Thinkingdog Publishing

Growing up, I was a walking, talking mystery to my family. Honestly, if my dad and I hadn’t been so close, I might’ve been written off as an alien life form left on the doorstep. You see, my parents were the definition of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people. Good people. Honest people. The kind of people who fixed things with duct tape and cooked dinner while doing three other things at once. My mom could stretch a dollar until it begged for mercy. My dad could fix a car engine with a shoelace and a pocketknife. And there I was: doodling in the margins of my notebook, daydreaming about far-off lands and writing dramatic poetry about the moon. When it came time for me to "learn a trade," the recommendation was solid: secretarial work. It was practical. It made sense. It paid the bills. And it made me about as happy as a cat at a dog show. I spent forty years (yes, four-zero, not a typo) working jobs that made me feel like a square peg hammered into a round hole. I showed...

Structure. Just saying it out loud feels… mildly offensive . Like a distant relative showing up uninvited with a casserole. The kind of thing I absolutely rebelled against when I was seventeen. “Structure? Pfft. I don’t need no structure!” I shouted, probably in front of a mirror, probably with eyeliner smudged from some dramatic emotional revelation about freedom and individuality. And yet… here we are. Seventeen, eighteen… I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve written. And as I click open the latest Word document, my gut does a little shiver of recognition. Structure is actually… useful. There, I said it. Useful. Shocking, I know. Structure keeps you on track. It prevents that horrifying moment where you sit at your keyboard, staring blankly at the blinking cursor, muttering, “How does this story continue now?” It’s like the invisible hand holding a leash on your runaway imagination, and for once, it’s a leash you don’t entirely mind. But the real magic? Structure tells you wh...

The other day, as I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook (which I swear was just for five minutes, but then somehow an hour disappeared—Facebook time is not real time), I saw an ad that stopped me cold. It asked: "Have you ever wished for a minor accident or illness—not serious, just enough to stay in bed for a few days and rest?" My immediate, gut reaction? Absolutely, yes. And apparently, I wasn’t alone. The comments were a chorus of, “Oh my gosh, YES!” and “All the time.” and “Where do I sign up for a light, non-life-threatening illness that involves tea, naps, and binge-watching detective shows?” Wait. Hold on. When did we, as a society, reach the point where the dream of self-care involves a medically justified break from life ? When did we go from "Omg, I hope I never get sick" to "Look, I don’t want anything permanent, but if the universe wanted to drop a mild, fever-free flu on me, I wouldn’t fight it” ? Welcome to the Productivity Cul...

You know that saying: “It takes a thousand attaboys to make up for one ‘oh sh t.’”* Whoever said that? Genius. Pure, unfiltered genius. Because it is painfully, annoyingly, exasperatingly true. Let me take you behind the scenes of my other life . Yes, because while my writing career is still building (more chapters to come, friends), in the daylight hours I organize a huge outdoor art show in my hometown. And not to brag, but let’s just say, if there’s a job connected to this event, I do it. I’m like Mary Poppins with an endless bag—except instead of pulling out umbrellas and sugar cubes, I pull out spreadsheets, contracts, and more emails than any sane human should have to read. Part of my annual heroic efforts includes creating alllll the social media content. I’m talking images, videos, stories, text—you name it, I design it. Last year, I uploaded the whole glorious lot to a shared folder and told my nearly 200 artists : “Hey, it’s all there for you! Use it however you’d like....

There’s a podcast I’m a little obsessed with . It’s all about scammers who somehow convince the rest of us to fork over our hard-earned money in exchange for… well… dreams, delusions, and in some cases, dubious investments in psychic dolphin therapy. (Okay, I made that last one up. But tell me it doesn’t sound real.) Every time I listen, I shake my head and go, “How could they fall for that?!” And then I remember. Oh yes. I too have walked the path of the gullible. Let’s rewind time to a much, much, much younger version of me. Younger Me, bless her heart, had a weakness for mystery, magic, and online auctions. This is the tale of The Haunted Ring With a Genie In It™ . I swear I’m not making this up. I stumbled across this listing: a haunted ring. With a genie. Real, ancient, probably cursed. But with powers . Powers I could unleash if I performed a SEVENTEEN STEP RITUAL. (Yes. Seventeen. Because eight steps would’ve been too easy and eighteen just felt needy.) Naturally, I bought...

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...

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

Let me tell you a little secret about being an author. It’s not glamorous. It’s not all sipping lattes in quaint bookstores while scribbling in leather-bound notebooks. And it’s definitely not an express ticket to fame. There’s this myth floating around that writing one book—just one—will turn you into the next literary sensation. That you'll hit publish, wake up the next morning with a fan club, a movie deal, and Oprah knocking on your door. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… nope. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. The Reality: Years of Writing (and Rewriting… and Crying… and More Writing) I’ve been writing since I was fourteen. That’s a lot of years spent typing away, dreaming up characters, and questioning my life choices when a plot hole the size of Texas appears out of nowhere. I have thirteen books on Amazon. That sounds impressive, right? But what if I told you that lurking in the depths of my hard drive are twenty-five first drafts th...

  Some writers create characters by outlining deep backstories, crafting complex motivations, and maybe even making an elaborate mood board filled with vintage photographs and mysterious newspaper clippings. Others just go, “Hmm, what if a ghost, but, like… complicated ?” I fall somewhere in the middle. My ghosts aren’t just floating around waiting to jump out of a closet at midnight. They have goals. They have emotions. They have regrets. And, most importantly, they have better things to do than rattle chains and lurk ominously in the corner. Honestly, some of them are busier dead than they ever were alive. Take Amelia, for instance. She’s one of my favorite ghostly characters in my cozy mystery series. You’d think being a ghost would mean a lot of free time to do… ghost things? (What are ghost hobbies, anyway? Spectral knitting? Paranormal Pinterest scrolling?) But no, Amelia has a mission. And that mission involves way more than just floating through walls for dramatic effect...

There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together? I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.) But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and ...

There I was, innocently scrolling through the internet, looking for absolutely nothing in particular (as one does), when an ad stopped me cold. It wasn’t for a life-changing gadget, nor was it for a questionable "miracle" supplement. No, this was worse. It was an ad for a shampoo subscription. That’s right. Some marketing genius out there thinks I should subscribe to shampoo. Now, I don’t know who needs to hear this, but shampoo is not Netflix. Shampoo is not a magazine. Shampoo is not a service. It is soap for my head. You buy it. You use it. You buy more when you need it. The End. But no. Apparently, that’s not good enough for the corporate overlords. Now, they want us to subscribe to everything. Laundry detergent. Kitty litter. Coffee. Socks. I mean, sure, the socks I understand—those things disappear into the void faster than my motivation to exercise—but shampoo ? The Problem with Subscription Everything Let’s talk about how these so-called "convenience...

Let me say it up front—I've never been able to keep my mouth shut. Like, ever. I popped out of the womb ready to give a TED Talk. Ask my mother. She’ll tell you. With tears in her eyes and a twitch in her left eyebrow. All through childhood, I was the kid asking “why?” one too many times. Or, okay— every time. If a grown-up said something ridiculous, you better believe I had a follow-up question, a counterpoint, and probably a joke that would get me grounded. Again. And you’d think with age comes wisdom. Nah. With age comes better timing… maybe. But my mouth still gets me into situations where I’m halfway through a sarcastic remark before my brain taps in like, “Really? You’re doing this? Right now? In front of the priest?” Now, for those who don’t know, I was born in Germany. And let me tell you something about Germans—we do not do subtle. We do not do fluffy. We do not dance around a subject with polite small talk and whispered hints. We march straight into it, stare it dow...