Thinkingdog Publishing

I am tired. Not the “oh I stayed up a little too late reading” kind of tired. Not even the “my dog insisted 5:47 AM was a perfectly reasonable time to begin the day” kind of tired. No. I am the kind of tired that comes from falling down a social media rabbit hole so deep, I’m fairly certain I passed at least three alternate dimensions and a dancing algorithm named Chad. Somewhere along the way, I watched approximately ten thousand videos—give or take a dramatic exaggeration—on how to “optimize your content,” “hack the algorithm,” and “go viral overnight.” Yech. Every single one promised a formula. A trick. A secret. A step-by-step plan to become wildly successful if I would just… be slightly shinier, slightly louder, slightly more something . And do you know what I realized? None of them were me. Not one. I am not a 30-year-old with flawless contouring, botox and a ring light that could guide ships safely to shore. I do not have a “hot take” about anything except ...

There’s something wildly comforting about a simple phrase. “Just Do It.” It’s bold. It’s clean. It doesn’t overthink things. It doesn’t spiral into a late-night identity crisis while holding a cup of reheated coffee and wondering if it should also start a podcast, a newsletter, a YouTube channel, and possibly learn interpretive dance for marketing purposes. It just… does it. And honestly? That’s where the magic is. Because here’s what I’ve learned the hard way (and by “hard way,” I mean slightly frazzled, mildly sleep-deprived, and being judged by a very fluffy Papillon named Blueberry): the moment we quietly sneak one tiny word into that phrase— all —everything changes. “Just Do It All.” Oh. Oh no. Now suddenly we are no longer inspired athletes in a motivational montage. We are overwhelmed authors staring at a never-ending checklist that includes social media posting schedules, ad campaigns, newsletter funnels, branding strategies, reader magnets, SEO optimization, an...

There was a time—not so long ago, but also somehow a lifetime ago—when the internet felt like opening a mysterious little door. You didn’t know what you were going to find. You clicked anyway. And then you just… stayed. Reading. Exploring. Falling down delightful rabbit holes that had absolutely nothing to do with what you originally came for. No pop-ups screaming at you. No perfectly curated lives making you question your existence. Just curiosity and a sense that something interesting was always waiting around the next click. It was fun. And now? Well. Now it’s… a lot. It’s ads stacked on ads stacked on “just one more ad before you get to the thing you actually wanted.” It’s perfectly lit videos with people who somehow look like they woke up flawless and live in homes that have never met a stray sock or a muddy paw. And here I am… In a 100-year-old house that creaks like it has opinions. The lighting? Let’s call it “moody” on a good day and “did a ghost just dim t...

There comes a time in every author’s life when she must face the truth. Not the kind of truth involving plot holes or suspiciously disappearing characters… No. The real truth. That her Papillon is running the entire operation. Hi. Blueberry here. ✨ Professional muse. Magical consultant. Snack supervisor. Occasional ghost liaison. You’re welcome. Let me explain—slowly, clearly, and with just the right amount of sass—why Mommy (yes, that cozy mystery author) would be absolutely, catastrophically lost without me.   1. I Am the Original Magical Papillon (Pixie Wishes She Had My Resume) Listen. Pixie is adorable. She’s iconic. She’s fictional royalty. But where do you think Mommy got the inspiration? Exactly. From this face. From my dramatic stares into the void. From my ability to sense things no one else can (like ghosts… and cheese wrappers opening three rooms away). From my natural flair for the supernatural and the theatrical. Without me, Pixie would ...

There is a very specific moment that happens to me at gatherings. You know the kind. Someone is balancing a plate of something beige and vaguely festive, someone else is explaining their sourdough starter like it’s a personality trait, and then… it happens. “What do you write again?” “Cozy mysteries,” I say. Pause. Head tilt. “Wait… what’s a cozy mystery?” And this, my friends, is where the magic begins. I lean in a little, because this deserves drama. “Well,” I say, lowering my voice just enough to make it intriguing, “there’s a murder.” Eyebrows go up. Fork pauses mid-air. “But it’s polite,” I add. “No gore. No nightmares. Just… vibes.” Cue the laugh. The polite little “ha ha… huh, that’s cute.” The kind that says they’re not entirely convinced I haven’t just invented a genre to justify my love of tea and fictional crimes. And this is where I say, “Follow me for a minute, will you?” Because here’s the thing. You read true crime, don’t you? You listen to th...