Thinkingdog Publishing

Has this happened to you? You're sitting there working, on a fun cozy mystery. Magic, a mystery, there's a ghost floating by, Pixie says something sassy.... And then it happens. Something went wrong. That's it. That's the whole message my computer gave me. Three words, delivered with all the urgency and helpfulness of a shrug emoji. Something went wrong. I stared at it. It stared back. Neither of us blinked for what felt like a considerable amount of time. Now, I think i am a reasonable person, right? And - I write magical cozy mysteries, which means I spend a significant portion of my working day inventing elaborate, detailed explanations for impossible events. Pixie, my enchanted Papillon, has explained the mechanics of ghost communication to me in more coherent terms than my own computer managed just now. My fictional dog — who does not exist — is better at communication than enterprise-grade software. I need a moment with that. But back to the scene of t...

You know these people. Everybody knows these people. The ones who do one thing so well that watching them feels a little bit like witnessing magic. You see them in sports all the time — the athlete who makes the impossible look like a Tuesday. But I don't have to turn on the television to find them. I have them right in my own family. Take my relative, the mechanic. I could bring this man an engine held together by rust, hope, and one very tired bolt, and say, “Something doesn't work.” That's it. That's all the information I give him. No diagnosis, no helpful details, just something doesn't work — which, as descriptions go, is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And he fixes it. Not only does he fix it — the engine comes back better than before. It purrs. It practically sends thank-you notes. I'm fairly certain that if I brought him a toaster and said “something doesn't work,” it would come back capable of flight. Then there's my s...

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 ...

Here’s something that’s either going to make you say “duh” or “are you kidding me?”  Over the course of writing seven books in my Magical Papillon Mysteries series (yes, seven… I know you only have six in your hands right now, but the others are coming, pinky promise), I have learned so much it’s almost embarrassing. Not in a tragic way. In a “how did I not know this before?” way. When I wrote the first Magical Papillon book, I thought I understood pacing. I thought I understood tension. I thought I understood when to let a ghost float dramatically through a wall and when to let a single mother drink her coffee in peace. Turns out, I did not. Enter Rosewood Hollow. That charming, magical, slightly nosy town that now feels as real to me as my own kitchen. Somewhere between book one and book seven, I learned that magic has rules. Ghosts have boundaries. Secrets need air. Action needs silence. And pauses? Pauses are powerful. Sometimes the most important moment in a story is the breat...

Okay. So. Here's the thing. I sat down today with every intention of writing you the most brilliantly crafted, gloriously witty, perfectly cozy social media post about the Papillon series. You know the kind — the ones that make you laugh out loud, hit follow and then buy a slightly haunted cozy mystery involving a very small but extremely opinionated dog.  I had the vibe. I had the energy. I had the snacks. What I did not have, as it turns out, was a single solitary idea. I put my fingers on the keyboard. I stared at the screen. The screen stared back at me with the blank, unblinking patience of a particularly judgmental cat — except in my house, the judgy energy doesn't come from a cat. It comes from a five-pound Papillon named Blueberry who was, at that precise moment, watching me from her perch on the couch with an expression that said, very clearly, "Mom. What are you even doing." And honestly? Fair question, Blueberry. Fair question. Here's the thing nobody t...

Forget the selfies, the algorithms, and the “build your personal brand” advice. When it comes to writing my magical Papillon mysteries, my uniform is a little different. Here’s what it really looks like: 1. Sweaters, messy buns, and keyboards Cozy comfort is key. Whether I’m chasing ghosts or crafting enchanted mysteries, nothing fuels the magic like a warm sweater and a comfy workspace. Bonus points if there’s a Papillon curled up nearby! 2. Manuscripts covered in ink and coffee rings Every story starts messy. My pages are filled with handwritten edits, scribbles, and notes to myself. It’s proof that magic (and mysteries) are never perfect on the first try. 3. Stacks of books and endless research I invest in worlds, not trends. Research is my secret ingredient—whether I’m weaving in haunted mansions, enchanted gardens, or a clever canine sidekick, the details matter. 4. Steaming mugs of inspiration Coffee or tea? Yes, please. These little rituals keep me going while ...

Did you know I record my own audiobooks? I know. It sounds very glamorous, doesn’t it? You might imagine a sleek studio, a glowing microphone, a sound engineer nodding approvingly while I read my words with theatrical perfection. Now allow me to gently replace that image with reality. Reality looks a lot like a cozy mystery author sitting in a carefully engineered blanket fort made of pillows, quilts, and pure determination, whispering dramatically into a microphone while praying the dog does not bark and the refrigerator does not suddenly decide to hum like a jet engine. Is it easy? No. Not even slightly. Recording an audiobook means discovering that your own tongue apparently has a personal vendetta against certain words. Words you wrote. Words you edited. Words you confidently believed were perfectly pronounceable until you had to say them out loud seventeen times. Then there are the unexpected discoveries. For example, you will learn exactly how many sounds exis...

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...