Thinkingdog Publishing

October is almost over. That magical month where the sweaters finally escape the back of the closet, the blankets stage a cozy rebellion over the couch, and suddenly sitting by a fire with a great book feels like the most important activity in the world. Now, I know what you’re thinking, I am usually a summer person through and through. Sun on my face, ice cream in hand, toes in sand… that is my natural habitat. But there’s something about October that makes me fall in love with spooky season. It’s the way the fog curls around the trees like a little ghosty tiptoeing home. The shadows that suddenly look a little suspicious, the subtle magic that hangs in the air, like someone whispered an incantation and left it floating there just for fun. This is exactly why I write my magical realism cozy mysteries the way I do. I want you to feel that moment of delightful suspense, when you’re expecting a ghost to pop out at any minute but also hoping it does, because honestly, ghosts are kind ...

Here’s something that’s either going to make you say “duh” or “are you kidding me?”  Over the course of writing seven books in my Magical Papillon Mysteries series (yes, seven… I know you only have six in your hands right now, but the others are coming, pinky promise), I have learned so much it’s almost embarrassing. Not in a tragic way. In a “how did I not know this before?” way. When I wrote the first Magical Papillon book, I thought I understood pacing. I thought I understood tension. I thought I understood when to let a ghost float dramatically through a wall and when to let a single mother drink her coffee in peace. Turns out, I did not. Enter Rosewood Hollow. That charming, magical, slightly nosy town that now feels as real to me as my own kitchen. Somewhere between book one and book seven, I learned that magic has rules. Ghosts have boundaries. Secrets need air. Action needs silence. And pauses? Pauses are powerful. Sometimes the most important moment in a story is the breat...

There was a time—long, long ago, in a land of fluorescent lighting and lukewarm coffee—when my entire day was mapped out by someone else. Eight hours. Eight very structured, very supervised hours. Someone told me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. Possibly even how to breathe while doing it. And I remember thinking, with the quiet desperation of someone staring at a clock that refused to move that there had to be more than this. Fast forward to now. I am an indie author. Which sounds wildly glamorous until you realize it means I am now the boss, the employee, the intern, the marketing department, the IT support, and occasionally… the person who forgets where she put her own coffee. That's the plot twist no one really talks about: When you become your own boss, no one tells you what to do anymore. At all. There is no helpful voice saying, “Today, Sabine, you will write exactly 1,243 brilliant words, post at the optimal algorithm-approved time, and experience measurable suc...

Okay. So. Here's the thing. I sat down today with every intention of writing you the most brilliantly crafted, gloriously witty, perfectly cozy social media post about the Papillon series. You know the kind — the ones that make you laugh out loud, hit follow and then buy a slightly haunted cozy mystery involving a very small but extremely opinionated dog.  I had the vibe. I had the energy. I had the snacks. What I did not have, as it turns out, was a single solitary idea. I put my fingers on the keyboard. I stared at the screen. The screen stared back at me with the blank, unblinking patience of a particularly judgmental cat — except in my house, the judgy energy doesn't come from a cat. It comes from a five-pound Papillon named Blueberry who was, at that precise moment, watching me from her perch on the couch with an expression that said, very clearly, "Mom. What are you even doing." And honestly? Fair question, Blueberry. Fair question. Here's the thing nobody t...

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 particular kind of magic that settles over a book expo in the early morning before the doors open. The folding tables still wobble  on the convention hall floor. Someone nearby is wrestling with a banner stand that absolutely refuses to cooperate. The scent of coffee drifts through the room in brave little waves while authors smooth tablecloths, arrange stacks of books, and quietly wonder whether they remembered to pack enough change for cash sales. And there I sit behind my table of cozy mysteries, smiling warmly at passersby while attempting, through sheer force of will alone, to psychically encourage them toward my books. Go on, little murder mysteries, I think lovingly. Be irresistible. Sometimes people pause. Sometimes they pick one up and read the back cover. Sometimes they glance at me with the tiniest bit of cautious curiosity. Then inevitably comes the question. “Oh! Are you the author?” Now, the official answer is, of course: “Why yes. Yes, I am.” Which is...

There are few sounds in the life of an author more emotionally loaded than the groan of an old printer waking from hibernation. Not the cheerful hum of a modern office machine, mind you. I mean the old one. The dusty beast squatting in the corner like a retired dragon guarding ancient toner cartridges and unresolved grudges from 2017. The printer you haven’t touched in so long that when you finally press the power button, it sounds personally offended. As a cozy mystery author, I spend most of my days happily tucked inside the digital world. My manuscripts float safely in cloud storage. My notes live in apps with color-coded tabs. My editor leaves comments in neat little bubbles instead of scribbling in red pen like an irritated schoolmaster from a Victorian boarding academy. And yet. Every now and then, despite all our noble intentions to save paper and become streamlined digital creatures of the future, an author needs a hard copy. Maybe it’s edits. Maybe it’s proofreading. Maybe you...

Here's what I'd noticed: when someone asks "how are you?", we mostly answer with a verbal shrug. Oh, you know. Tired. Busy. Surviving. And then we nod at each other, having successfully confirmed that being alive is a lot of work and neither of us wishes to elaborate. Because — and I say this with love — nobody actually wants the download. Answer that polite little question with a four-minute report on your car's mysterious new noise and your neighbour's judgmental dog, and you can watch the light leave a person's eyes in real time. They asked out of habit. You handed them a monologue. But. And it's a glorious, magnificent but. Walk around genuinely smiling — not the frozen caffeine grin, but a warm, I-know-something-you-don't smile — and suddenly everyone is desperately curious about you. Like you've strolled in holding a mysterious little box, and the whole room wants to know what's inside. So naturally, I ran an experiment....