Thinkingdog Publishing

  There are days when I open the news and immediately regret having eyes. Everything is a hot mess. Everything is urgent. Everything is either on fire, arguing, or trending for all the wrong reasons. And while I absolutely believe in staying informed, there comes a point where my nervous system taps out, pours itself a cup of tea, and quietly whispers, nope . That’s usually the moment I retreat into my own cozy mysteries. Not because I’m avoiding reality. Not because I think the world should be wrapped in bubble wrap. But because sometimes you need proof—actual proof—that there is a place where things still make sense. Where people show up for each other. Where kindness exists, even when it’s a little messy and occasionally paired with gossip. Especially the gossip. In my cozy mysteries, I write worlds that feel like coming home after a long day. Worlds where neighbors might talk a little too much, secrets absolutely exist, and someone will definitely say the wrong thing ...

I heard a quote recently that stopped me mid-thought, mid-coffee sip, mid–“why is the dog staring at me like that” moment. “Everybody has a story. Once you understand that story, their lives will make sense.” Excuse me while I just sit here and emotionally spiral for a minute. Because wow. That one line explains so much. So many of those moments where you watch someone do something and think, why on earth would you ever do that ? Why that choice? Why that reaction? Why that hill to die on? And the honest answer is usually this: you don’t know what came before. You don’t know the trigger. You don’t know the quiet history that shaped that decision long before you ever witnessed it. We see the moment. We don’t see the backstory. Which, as it turns out, is basically the entire job description of being a writer. In real life, we’re all walking around as finished scenes with missing chapters. You bump into someone in line at the grocery store who is unreasonably intense about c...

Circadian Rhythms and You Be You Let me start with a bummer, because life isn’t always cupcakes and cozy mysteries. When my mom passed away a few years ago, she was just about to get up—at three in the morning. Yes, three. In. The. Morning. I mean, who does that? My mom, that’s who. She’d get up when the rest of us were deep in dreamland, do a few things, rest, do a few more, rest again. That was her rhythm. Wash, rinse, repeat. As a teenager, I thought it was weird. You’re supposed to sleep in late, drag your bleary-eyed self to school or work, suffer through the day, then stay up until the wee hours laughing with friends, eating questionable pizza, and pretending you’re invincible. That’s the script! And yet… as I’ve gotten older, I find myself—brace for impact—doing the same thing. Gasp! I get up early. I mean really early. Before sunrise. Before the world even stretches. And I love it. There’s something delicious about that quiet hour when it’s just me, my coffee, my words, ...