Thinkingdog Publishing

You know that saying: “It takes a thousand attaboys to make up for one ‘oh sh t.’”* Whoever said that? Genius. Pure, unfiltered genius. Because it is painfully, annoyingly, exasperatingly true. Let me take you behind the scenes of my other life . Yes, because while my writing career is still building (more chapters to come, friends), in the daylight hours I organize a huge outdoor art show in my hometown. And not to brag, but let’s just say, if there’s a job connected to this event, I do it. I’m like Mary Poppins with an endless bag—except instead of pulling out umbrellas and sugar cubes, I pull out spreadsheets, contracts, and more emails than any sane human should have to read. Part of my annual heroic efforts includes creating alllll the social media content. I’m talking images, videos, stories, text—you name it, I design it. Last year, I uploaded the whole glorious lot to a shared folder and told my nearly 200 artists : “Hey, it’s all there for you! Use it however you’d like....

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. ...

There are dog people. There are cat people. And then there are those magical unicorns who manage to love both. Me? I’ve always been a dog person, no hesitation, no fence-sitting. At the tender age of seven, I marched into dog ownership with my very first dachshund. Her name? Spot. I know, I know. You’re thinking, “Wow, that’s original.” In my defense, I was seven, and frankly, every dog book I’d ever read led me to believe that if you named a dog anything other than Spot, Fido, or Rover, it simply wouldn’t fetch. Also - look at her face! Spot was the beginning of a lifelong love affair. With the exception of a few (tragically dogless) years, I’ve always had a furry companion—or two or three—by my side. Some people collect stamps. I collect dogs. Now, I’ll admit something that every dog lover secretly knows: this is a story that never ends well. Dogs are with us for such a heartbreakingly short time. But still, given the choice, I’ll sign up for the heartbreak every single time. Th...

There comes a time in a woman’s life —usually somewhere between muttering “I don’t need instructions” and yelling “WHY won’t this work?!” at a perfectly innocent browser tab—when she realizes she’s building a quiz for her cozy mystery readers. And not just any quiz, mind you. Oh no. This is the “Which Rosewood Hollow Character Are You?” quiz. Are you a Sarah? An Emma? A Pixie? (You wish you were Pixie.) Or possibly a Matthew, which means you're chronically skeptical and have a thing about gluten-free muffins. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Sabine, surely you just sent this off to an agency and had some sleek, high-end, interactive whiz-bang quiz built with fancy buttons, animated transitions, and background music that sounds like a Wes Anderson soundtrack played by hedgehogs on tiny harps.” Well. I could have. I could have dropped a few hundred bucks on a service. Or paid a developer to make it all look like it was sprinkled in tech-fairy dust. But here’s the thing:...

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too) So… why do I disappear into the wilds of the canadian North with no Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and a fridge that sounds like it’s crying at night? Because it’s the only place I actually relax. Yes, I know, you can technically relax anywhere. A spa, a beach, your own backyard hammock with a pink drink and a book about Scandinavian murders. But here’s the catch: I don’t. When I have ten minutes of peace in my regular life, my brain goes, “Oooh, time to spiral!” Suddenly I’m obsessing over Chapter 4 and why it still reads like it was written by a caffeinated octopus. Or I remember that the audio edits on my last audiobook were a smidge less than perfect, and maybe I should recheck that pause at the 47-minute mark. And by the way, did I ever respond to that email about the email about the podcast interview? I don’t relax. I rev . Blame it on my upbringing. I grew up in a German household, and let me tell you, asking...

Let’s talk about the writing process. Ah yes, the process. That majestic, mythical, Instagrammable creature every indie author is apparently supposed to post about. You’ve seen the posts, right? The ones with a steaming mug of tea, a perfectly posed cat, a candle flickering beside a stack of color-coded index cards, and captions like: “Today I let my protagonist tell me where the story wanted to go…” Meanwhile, over here in the chaotic land of reality, my protagonist just refused to cooperate, the dog barked at a ghost (probably), and my coffee’s been microwaved three times. And I’ll be honest with you: if I waited around for my story to tell me where to go, I’d still be staring at Chapter One wondering why my main character is named Blergle. Here’s my writing process: Step One: Put butt in chair. Step Two: Put fingers on keyboard. Step Three: Make stuff up. That’s it. That’s the whole enchilada. No scented candles. No lunar rituals. No twenty-part TikTok series about ho...

Friends, readers, fellow caffeine-dependent life forms— This is your friendly neighborhood author reporting live from... somewhere just shy of the Arctic Circle. Okay, maybe not that far north, but it feels like it. Especially when your only connection to civilization involves plugging in the Starlink and hoping the squirrels don’t chew through the cable. Now, you know me. I’m all about showing up, putting on the writing pants (they're stretchy, obviously), and getting the words down. I love a good “sit down and do the thing” moment. That’s my jam. But sometimes, you’ve got to do something radical. You have to... stop. I know. Take a breath. I’ll wait while you recover from that bombshell. Truth is, the creative well doesn’t refill itself, especially not when I’m knee-deep in deadlines, plotting magical mysteries, and making sure Pixie the Papillon doesn’t unionize for more treats and magical screen time. So I did something wild: I packed up, left the to-do list behind...

There’s nothing quite like pouring your heart, soul, and an irresponsible amount of coffee into a novel—only to have someone on the internet declare it “the worst book I’ve ever read” right after publication day. First of all… dramatic much? If you’re reading this post and you’ve ever gotten a bad review, welcome to the club . We have cookies. And tissues. And a secret spreadsheet where we compare the most dramatic one-star zingers and rate them for flair and emotional devastation. There's even an entire podcast where they read one-star reviews out loud - and make fun of them. But seriously. Let’s talk about it. Bad reviews happen to everybody. And I mean everybody . I once looked up reviews for a wildly famous author who’s sold more books than there are cats on the internet (and that’s saying something), and guess what? One-star reviews galore. Someone said their “writing style reminded them of damp lettuce.” I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s harsh. So what do we ...

There’s this German TV show I love. It’s one of those wonderfully slow-paced, feel-good programs where a guy drives around the countryside, poking into little-known corners of the world, visiting old craftsmen, artists, and those wonderfully eccentric people who always have a twinkle in their eye and a suspiciously large number of half-finished projects lying around. You know the type. The ones who start their sentences with, "Ach, back in my day..." but then promptly pull out a blowtorch, a chisel, or an embroidery needle and create something breathtaking. But here’s the thing—they’re not just working . They’re living . They LOVE what they do. They’re in their seventies, their eighties, sometimes even their nineties, and they’re still at it. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because whatever they do—be it woodcarving, painting, weaving, or some bizarre skill no one’s even heard of outside their tiny village—it’s their thing . And I think there’s a les...

There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together? I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.) But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and ...

  Let’s rewind to about a year ago when I decided to dabble in audiobooks. You know, like a casual hobby—except nothing in my life ever stays casual. I either go all in or I abandon ship before even getting my feet wet. This time, I went all in. I got myself a fancy Zoom P4 deck, a solid Samson dynamic microphone, and a whole mess of software that I initially had no idea how to use. I figured, how hard could it be? (Spoiler: very hard ). But I wasn’t worried. Why? Because I know my learning style. Some people take courses. Some people hire coaches. Some people watch endless YouTube tutorials. And then there’s me—stubbornly determined to learn everything by trial and error. I prefer to tinker, to break things, to question my life choices when I realize I recorded an entire chapter with my mic turned off. "Why don’t you just take a course?" my brother, the actual audio engineer, asked repeatedly. (This is the same brother who once set up my first microphone and watche...

You know that old myth that inspiration strikes like lightning? Yeah. Let’s go ahead and toss that in the compost bin, right next to last week’s kale. As a cozy mystery author, I get asked all the time: “Where do you get your ideas?” There’s this widely held belief that writers are constantly floating around in a bubble of creativity, sipping tea and spontaneously birthing brilliant plots like literary unicorns. Let me just invite you into the real scene at my house. It’s 9 a.m. I shuffle into my writing space, which is honestly just a desk covered in sticky notes, empty mugs, and at least three pens I pretend I don’t chew. I sit down. Crack knuckles. Tell myself, “Today is the day I finish Chapter Four!” And… absolutely nothing happens. Not a plot twist. Not a witty line of dialogue. Not even a suspicious footprint on a doormat. Just blank screen and the sound of Blueberry, my extremely judgmental Papillon, sighing loudly from her perch on the armchair. If you don’t b...