Thinkingdog Publishing

Has this happened to you? You're sitting there working, on a fun cozy mystery. Magic, a mystery, there's a ghost floating by, Pixie says something sassy.... And then it happens. Something went wrong. That's it. That's the whole message my computer gave me. Three words, delivered with all the urgency and helpfulness of a shrug emoji. Something went wrong. I stared at it. It stared back. Neither of us blinked for what felt like a considerable amount of time. Now, I think i am a reasonable person, right? And - I write magical cozy mysteries, which means I spend a significant portion of my working day inventing elaborate, detailed explanations for impossible events. Pixie, my enchanted Papillon, has explained the mechanics of ghost communication to me in more coherent terms than my own computer managed just now. My fictional dog — who does not exist — is better at communication than enterprise-grade software. I need a moment with that. But back to the scene of t...

You know these people. Everybody knows these people. The ones who do one thing so well that watching them feels a little bit like witnessing magic. You see them in sports all the time — the athlete who makes the impossible look like a Tuesday. But I don't have to turn on the television to find them. I have them right in my own family. Take my relative, the mechanic. I could bring this man an engine held together by rust, hope, and one very tired bolt, and say, “Something doesn't work.” That's it. That's all the information I give him. No diagnosis, no helpful details, just something doesn't work — which, as descriptions go, is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And he fixes it. Not only does he fix it — the engine comes back better than before. It purrs. It practically sends thank-you notes. I'm fairly certain that if I brought him a toaster and said “something doesn't work,” it would come back capable of flight. Then there's my s...

Here we are, it’s Tuesday. Or Thursday. Honestly, when you work from home, the days sort of blur into one long, caffeinated smear. Your manuscript is open, your cursor is blinking at you with the specific energy of a disappointed parent, and you, the person who once wrote three chapters in a fever dream, cannot write a single word. Welcome to the Writer’s Slump. I’ve been here, many many times. Through six books, an enchanted Papillon named Pixie, and enough coffee to flood a small municipality, I’ve learned that the best way out usually isn’t another productivity system. It’s giving yourself permission to play. Sometimes I go back and read something I’ve written that I actually love. Yes, there may be a few sentences that make me want to hide under the bed, but there are also those wonderful moments where the dialogue worked, the emotion landed, and I thought, Wait. Did I just do that? You did. That writer is still in there, even if she’s currently buried under self-doubt and unread e...