Thinkingdog Publishing

You need an animal in a cozy mystery. Dog, cat, skunk — honestly, it doesn't matter. Pick the one that makes you smile when you type it. Why? Because people are gonna people. They'll lie to your sleuth. They'll withhold the one detail that cracks the case. They'll show up charming on page ten and turn out to be hiding something rotten by page ninety. That's what makes a mystery a mystery — human beings are unreliable, self-interested, and endlessly capable of surprising you in the worst way. You know these folks, they hang out everywhere you go. Everybody who has a pet at home, knows they will not. The animal is the one steady heartbeat on the page. When every suspect is spinning a story and the reader can't trust a single face in the room, the dog is still just a dog. The cat still wants the sunbeam. Anyone who’s ever shared their life with a pet will tell you this. Whatever chaos the humans stir up, the animal stays exactly, reliably itself — and t...

There’s a little thing that never shows up on an author bio page, or gets mentioned in the beautiful author interviews, though someone absolutely should. I don’t care how many books they’ve written – every writer will hit a wall. Not a little doubt, not just "hmm, I wonder if this scene is working" kind of thought. Oh no – a real wall, face first, seeing stars, hearing the sound effect kind of moment, and you are absolutely convicted that everything you’ve written is absolute, unmitigated rubbish. How do I know this? Because I have now written fifteen books. Fifteen. So you would think that I have done this often enough and I should, by all reasonable logic, have developed some kind of immunity. A vague memory perhaps, yeah, this usually happens, I’ve been here before, I know how this ends. Alas, there is no immunity. Here is exactly how it goes, in case you are a writer who needs to hear this, or a reader who wants to understand why authors occasionally look haunted ...

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...

Oh hello. You're here for the author , aren’t you? Sarah something? Writes those cozy mysteries where people drink tea, find dead bodies, and somehow still have time to bake cookies? Yeah, her. Listen, I’m not saying she’s bad at it. I’m just saying… without me , there’d be a lot more plot holes and a lot fewer ghosts, magical clues, or talking dogs. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Pixie , the Papillon. Aka the real power behind the pen. Aka Editor-in-Chief at Thinkingdog Publishing. Aka the Reason She Ever Finishes a Book. You think she sits down at her desk, lights a candle, and gracefully types out a mystery masterpiece? No. She sits in pajamas that may or may not be from last Tuesday, holding a coffee cup like it’s the Holy Grail, muttering things like “Wait, did I already kill off the gardener?” and “Why is there a duck in this chapter?” That’s where I come in. The moment she veers too far off track—like, “Let’s make the killer a time-traveling pigeon farmer fr...

Let me tell you a little secret. One that I, like most writers I know, don’t say out loud unless coaxed with chocolate or caffeine or the promise of a free tote bag. Ready? I regularly think I’m a fraud. Yep. Impostor syndrome is basically my sidekick. My unwanted sidekick. Like a clingy ex who keeps showing up at book signings whispering, “You don’t belong here.” You see, writing is deeply personal . We’re not assembling IKEA furniture (though honestly, my last attempt at a bookshelf made me feel equally unqualified). When you write, you’re pulling thoughts from your soul, arranging them into fragile sentences, and then sending them out into the big bad world hoping someone doesn’t say, “Well, that’s garbage.” There’s no magical scroll that arrives by owl post declaring: “Congratulations, you are now officially a Writer™.” No license, no laminated badge, not even a quirky business card. If you’re waiting for someone to officially knight you with a pen and say, “Arise, Word Wa...