Thinkingdog Publishing

There was a time I wanted my writing to sparkle — every sentence polished like a diamond, every metaphor clever enough to make my English teacher rise from her chair in slow applause. I’d tinker with sentences for hours, swapping “walked” for “meandered” or “ambled,” then back again, trying to sound like A Serious Author™. You know the type. The kind who drinks coffee with too much intensity and uses “juxtaposition” in casual conversation. But somewhere between the endless editing and the overthinking, I realized something uncomfortable: I was writing to impress other writers, not to move readers. It hit me one day when my best friend — not a writer, not even a big reader — read a scene from one of my drafts and said quietly, “That part made me cry.” She didn’t care about my sentence rhythm. She didn’t notice the metaphor I’d sweated over for an hour. She felt something. And that’s when I understood: readers don’t fall in love with your words. They fall in love with your truth. We...

So - here we are....  It’s a peaceful afternoon. Birds are chirping. The dog is asleep. A mug of coffee cools beside my keyboard. I’m sitting at my desk, deeply focused on crafting the next scene in my cozy mystery novel. My characters are in the middle of a heated debate—someone has been murdered, after all—and things are getting dramatic. Suddenly, my husband peeks into the room and says, “Sorry, did you say something?” Oh no, dear. I wasn’t talking to you . I was talking to myself. Loudly. With feeling. And perhaps a bit of a British accent. This, my friends, is where the writerly madness truly shines. Now before anyone calls for a wellness check, allow me to explain. I’m not losing my marbles (though I admit they do rattle suspiciously from time to time). I’m just... rehearsing. Because when you write cozy mysteries filled with grumpy detectives, nosy neighbors, flustered suspects, and talking Papillon dogs (yes, Pixie has opinions and she’s not afraid to share them), y...

So, here’s the thing—I know we have coyotes in our area. It’s not exactly a secret. They’re basically our unofficial neighbors at this point. Lately, they’ve been as regular as the subway—every ten minutes, one trots by our window like it’s the 7:30 express to Downtown Trouble. Now, I’m a vigilant dog mom. I’ve got fences, gates, lights, and the kind of situational awareness usually reserved for Secret Service agents. My little Papillon, Blueberry, never sets a paw outside without me. We go as a team, like a very small and furry version of the Secret Service detail I mentioned—minus the suits, though Blueberry would totally rock a tiny one. But a few days ago, we were walking our old boy, Kobe—fifteen years old, gentle as a cloud, moving at a dignified senior pace. He stopped to sniff a bush. Harmless, right? A completely innocent dog moment. Except—apparently—not. Because that harmless bush… growled. Before I could even process what was happening, a coyote shot out of it like it ...

Let me set the record straight once and for all: inspiration does not strike like lightning. I know, I know. The myth is seductive. You imagine me walking along a sun-dappled forest path with my Papillon pup, Blueberry, a latte in one hand and a notebook in the other, when suddenly— ZAP! —an idea for the next great cozy mystery crackles from the heavens and lands fully formed into my brain. A plot! A twist! The killer was the garden club president all along! If only. Here’s the real story. Most days, I shuffle into my office (read: corner of the house where I've carved out 3.5 feet of creative territory), still wearing pajamas, hair looking like I lost a fight with a hedge, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee. I sit down, take a deep breath, and think, Today’s the day I finish Chapter Four. I’m feeling it. And… nothing. No killer, no motive, not even a misplaced teacup. It’s like my brain has gone on strike and is currently picketing outside my window with a sign that says, “...

At the end of every year, the same thing happens. Like clockwork, my social feeds turn into a literary Olympics. Suddenly everyone’s posting reading stats as if they’ve just returned victorious from Mount Everest holding a pack of bookmarks instead of climbing gear. There are pie charts. There are bar graphs. There are people who somehow—while presumably sleeping, working, raising kids, and occasionally eating—managed to read 147 books, 62 audiobooks, and a partridge in a pear tree. And I sit there in my cozy corner of the internet, sipping my tea and thinking, Wow. That’s impressive. And then immediately after that: How? When? Do these people have a personal time-turner? Is there a reading portal? A secret club? Should I be taking notes? Meanwhile, a small voice inside me whispers, “You finished a novella this month. You’re doing great, sweetie.” Here’s the thing no one tells you during the year-end reading frenzy: whether you read two books last year or two hundred, you are still...

This might come as a surprise.....  But I can’t sing. No, really. I sound like a frog who’s just stubbed his toe and is trying to croak out a sad ballad about it. And yet… I love to sing. I love music. I grew up with it. My grandma was an actual, real-life, honest-to-Pavarotti coloratura soprano. She hit high notes like most of us hit snooze buttons—effortlessly and often. She sang in opera houses. People clapped. She wore fabulous dresses. She was a diva in the best sense of the word. And then there’s me. Genetics skipped a beat. I didn’t get a drop of that vocal magic. But I did inherit the passion. So, like any slightly embarrassed, secretly hopeful person, I sang quietly in the car. In the shower. Alone in the house. Sometimes into my dog’s ears (she forgave me). But here’s the kicker—I became a writer. And then I did the unthinkable: I started recording my own audiobooks. Why? Because I’m either very brave or very foolish. Possibly both. Now, recording audiobooks isn’t just re...

Every December 31st, I make a solemn vow to myself:   This year, I will not, under any circumstances, fall into that annual trap of making New Year’s resolutions. I say it with the same sincerity I use when telling myself I’ll only have “one cookie” or that I’ll “clean my office tomorrow.” It’s a heartfelt, straight-from-the-soul promise. And like all heartfelt promises made at 11:59 p.m. while wearing fuzzy socks and holding a glass of something bubbly, it lasts approximately forty-eight seconds. Because this year, I had one good idea. Just one. And I’ve already broken it. I truly believed I was finally going to learn to type like a Real Modern Human on a tiny six-inch glass phone screen. People do it everywhere — in line at the grocery store, strolling down the street, dangling off escalators, half-asleep in bed, probably clinging to the side of a mountain while texting “lol.” Meanwhile there's me, stabbing at my phone with the precision of a disgruntled pigeon. Everyone says...

There’s something about January light—it slants through the window as though it’s trying to whisper, “So… what now?” And every year I give that light the same answer: “Honestly? Probably the same thing I was doing yesterday.” Because here we are, off into a brand-new year, standing at the doorway as if it’s a shiny party we weren’t totally prepared for but decided to attend anyway. Everyone around me starts talking resolutions, gym memberships, juice cleanses, ambitious goals with color-coded planners—meanwhile I’m over here with a notebook full of ideas for magical Papillon mysteries, a coffee mug that says Writer at Work (Probably) , and two Papillons who have decided the only real resolution worth making is More Snacks . Blueberry, the diva princess of fluff and mischief, approves of my non-resolutions. Buddy, my newly adopted eleven-year-old gentleman scamp, has no idea what a New Year’s resolution is but confidently assumes it involves belly rubs and making sure I never type mo...

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 ...

The other day, somebody bought me a t-shirt that made me stop in my tracks and think, wait a minute, do I have a twin somewhere out there? Because on the front of this glorious piece of cotton it said: “I’m not really antisocial, I just prefer dogs.” And in that moment, I felt seen . Like, really seen. As if some stranger had cracked open my brain, read all the scribbled notes inside, and thought, Yep. That’s her slogan. Because here’s the truth: I do prefer dogs. Not always, not in every single moment—but often enough that I might as well embroider it on a pillow. Dogs don’t care if you show up with messy hair or with anxiety trailing after you like a second shadow. They don’t judge your questionable taste in snacks (hello, cheese puffs for dinner) or side-eye you for binge-reading cozy mysteries when the laundry is staging a coup. If you treat them well, they’ll treat you better. If you mess up, they’ll forgive you before you’ve even finished apologizing. And unlike people, dog...

 They always say “write what you know,” right? At first, I thought they meant, “write about your soul-crushing office job and how Alyssa from accounting eats all the good donuts and Rick never refills the coffee pot.” You know, the usual psychological warfare of cubicle life. And sure, I could’ve written a blistering satire on office politics that would make Kafka weep. But here’s the truth: that wasn’t my heart talking. That was caffeine withdrawal and the lingering trauma of HR-mandated birthday parties. Back then, I wrote romance novels. They were lovely, sweeping stories. Handsome cowboys, city girls with trust issues, sunset kisses—you know the drill. People liked them. My mom liked them. The mailman once said one made him cry, though he might’ve been referring to his allergies. But something was off. I was writing about love, but my heart wasn’t in it—which is wildly ironic when you think about it. A romance author without romantic feelings about her own work. There’s a pl...

Hello, world. It’s me. Buddy. Yes— that Buddy . The suave, sophisticated, velvet-eared Papillon who just waltzed into this family like a tiny, handsome hurricane of charm. Tonight is my very first night here, and I’m typing this up on Mommy’s laptop while she thinks I’m “settling in.” Little does she know I’m already preparing my memoirs. You know, for future bestseller status. I live with an author now, so I’m basically obligated. Earlier today, I was feeling a bit lost. I won’t sugarcoat it—losing your family is hard. One minute you’re somewhere familiar, and the next you’re blinking in a brand-new world wondering where the cheese treats are. But then… everything shifted. I landed here. In this warm house. With soft lighting and blankets that smell like dryer sheets and hope. And suddenly, somehow, I wasn’t lost anymore. Let me introduce my new siblings. Kobe is fifteen and has the calm energy of a retired detective in a cozy mystery who has seen everything and just wants his di...

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 ...

I Finally Said No – And Lived to Tell the Tale Let me tell you something miraculous, something that deserves fireworks, cake, and a commemorative plaque in bronze. I said no . Yes, you read that right. I, a lifelong serial people-pleaser, a polite Canadian who’s been conditioned since birth to apologize when someone else bumps into me , finally looked someone in the eye, took a deep breath, and said the sacred, elusive words: “I'm afraid I don’t have the time for that right now.” And then I didn’t burst into flames. I didn’t faint, cry, or spontaneously combust from the sheer force of uncomfortable self-respect. In fact, I survived. I thrived. I made tea and went on with my day, though I did momentarily feel like I’d just told someone I eat puppies for breakfast. Let me back up a little. For years—decades really—I’ve been the go-to gal for favors, errands, quick edits, last-minute "can-you-just-do-this-little-thing-for-me"s. People would ask, and my mouth, entire...

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...