Thinkingdog Publishing

If you’ve ever seen one of my videos, you might’ve caught a glimpse—just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment—of a massive old hickory tree standing like a stoic sentry in the park near my house. It’s an absolute beast of a tree. Towering. Majestic. With a trunk so wide it splits into two at the bottom like it’s got a dramatic flair for posing. This tree is old, scarred, and—dare I say it—glorious. Naturally, I became obsessed. I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with an elderly tree that looks like it’s been through several wars and come out the other side throwing shade (literally and figuratively)? Two autumns ago, while others were sipping pumpkin lattes and posting selfies with cinnamon sticks, I was crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, collecting hickory nuts like some sort of deranged woodland creature. But not just any nuts—oh no. I carefully selected only the viable ones. (I even did a float test in water, because yes, I am that person now.) Then came the c...

Have you ever shouted at the universe, shaken your fist at the sky, or quietly (or not-so-quietly) begged your coffee machine to please just do this one thing right for once ? Have you ever wished—deep down—that you had a wand to wave, a spell to chant, or a dragon to sic on your internet provider? Same. That’s why I write magic. Now, let me back up a bit. I’ve been in situations where life handed me lemons, but also forgot the sugar, the water, the pitcher, and the instructions. You know the kind: where things feel wildly unfair, like the villain is clearly winning, and you're stuck with the sidekick role—but without the witty one-liners or costume budget. So, what do you do when real life is missing sparkle, fairness, and the satisfaction of a dramatic entrance? You invent a world where things can change with a spell. Where you can say the thing you wish you said. Where justice doesn’t take years and three lawyers. Where kindness is a superpower, animals talk back (sometim...

So - here we go again: it’s 7:13 AM. I’m in my robe. I have one sock on. The dog is staring at me like I just told her I threw out all the treats. My laptop is open, the cursor blinking like it’s judging me, and I’m staring at my manuscript thinking: Who gave me permission to write a book? Was there a form? A permit? Did I miss the licensing exam? Welcome to Tuesday. Also known as: “Imposter Syndrome’s Favorite Day.” Here’s the thing—I thought imposter syndrome was something that happened only to other people. People who accidentally got promoted to CEO when they meant to send an email. Or someone who woke up famous and didn’t know how to use Instagram filters. But no. Imposter syndrome is an equal opportunity mischief-maker. And for writers? It’s practically a roommate. Don’t believe me? Let’s talk about John Steinbeck. You know, Of Mice and Men , The Grapes of Wrath , East of Eden —that guy. He once wrote this in his journal: “My many weaknesses are beginning to show their head...

When people ask me what I miss most about Germany, they expect me to say something dramatic like castles, cobblestones, or perhaps men in lederhosen playing accordions under ancient oak trees. But no. The truth is far simpler—and far sweeter. I miss Kaffee und Kuchen. In Germany, Sunday afternoons have a rhythm as steady as a church bell. Around three or four o’clock, no matter how busy the week has been, people pause. Coffee is brewed. Cakes—sometimes rich and chocolatey like a proper Black Forest, sometimes fruity, tart, and dusted with sugar, sometimes streusel-strewn and buttery—are sliced and plated. Families and friends gather around tables, whether in kitchens or crowded cafés, and for one golden hour the world slows down. It isn’t really about the cake, though heaven knows the cake is reason enough. It’s about connection. It’s about talking face to face rather than through texts or rushed phone calls. It’s about traditions that stitch the week together, offering the promise t...

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...

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...

You know how some people get up at dawn to go fishing? They sit there in their boats, patiently waiting, casting, reeling, hoping for a big catch. Well, let me tell you about the real fisherman in our family. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t own a tackle box, and his fishing license would never hold up under scrutiny. I’m talking about our dog. Yes, you read that right. One of our dogs is a fisherman, though “fisherman” is maybe too generous a word. “Lake stander and occasional snapper” might be more accurate. But for the sake of his dignity, we call it fishing. And believe me, he takes it very, very seriously. Happens every time when we’re at the cabin (or the cottage, for those of us Canucks who know that’s the proper word). It’s early morning, the kind of crisp fall day where the mist is still rolling off the water, and most sane beings are wrapped in blankets with hot coffee in hand. But not him. Nope. Six o’clock sharp, he’s up, tail wagging, trotting down to the water like it’s h...

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....

I live in a beautiful place. Like breathtaking sunrise over the lake while birds sing your personal soundtrack kind of beautiful. And no, I am not writing this from the balcony of my lakeside mansion while sipping artisanal espresso made by a butler named Giles. I live here because I moved in when this part of town was considered “the wrong side of the tracks.” Back then, the only things appreciating the view were me, a couple of squirrels, and a retired guy named Bob who walked shirtless year-round (we never spoke of winter). But I got lucky. I settled in, built a life, and now I get to walk to a little sliver of land—what I call my nature recharge zone. It’s got a trail (sort of), trees that lean in like gossiping grandmothers, hedges bursting with birds, and a beach the size of a postage stamp. In short, it's perfect. WAS perfect. Enter: The Town. Cue the menacing music. The town, in its infinite and completely questionable wisdom, has decided to “beautify” this space. Th...

You know what’s harder than plotting a cozy mystery where the Papillon always sniffs out the clues before the humans do? Harder than writing a romantic subplot that doesn’t sound like it belongs in a greeting card from 1992? Harder than naming five suspects who all have plausible motives, mysterious pasts, and an odd relationship with baked goods? Facebook ads. Yes. Facebook ads. I’m not kidding – at all. I have just survived the most excruciating, ridiculous, time-warping four hours of my life trying to program in a few simple ads for my books. I went in optimistic. Hopeful, even. Maybe a little smug. I thought, how hard could it be? (Spoiler alert: that was my first mistake.) First, Facebook (Meta? ZuckLand? Whatever they’re calling it now) required me to set up not one, but approximately 437 separate accounts, business pages, ad managers, pixel integrations, and possibly a small sacrificial offering to the algorithm gods. I clicked through pages. I filled in boxes. I uploade...

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...

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

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’s nothing quite like pouring your heart, soul, and an irresponsible amount of coffee into a novel—only to have someone on the internet declare it “the worst book I’ve ever read” right after publication day. First of all… dramatic much? If you’re reading this post and you’ve ever gotten a bad review, welcome to the club . We have cookies. And tissues. And a secret spreadsheet where we compare the most dramatic one-star zingers and rate them for flair and emotional devastation. There's even an entire podcast where they read one-star reviews out loud - and make fun of them. But seriously. Let’s talk about it. Bad reviews happen to everybody. And I mean everybody . I once looked up reviews for a wildly famous author who’s sold more books than there are cats on the internet (and that’s saying something), and guess what? One-star reviews galore. Someone said their “writing style reminded them of damp lettuce.” I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s harsh. So what do we ...

There’s this German TV show I love. It’s one of those wonderfully slow-paced, feel-good programs where a guy drives around the countryside, poking into little-known corners of the world, visiting old craftsmen, artists, and those wonderfully eccentric people who always have a twinkle in their eye and a suspiciously large number of half-finished projects lying around. You know the type. The ones who start their sentences with, "Ach, back in my day..." but then promptly pull out a blowtorch, a chisel, or an embroidery needle and create something breathtaking. But here’s the thing—they’re not just working . They’re living . They LOVE what they do. They’re in their seventies, their eighties, sometimes even their nineties, and they’re still at it. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because whatever they do—be it woodcarving, painting, weaving, or some bizarre skill no one’s even heard of outside their tiny village—it’s their thing . And I think there’s a les...

  Let’s rewind to about a year ago when I decided to dabble in audiobooks. You know, like a casual hobby—except nothing in my life ever stays casual. I either go all in or I abandon ship before even getting my feet wet. This time, I went all in. I got myself a fancy Zoom P4 deck, a solid Samson dynamic microphone, and a whole mess of software that I initially had no idea how to use. I figured, how hard could it be? (Spoiler: very hard ). But I wasn’t worried. Why? Because I know my learning style. Some people take courses. Some people hire coaches. Some people watch endless YouTube tutorials. And then there’s me—stubbornly determined to learn everything by trial and error. I prefer to tinker, to break things, to question my life choices when I realize I recorded an entire chapter with my mic turned off. "Why don’t you just take a course?" my brother, the actual audio engineer, asked repeatedly. (This is the same brother who once set up my first microphone and watche...

You know that old myth that inspiration strikes like lightning? Yeah. Let’s go ahead and toss that in the compost bin, right next to last week’s kale. As a cozy mystery author, I get asked all the time: “Where do you get your ideas?” There’s this widely held belief that writers are constantly floating around in a bubble of creativity, sipping tea and spontaneously birthing brilliant plots like literary unicorns. Let me just invite you into the real scene at my house. It’s 9 a.m. I shuffle into my writing space, which is honestly just a desk covered in sticky notes, empty mugs, and at least three pens I pretend I don’t chew. I sit down. Crack knuckles. Tell myself, “Today is the day I finish Chapter Four!” And… absolutely nothing happens. Not a plot twist. Not a witty line of dialogue. Not even a suspicious footprint on a doormat. Just blank screen and the sound of Blueberry, my extremely judgmental Papillon, sighing loudly from her perch on the armchair. If you don’t b...