Thinkingdog Publishing

  Stone Walls, Secret Whispers, and Why My Books Are Haunted When you grow up in Germany , old buildings aren’t a novelty. They’re just… Tuesday. Crooked timber frames. Weathered stone staircases. Heavy wooden doors that creak even when you swear no one touched them. Windows that look like they’ve seen at least three wars and a scandal or two. Entire streets where the buildings lean toward each other like they’re sharing gossip. I lived in places like that. Apartments with stairwells that echoed just a little too long. Ceilings so high your imagination had room to stretch. Basements that absolutely, positively were not haunted… except, you know, maybe just a little. When you grow up surrounded by history, you don’t have to try very hard to believe that walls remember things. That footsteps linger. That stories don’t always end when people do. So yes. There are ghosts in my books. Not because I sat down one day and thought, “Let’s add a ghost for fun.” But because when you’v...

This might come as a surprise.....  But I can’t sing. No, really. I sound like a frog who’s just stubbed his toe and is trying to croak out a sad ballad about it. And yet… I love to sing. I love music. I grew up with it. My grandma was an actual, real-life, honest-to-Pavarotti coloratura soprano. She hit high notes like most of us hit snooze buttons—effortlessly and often. She sang in opera houses. People clapped. She wore fabulous dresses. She was a diva in the best sense of the word. And then there’s me. Genetics skipped a beat. I didn’t get a drop of that vocal magic. But I did inherit the passion. So, like any slightly embarrassed, secretly hopeful person, I sang quietly in the car. In the shower. Alone in the house. Sometimes into my dog’s ears (she forgave me). But here’s the kicker—I became a writer. And then I did the unthinkable: I started recording my own audiobooks. Why? Because I’m either very brave or very foolish. Possibly both. Now, recording audiobooks isn’t just re...