Thinkingdog Publishing

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

Let’s set the scene: It’s a bright Tuesday morning. I’m sipping my coffee, scrolling through social media like any responsible adult procrastinating on chapter edits. And there it is. Not one, not two, but fifteen comments dragging someone’s handmade soap like it personally committed a felony. “I’d never use this on my worst enemy. ” “Looks like slugs.” “Bet it smells like despair.” I mean… wow. That escalated faster than my heart rate when I remember I left the laundry in the washer three days ago. And this isn’t about soap, or art, or books, or fashion, or whatever passion someone was brave enough to share with the world. This is about the sudden popularity of… let’s call it the Snark Olympics . And friend, everyone seems to think they’re going for gold. When did meanness become the default? When did “this isn’t for me” turn into “this person must be publicly humiliated and possibly banished to the nether realms”? Now, I’m not saying we all need to sprinkle glitter ...