Thinkingdog Publishing

There’s something funny about the end of the year. Some people are counting down with fireworks, champagne, glitter, and questionable hats that will appear in photos no one remembers taking. Meanwhile, in my house, we approach December 31st with the tactical precision of a military operation because, well… we have dogs. And dogs do not appreciate the European “Sylvester” tradition of exploding the sky for entertainment. Growing up in Germany, New Year’s Eve was a literal blast—fireworks everywhere, people cheering in the streets, the whole world sparkling. But now? Now I have small fluffy creatures who think fireworks are the opening act of the apocalypse. So we celebrate quietly, with blankets, snacks, and repeated promises that the big booms outside are absolutely not the end of days. But while the sky may stay quiet, my imagination certainly didn’t this year. Around this time last December, I had this wild spark of an idea for an art-history-themed mystery. I told myself, “Sabi...

Every year, like clockwork, people ask me, “So Sabine… how was your Christmas?” And every year I think, Well, how honest do you want me to be? Do you want the Instagram-ready version… or the real one where my Papillon, Blueberry, stole a shortbread cookie straight off the cooling rack? Now, let me get this out right away before anyone gasps into their peppermint cocoa—I know not everyone celebrates Christmas. Truly. I respect that. I cherish it. I even wholeheartedly agree that the world could probably use fewer rules about when and how we’re “supposed” to feel festive. But I can’t help it: this season is one of my favourites. It’s cozy, it’s sparkly, and it gives me an excuse to wear ridiculous socks with dancing reindeer on them. Still, holidays aren’t simple.  They’re beautiful and messy and sometimes heartbreakingly quiet. I remember the Christmas right after my mom passed. Nothing felt quite right. I wasn’t ready to be joyful, or festive, or even upright before noon. I drifted...

Growing up in Europe meant many things: cobblestoned streets, more historical buildings than I could count, and the deep personal conviction that every pastry is improved by powdered sugar. But above all else—above the castles, above the trains that actually ran on time, above the little dachshunds we always had, multiples,—there were the Christmas markets. If you’ve ever wandered through a European Christmas market as a kid, you know exactly what I mean. Every town had one. Big, tiny, and everything in between. It didn’t matter if the population was ten thousand or ten… the market appeared magically, like elves built it overnight after finishing their gingerbread shift. And oh, the glow. The old towns lit up like fairy-tale book covers—golden lights wrapped around ancient buildings, each little wooden hut spilling warm brightness into the cold winter air. Even the stone streets seemed to sparkle, though that might’ve been leftover powdered sugar. Hard to say. And the smells. Good ...

Parents today will never—never—understand how my dad successfully managed a real, live Christmas tree in the 1960s with actual burning candles clipped to the branches. Not LED candles. Not battery-operated flicker candles. I’m talking honest-to-goodness wax candles with flames that snapped, crackled, and bravely licked at the pine needles like tiny dragons with holiday spirit. And there we were beneath it: three children hopped up on sugar, and a few dachshunds who, for reasons known only to dogs, believed that Christmas was the ideal time for interpretive dance. Add in Lametta—yes, the shiny silver tinsel we draped strand by strand like it was haute couture—and you’ve got a festive setup worthy of a cozy mystery prologue. Any modern fire marshal would faint. Yet somehow, my father orchestrated this combustible symphony with the calm confidence of a man who believed strongly in supervision, tradition, and the power of a giant bucket of water placed discreetly beside the tree. We w...

You know you have the best readers in the world when they politely demand the next book—with extra exclamation marks and not a hint of shame. So many of you have been asking (some quite insistently, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my day) about the next Magical Papillon Mystery . Those of you who asked on social media — thank you!!! To all of you, I say — bless your sweet, book-loving hearts, and fear not. Pixie will return! Here’s what happened… Last Christmas, after one (or more) festive Negronis with my very talented artist friend, I made the kind of pronouncement that can only come after equal parts gin, vermouth, and orange. I looked around her house — absolutely overflowing with paintings, colors, and canvases stacked like leaning towers of artistic chaos — and said something like, “Wouldn’t it make a great story if someone inherited a house full of original art, and every painting had a secret behind it, and they had to solve the mysteries one by one…?” Well. One...

So, here I was on a regular old Tuesday , birds chirping, coffee brewing. I sat down at my desk, fingers poised dramatically over the keyboard, inspiration about to strike—when… nothing loaded. I refreshed. I stared. I unplugged the modem and plugged it back in like a techno-priest performing a sacred ritual. Crossed my fingers, did it again.... Still nothing. The internet. Was. Out. And yours truly? Flying into a full-blown tizzy . Not a mild inconvenience. Not a quiet sigh and a cup of tea. No, we’re talking dramatic gasping, pacing, muttering to myself like a Victorian heroine who’d just received tragic news via telegram. Now, let me say this—writing, in its purest form, requires no internet. Not even a computer if you're hardcore enough. You can write with a pencil on a napkin while waiting for your latte. You can scribble in notebooks like it’s 1992 (Yes, I wrote entire books like this back then). But we don’t do that anymore, do we? No, because we writers have convenience ...

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. ...