Thinkingdog Publishing

  Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

If you ever see a kid in the corner at a party with their nose in a book, oblivious to the games, snacks, and mild chaos around them—yep, that was me . Always reading. Always scribbling something. Sports? Please. I was too short to make any team that didn’t require a step stool. Science? It was fun until they asked me to memorize the periodic table—pass. But reading? Writing? Oh, baby, that was my jam. I tried my hand at writing my first mystery novel at age 14. My protagonists were (shockingly) teenage kids who solved crimes. There were flashlights, a lot of sneaking around old buildings, and absolutely no understanding of how actual criminal investigations work. But hey—what I lacked in forensic accuracy, I made up for in enthusiasm and lots of dialogue tagged with “he said dramatically.” Then came the romance years. You know the ones. All fluttery hearts, brooding strangers, and small towns with improbably high numbers of single billionaires. I loved it. I still do. There’s noth...

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection .  If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect . And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.) You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot . Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.” But here’s the thing – I wrote this . It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something t...

There was a time—ah, the golden days—when my favorite guilty pleasure was sneaking onto social media in the middle of writing. I’d be knee-deep in a tense chapter, or elbow-deep in a horrifyingly overcomplicated spreadsheet, and I'd whisper to myself: “Just five minutes... you’ve earned it.” Five minutes would turn into thirty, naturally. Maybe forty. I’d scroll, like, laugh at memes involving dogs in hats, argue with someone over the correct ranking of Halloween candy (Reese’s is #1, don’t @ me), and maybe even post a selfie if I was feeling wild. Back then, social media was my oasis . My little hideaway of chaos and dopamine and questionable life choices. A snack for the brain. A tiny vacation. But somewhere along the way, the snack became the meal. One day I woke up and social media was no longer my escape. It was on my to-do list. My to-do list! Right there, in between “write 1,000 words” and “don’t forget to eat something green.” The thing is, if you’re an author n...

 You know those wholesome motivational quotes like, “Be the reason someone smiles today” ? Yeah, well, I aimed for that. I really did. But sometimes life hands you a glitter grenade, and suddenly you're the reason someone’s clutching their emotional support coffee (or cabernet) like a life raft. ☕ It Started with Good Intentions... One day, I woke up and said, “Today’s the day I’m going to spread joy like confetti!” Except, I was out of actual confetti, so I improvised with passive-aggressive Post-it notes and a smile that made people wonder if I was okay. (I wasn’t. But I had snacks, so I was hanging in there.) At the coffee shop, I complimented a stranger’s socks. They looked at me like I had just asked them to join a cult. I smiled. They left quickly. So… not quite a smile, but I was the reason they power-walked back to their car with fresh adrenaline. 🍷 You Win Some, You Wine Some Later that afternoon, I tried again. I told a friend they looked radiant. They asked if I wa...

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 ...

  I have a confession. You may have noticed that I give books away. A lot. It’s not because I enjoy throwing my hard work into the literary void like a parade float tossing candy to a sugar-starved crowd (though that does sound fun). No, there’s a method to my madness. A sneaky, strategic, brilliant (if I do say so myself) plan behind the generosity. But before we get to that, let’s talk about something I have waxed poetic about many times: Amazon reviews. If you’ve followed me for a while, you know I treat book reviews like they’re a rare and precious mineral. You may have even caught me dramatically swooning over a five-star review. (Or whispering sweet nothings to my laptop screen when a particularly glowing review comes in. Don't judge.) The truth is, for indie authors like me, reviews aren’t just nice—they’re survival. They tell Amazon’s mysterious algorithm that my books are worth recommending to new readers. They help readers decide if my story about a ghostly sidekic...

This winter really kicked my rear end . I don’t know if it was actually colder, longer, and snowier than usual or if it just felt that way, but either way, I felt drained. A kind of low-grade listlessness settled over me, the kind that makes it hard to muster enthusiasm for much of anything. My creativity? It all but hibernated. I’ve always been a summer person. I thrive when the sun is shining, when I can get outside and move, when nature feels alive and bursting with possibility. There’s something about stepping into warm air that sparks energy in me, making ideas flow as easily as the breeze through the trees. But winter? Winter is different. The days are short, the nights are long, and the cold seeps into everything. Even with the glow of holiday lights or the beauty of fresh snow, I find myself counting down to spring. I try to embrace the season—hot tea, cozy blankets, the occasional twinkling snowfall—but the truth is, I have to actively fight my way through these three months...

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...