Thinkingdog Publishing

  Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection .  If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect . And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.) You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot . Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.” But here’s the thing – I wrote this . It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something t...

Let me say it up front—I've never been able to keep my mouth shut. Like, ever. I popped out of the womb ready to give a TED Talk. Ask my mother. She’ll tell you. With tears in her eyes and a twitch in her left eyebrow. All through childhood, I was the kid asking “why?” one too many times. Or, okay— every time. If a grown-up said something ridiculous, you better believe I had a follow-up question, a counterpoint, and probably a joke that would get me grounded. Again. And you’d think with age comes wisdom. Nah. With age comes better timing… maybe. But my mouth still gets me into situations where I’m halfway through a sarcastic remark before my brain taps in like, “Really? You’re doing this? Right now? In front of the priest?” Now, for those who don’t know, I was born in Germany. And let me tell you something about Germans—we do not do subtle. We do not do fluffy. We do not dance around a subject with polite small talk and whispered hints. We march straight into it, stare it dow...

Let’s set the scene: It’s a bright Tuesday morning. I’m sipping my coffee, scrolling through social media like any responsible adult procrastinating on chapter edits. And there it is. Not one, not two, but fifteen comments dragging someone’s handmade soap like it personally committed a felony. “I’d never use this on my worst enemy. ” “Looks like slugs.” “Bet it smells like despair.” I mean… wow. That escalated faster than my heart rate when I remember I left the laundry in the washer three days ago. And this isn’t about soap, or art, or books, or fashion, or whatever passion someone was brave enough to share with the world. This is about the sudden popularity of… let’s call it the Snark Olympics . And friend, everyone seems to think they’re going for gold. When did meanness become the default? When did “this isn’t for me” turn into “this person must be publicly humiliated and possibly banished to the nether realms”? Now, I’m not saying we all need to sprinkle glitter ...