Thinkingdog Publishing

Fish tacos — what exactly are they?   I have absolutely no clue. But just saying the words “fish tacos” out loud feels like a small vacation in my mouth, doesn’t it? A little exotic, a little mysterious, definitely delicious-sounding. And believe me, I am kind of looking forward to them. But—no, this post is not a culinary blog, nor is it a fish taco recipe (though if you have one, please send it my way). I was actually smack dab in the middle of writing chapter 23 of my latest cozy mystery—probably unraveling a secret or making a dog say something suspiciously wise—when I casually asked my husband what was for dinner. His answer? “Fish tacos.” Boom. That’s it. Suddenly, my whole world paused, and the only thing I could think about was, What the heck is a fish taco? This post, dear reader, is actually a tribute—an ode, even—to those unsung heroes behind the scenes of every indie author’s life. You know, the people who keep the lights on, the fridge stocked, and the kitchen runn...

So - here's a story that will make you shake your head, and possibly grin into your coffee..... There was once a young(ish) writer—me—who had a dream. A dream of becoming a full-time author. And back in those days, when I was working a “normal” job with real pants and scheduled lunch breaks, I wrote like my life depended on it. I was a writing ninja. A stealth scribe. A literary outlaw with a contraband notebook shoved between HR memos and leftover Post-Its. I mean, I was ON FIRE. Every time I had five minutes to spare—waiting in the breakroom for the microwave, parked outside the vet’s office, pretending to be in a “conference call”—out came the notebook. Words were flying. Characters were developing. Mysteries were unraveling. People thought I was quietly journaling. Nope. I was busy plotting a suspicious death behind the bakery while eating a stale granola bar. Fast forward to today, where writing is my full-time job. And… well. Now I start my day with social media,...

There was a time—not so long ago, but also somehow a lifetime ago—when the internet felt like opening a mysterious little door. You didn’t know what you were going to find. You clicked anyway. And then you just… stayed. Reading. Exploring. Falling down delightful rabbit holes that had absolutely nothing to do with what you originally came for. No pop-ups screaming at you. No perfectly curated lives making you question your existence. Just curiosity and a sense that something interesting was always waiting around the next click. It was fun. And now? Well. Now it’s… a lot. It’s ads stacked on ads stacked on “just one more ad before you get to the thing you actually wanted.” It’s perfectly lit videos with people who somehow look like they woke up flawless and live in homes that have never met a stray sock or a muddy paw. And here I am… In a 100-year-old house that creaks like it has opinions. The lighting? Let’s call it “moody” on a good day and “did a ghost just dim t...

“5 Things I’ve Learned Supervising My Human’s Writing Process” (A Papillon’s Guide to Managing an Introvert Author)   1. “Quiet Writing Time” Is a Lie My human says she is going to “sit quietly and write.” What actually happens: • dramatic gasping • whispering “no no no” at fictional people • intense staring like the laptop has betrayed her I remain calm. Because someone has to. 2. The Heroine Is Always in Danger (For No Reason) At least once per writing session, my human puts her heroine in a completely unnecessary life-threatening situation. Cliffs. Dark alleys. Suspicious strangers. Then she panics. This feels avoidable.   3. The Word “Said” Has Personally Offended Her I don’t know what “said” did. But apparently it is no longer welcome. Now everyone “murmurs,” “whispers,” “breathes,” and occasionally “declares dramatically into the void.” I would like to formally request we bring “said” back.   4. Snacks Are Not Optional There is ...

Truth time? I have a full-blown, popcorn-in-hand, rabbit-hole-diving addiction to watching videos about how to “do well on social media.” Not casually watching - Studying. Observing. Nodding thoughtfully as someone with perfect lighting and cheekbones blessed by the algorithm tells me that if I don’t post three reels a day, engage for forty-seven minutes before and after, use trending audio from a seventeen-second clip of a remix originally posted in 2024, and position my coffee mug at a 32-degree angle… I will vanish into the void. It is both fascinating and mildly terrifying, and I am not going to do any of it. You want to know how I know? Y’all are taking it so serious. Meanwhile, I am over here half-assing my social media presence because I know I have to. I know I should. I know visibility matters. I know marketing is important. I know the algorithm is a mysterious creature that must occasionally be fed. And yet. I don’t particularly want to be o...

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 ...

There is something I firmly believe about life, writing, and neighborhood fences. Everyone should have an old nemesis. Not a villain-villain. Not someone plotting your dramatic downfall while stroking a suspiciously fluffy cat. No, no. I mean the classic, everyday, slightly ridiculous kind of nemesis. The sort who appears in your life just often enough to raise an eyebrow, spark a rivalry, and add a little spice to the otherwise sensible soup of daily living. For instance, I have one. Blueberry has one. And, if we’re being completely honest, the neighbors may or may not have one in each other. If you’ve ever witnessed two neighbors snarking through a backyard fence, you will understand exactly what I mean. There’s a tone. A rhythm. A sort of polite-but-not-really politeness. “Oh, you’re mowing again.” “Well, SOME of us like tidy lawns.” Cue the slightly-too-loud gate closing. And the funny thing is… if that dynamic suddenly disappeared, the entire street would fee...