Thinkingdog Publishing

The other day someone asked me a question that made me pause. This was the kind of pause where your brain suddenly stops, blinks twice, and goes, Wait… are we having an existential moment now? Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that today. The question was simple enough. “How do you deal with it?” I smiled politely. That’s usually my default response when people ask questions that could potentially spiral into deep philosophical territory before I’ve had enough coffee. “How do you write these cozy mysteries,” they continued, “knowing you’ll probably never make any money off them?” And that’s when the pause really happened. Because technically… they’re not wrong. I have not gotten rich writing paranormal cozy mysteries featuring an enchanted Papillon dog. Not yet, anyway. Paramount has not called to option the film rights. Hollywood has not sent a limousine. No one has appeared at my door waving a giant check while dramatic orchestral music swells in the back...

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 ...

When you write cozy mysteries, you see things a little differently. No. Not in a “how would I dispose of a body?” kind of way. Please. I write about charming villages, magical dogs, and suspicious bake sale politics. We are not digging holes in forests. It’s not the process of murder that fascinates me. It’s the why. It’s the tiny, deliciously odd human behaviors that make my writer brain sit up straighter than a librarian who just heard someone dog-ear a page. Take the gentleman I see most mornings in the park while walking Blueberry. He walks the paths in a very specific order. Not random. Not “oh, I feel like turning left today.” No. It’s choreographed. Precise. Measured. He counts his steps. I know this because his lips move ever so slightly, and every time he reaches the same tree, he pivots. Exact angle. Exact spot. Every. Single. Morning. And there I am, supposedly walking my adorable Papillon, but internally I am spiraling into a full-blown character study. Wh...

Stop me if you've been here before.... You're finally getting away, going on vacation, and you're thinking - yes, think of all the reading I'm going to do! For me, it used to look like this—I’d gather a stack of books. Not one or two, but twenty. Maybe twenty-five. A full, ambitious pile that reflected not just who I was, but who I thought I should be: more well-read, more disciplined, more “on top” of my reading life. I told myself I’d finally have the time. That I’d sit for hours, uninterrupted, moving from one book to the next with focus and intention. And then reality would arrive. A chapter here. A few pages there. Maybe a longer stretch if it rained. But nowhere near the marathon I had imagined. For a long time, that gap felt like failure. The Hidden Pressure We Put on Ourselves As an author—especially an indie author—it’s easy to blur the line between passion and performance. Reading becomes more than enjoyment. It turns into: Research Market awarenes...

Here we are. The first of May. We made it. We actually survived winter. I feel like this winter deserves a small ceremony. Or at least a strongly worded letter. It was long, dramatic, and deeply committed to its role. But it’s over now. The light is back. The air smells different. And my soul has finally stopped hibernating like a disgruntled bear. Growing up in Germany, the first of May was always a holiday. They called it the “Day of Work,” which, to this day, feels like one of life’s great practical jokes. You celebrate work by… not working. Everyone just collectively agreed to stay home, enjoy the day, and not question the logic too deeply. Lately, I’ve found myself trying to remember the last time I had a proper day off. You know the kind. No writing. No plotting. No characters tapping you on the shoulder whispering, “Just one more chapter?” And here’s the thing. I don’t actually need one. I write cozy mysteries. I spin stories filled with small towns, gentle magic, curious secret...

  A lot of people have asked me lately, usually right after “What are you working on next?” and right before “Can Blueberry please narrate my life?” — how is Buddy doing? Is he settling in? Is he adjusting? Is he surviving life with a self-proclaimed magical Papillon? If you missed it last year, yes — I adopted another Papillon. His name is Buddy, he is eleven years old, and he arrived with big eyes, a hopeful heart, and absolutely no idea what he was walking into. Blueberry, of course, had opinions. She would like it officially noted that she is the magical Papillon. Capital M. Capital P. She insists Buddy is a “muggle Papillon,” which feels both unfair and suspiciously on brand. Still, despite her protests (and her dramatic sighing), I have a strong feeling he’s growing on her. Not that she’d ever admit it. In the beginning, she made sure to establish the rules. She demonstrated her agility skills with the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete auditioning for applause. She...

I grew up in a small town. And when I say small, I don’t mean “quaint tourist brochure small.” I mean the kind of small where the most exciting event of the year is the volunteer fire department festival, closely followed by the church raffle. You showed up for both, by the way. Not attending would have been suspicious. This was one of those corners of the country where everyone knew not only your name, but whose child you were, what you had for lunch yesterday, and whether you were walking a little too fast for a Tuesday. Privacy was… aspirational. Naturally, when we needed to get away from it all, we went to a cabin. In a town that was even smaller. I wish I were kidding. As an out-of-towner, you knew everybody in about a week flat. By week two, people nodded knowingly when you walked by. By week three, someone’s aunt had decided you needed more sweaters. This is how community works when there are approximately twelve people and a cow. But here’s the thing—it was beauti...

There’s a dangerous myth floating around out there, and I hear it all the time. “I don’t have anything to write about.” Which is fascinating, because five minutes earlier, you were telling me about a weird look a stranger gave you in the grocery store, your dog absolutely refusing to pee for reasons known only to her, and a sentence you overheard in line that made you stop mid-thought. But sure. Nothing to write about. Here’s the truth I’ve learned as an author—and especially as a cozy mystery author. The big moments are overrated. The small, throwaway, blink-and-you-miss-it moments? Those are where the magic lives. The glance. The pause. The overheard sentence. The dog who suddenly plants her feet like she’s staging a protest because the grass feels emotionally wrong today. Recently, I was having a few drinks with my artist friend. Nothing fancy. Just gabbing, laughing, shooting the breeze the way you do when the world slows down enough for real conversation. Her house, by...

  Stone Walls, Secret Whispers, and Why My Books Are Haunted When you grow up in Germany , old buildings aren’t a novelty. They’re just… Tuesday. Crooked timber frames. Weathered stone staircases. Heavy wooden doors that creak even when you swear no one touched them. Windows that look like they’ve seen at least three wars and a scandal or two. Entire streets where the buildings lean toward each other like they’re sharing gossip. I lived in places like that. Apartments with stairwells that echoed just a little too long. Ceilings so high your imagination had room to stretch. Basements that absolutely, positively were not haunted… except, you know, maybe just a little. When you grow up surrounded by history, you don’t have to try very hard to believe that walls remember things. That footsteps linger. That stories don’t always end when people do. So yes. There are ghosts in my books. Not because I sat down one day and thought, “Let’s add a ghost for fun.” But because when you’v...

Dear author— Yes, you . The one reading this with a mix of hope, doubt, and a half-finished draft sitting somewhere nearby. Somewhere in the world, someone is waiting for a story that only you can write. Not a perfect story. Not a polished, award-winning, magically-written-in-one-sitting story. Just yours . Even on the days you doubt yourself. Even on the days your inner critic is louder than your creativity. Even on the days you wonder if your words matter at all. They do. Your words still carry power. They still hold meaning. They still have the ability to make someone feel seen, understood, comforted, or inspired. Stories don’t need permission to matter—they just need to be written. Writing isn’t always easy. Some days it feels magical and effortless. Other days it feels like staring at a blinking cursor while questioning every life choice that led you there. And yet, you show up. Or at least you try . That counts more than you think. So keep writing. Keep dreaming....

  Here we go again. That strange, awkward, emotionally confusing time of year where winter hasn’t technically left, spring is definitely late, and we’re all just standing around squinting at the weather forecast like it personally owes us something. You know the days I mean. One glorious afternoon appears out of nowhere. Blue sky. Sunshine. Birds doing that hopeful chirping thing like they’re auditioning for a Disney movie. You step outside and think, This is it. We made it. I survived winter. I am a resilient woodland creature. And then the very next morning you wake up to gray. Snow. Slush. The emotional equivalent of someone unplugging your happiness and shrugging. I am caught, once again, between hope and deep suspicion. I want to believe. I truly do. I want to put the winter boots away, stop wearing seventeen layers, and feel my face without pain. But experience has taught me that spring likes to flirt. It shows up just long enough to get your guard down, then vanishes...