create characters by outlining deep backstories, crafting complex motivations, and maybe even making an elaborate mood board filled with vintage photographs and mysterious newspaper clippings. Others just go, “Hmm, what if a ghost, but, like… complicated ?” I fall somewhere in the middle. My ghosts aren’t just floating around waiting to jump out of a closet at midnight. They have goals. They have emotions. They have regrets. And, most importantly, they have better things to do than rattle chains and lurk ominously in the corner. Honestly, some of them are busier dead than they ever were alive. Take Amelia, for instance. She’s one of my favorite ghostly characters in my cozy mystery series. You’d think being a ghost would mean a lot of free time to do… ghost things? (What are ghost hobbies, anyway? Spectral knitting? Paranormal Pinterest scrolling?) But no, Amelia has a mission. And that mission involves way more than just floating through walls for dramatic effect...

The Day I Forgot the chairs, But Remembered the Wine  An “About the Author” misadventure with dogs, books, and Christmas in July magic. You know what makes for a perfect day? A vineyard. Dogs. A Christmas-themed event...in July. Oh, and did I mention wine ? This past weekend, we packed up our books, our branding, and our two furry sidekicks—Blueberry (the real-life inspiration behind Pixie the magical Papillon) and Kobe (our wise, old floof and Senior Advisor to All Things)—and headed off to the Hounds of Erie Winery for their fabulous Christmas in July celebration. Why? Because Book 4 in the Magical Papillon Mysteries just launched and it happens to be titled—wait for it— Christmas in July. Clearly, fate was sending a festive wine-soaked sleigh in our direction, and we were all in. We had a booth set up among the grapevines and wagging tails, and honestly? It was an absolute blast . The Hounds of Erie team were some of the kindest, most welcoming humans you could ever ...

There’s this German TV show I love. It’s one of those wonderfully slow-paced, feel-good programs where a guy drives around the countryside, poking into little-known corners of the world, visiting old craftsmen, artists, and those wonderfully eccentric people who always have a twinkle in their eye and a suspiciously large number of half-finished projects lying around. You know the type. The ones who start their sentences with, "Ach, back in my day..." but then promptly pull out a blowtorch, a chisel, or an embroidery needle and create something breathtaking. But here’s the thing—they’re not just working . They’re living . They LOVE what they do. They’re in their seventies, their eighties, sometimes even their nineties, and they’re still at it. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because whatever they do—be it woodcarving, painting, weaving, or some bizarre skill no one’s even heard of outside their tiny village—it’s their thing . And I think there’s a les...

There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together? I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.) But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and ...