Thinkingdog Publishing

 They always say “write what you know,” right? At first, I thought they meant, “write about your soul-crushing office job and how Alyssa from accounting eats all the good donuts and Rick never refills the coffee pot.” You know, the usual psychological warfare of cubicle life. And sure, I could’ve written a blistering satire on office politics that would make Kafka weep. But here’s the truth: that wasn’t my heart talking. That was caffeine withdrawal and the lingering trauma of HR-mandated birthday parties. Back then, I wrote romance novels. They were lovely, sweeping stories. Handsome cowboys, city girls with trust issues, sunset kisses—you know the drill. People liked them. My mom liked them. The mailman once said one made him cry, though he might’ve been referring to his allergies. But something was off. I was writing about love, but my heart wasn’t in it—which is wildly ironic when you think about it. A romance author without romantic feelings about her own work. There’s a pl...

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...

  I have a confession. You may have noticed that I give books away. A lot. It’s not because I enjoy throwing my hard work into the literary void like a parade float tossing candy to a sugar-starved crowd (though that does sound fun). No, there’s a method to my madness. A sneaky, strategic, brilliant (if I do say so myself) plan behind the generosity. But before we get to that, let’s talk about something I have waxed poetic about many times: Amazon reviews. If you’ve followed me for a while, you know I treat book reviews like they’re a rare and precious mineral. You may have even caught me dramatically swooning over a five-star review. (Or whispering sweet nothings to my laptop screen when a particularly glowing review comes in. Don't judge.) The truth is, for indie authors like me, reviews aren’t just nice—they’re survival. They tell Amazon’s mysterious algorithm that my books are worth recommending to new readers. They help readers decide if my story about a ghostly sidekic...