Thinkingdog Publishing

I grew up in a small town. And when I say small, I don’t mean “quaint tourist brochure small.” I mean the kind of small where the most exciting event of the year is the volunteer fire department festival, closely followed by the church raffle. You showed up for both, by the way. Not attending would have been suspicious. This was one of those corners of the country where everyone knew not only your name, but whose child you were, what you had for lunch yesterday, and whether you were walking a little too fast for a Tuesday. Privacy was… aspirational. Naturally, when we needed to get away from it all, we went to a cabin. In a town that was even smaller. I wish I were kidding. As an out-of-towner, you knew everybody in about a week flat. By week two, people nodded knowingly when you walked by. By week three, someone’s aunt had decided you needed more sweaters. This is how community works when there are approximately twelve people and a cow. But here’s the thing—it was beauti...

I’ll admit it right here in front of the internet and anyone snooping on my Wi-Fi connection: I am obsessed with small towns. Not in a mildly fond way, like I’m a fan of flannel or I occasionally fantasize about running a pie shop. No, no. I mean full-on, planning-my-escape-to-a-town-with-one-stoplight obsessed. You know the type of town where the mayor is also the mechanic and possibly the yoga instructor. The kind of place where people don’t use Google Maps to find your house—they just describe it as “the white cottage with the hydrangeas where the ghost dog lives.” Yes. That kind of small town. It’s not a coincidence that I chose to set my Magical Papillon Mysteries in just such a place: the delightfully peculiar village of Rosewood Hollow. A place that practically smells like cinnamon rolls, candle wax, and secrets. Because here’s the truth—we are all secretly (or not-so-secretly) drawn to the warm hug that is small-town life. Even if we’ve never lived in one. Even if...

I’ll admit it right here in front of the internet and anyone snooping on my Wi-Fi connection: I am obsessed with small towns. Not in a mildly fond way, like I’m a fan of flannel or I occasionally fantasize about running a pie shop. No, no. I mean full-on, planning-my-escape-to-a-town-with-one-stoplight obsessed. You know the type of town where the mayor is also the mechanic and possibly the yoga instructor. The kind of place where people don’t use Google Maps to find your house—they just describe it as “the white cottage with the hydrangeas where the ghost dog lives.” Yes. That kind of small town. It’s not a coincidence that I chose to set my Magical Papillon Mysteries in just such a place: the delightfully peculiar village of Rosewood Hollow. A place that practically smells like cinnamon rolls, candle wax, and secrets. Because here’s the truth— we are all secretly (or not-so-secretly) drawn to the warm hug that is small-town life. Even if we’ve never lived in one. Even if ...