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 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 ...

There’s this idea floating around that writers have “perfect writing days.” You know the ones. The charming cottage. The soft morning light. The gentle breeze fluttering linen curtains. The coffee brewed to aromatic perfection. The laptop humming obediently. The muse hovering nearby like a polite Victorian ghost, waiting to dictate brilliance. Somewhere in the background, I imagine a string quartet. I keep waiting for that day. It has not arrived. Instead, what usually shows up is this: I sit down to write and my laptop decides it is the perfect time to update seventeen things simultaneously. None of which I asked for. None of which seem to help my life in any measurable way. I glare at it. It whirs louder. We both know who’s going to win. Sometimes, in a moment of dramatic defiance, I grab another laptop. This one, of course, has absolutely no research on it. None of my notes. None of the carefully collected details about motives, timelines, magical Papillons, suspicio...

There are two kinds of walks. There are the determined, fitness-tracker-beeping, “we are MAKING TIME” walks. And then there are the walks you take when you share your life with a small, fluffy creature who believes every pile of leaves may contain buried treasure, secrets, or possibly a criminal mastermind. When you live with a dog — or are owned by one, which feels more accurate — you walk. A lot. Blueberry, my Papillon with the investigative spirit of a seasoned detective, does not “exercise walk.” She does not march. She does not power-stride. She stops. She sniffs. She wanders. She conducts what I can only assume are highly classified forensic investigations on twigs. Every leaf pile is suspicious. Every rustle is worth examining. Every breeze carries breaking news. And so we amble. Very slowly. At first, years ago, I would try to hurry her along. Come on, Blueberry. Let’s go. We have things to do. Deadlines. Laundry. Emails. Imaginary murders to solve. But ...

There’s a theory I’ve been quietly nurturing between cups of coffee and dramatic plot twists. I think you have to be an introvert to be a writer. Hear me out. Who else voluntarily spends hours sitting alone in a room, staring at a laptop, blinking occasionally, while internally sprinting across rooftops in a town that doesn’t exist? Who else battles enemies they invented, panics because their hero is about to fall off a cliff, and then desperately scrambles to think of something—anything—before gravity wins? Writers. That’s who. And not just any writers. Cozy mystery writers. Paranormal cozy mystery writers. The sort of people who think, “You know what this murder investigation needs? An enchanted Papillon and a dash of Christmas spirit.” I sit there, looking perfectly calm from the outside. Maybe even serene. Meanwhile, inside my head, Rosewood Hollow is in chaos. Someone’s been poisoned. Someone else is lying. My heroine is in danger. And I am frantically trying to deci...

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...

There is a myth floating around the internet. A persistent little fairy tale. Apparently, somewhere between publishing my first cozy mystery and lovingly introducing the world to magical dogs, ghosts, and small-town secrets, I became independently wealthy. I would very much like to know when that happened. Because according to my inbox, I am absolutely swimming in consultant-level disposable income. Every single day, without fail, I receive approximately seven emails. Sometimes more. They arrive like clockwork. They are polite. They are enthusiastic. They are confident. “Dear Author, Let me put your book on my premium reader list.” Which book, my friend? I have fifteen. Are we talking about the one with the ghost? The one with the magical Papillon? The one with the small-town murder wrapped in Christmas cookies and secrets? A hint would be delightful. Next email. “Let me optimize your categories and keywords.” Marvelous. Again — which book? I would love to know whi...

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...

There is a moment in almost every good story when things get a little heavy. Emotions tighten. Stakes rise. Someone is making a questionable life choice. And then—right on cue—an animal wanders in and quietly saves the scene without even trying. That is not an accident. This is a love letter to animal companions in fiction and real life. The scene-stealers. The grounding forces. The ones who soften the hard moments and make the joyful ones feel truer. This is for Pixie. For Blueberry. And for every dog you’ve ever loved who somehow knew exactly when to sit beside you and when to sass you into better decisions. Pixie, my darling Pixie, deserves her own paragraph and possibly her own throne. She is enchanted and magical, yes—but she is also a sassy diva of the highest order. The kind who will comment on your life choices with devastating accuracy while still being absolutely, unquestionably, ride-or-die loyal. She is fabulous without apology. Supportive without being soft. Sarcasti...

There’s a new ailment going around the creative world, and it’s highly contagious. Symptoms include staring at your unfinished manuscript, sighing heavily, and mumbling something like, “I should be writing.” Yes, my friends, I’m talking about writing guilt —and though I hadn’t heard of it until recently, I seem to have earned an honorary PhD in the subject. Here's what happened.... A little while ago, I had a solo art show . One entire gallery. My artwork. My setup. My everything. It sounds glamorous, right? Cue the applause, the soft lighting, the elegant hors d’oeuvres—except, behind the scenes, it’s less “artistic reverie” and more “running a small logistics company while trying to look charming in public.” I was the planner, the promoter, the installer, the social butterfly. It was exhilarating… and exhausting. And right in the middle of it all—between hanging canvases and smiling through small talk—this tiny voice piped up in my head: “You haven’t written your 1,000...