Thinkingdog Publishing

There comes a time in every writer’s life when they sit down with a cup of coffee (or let’s be honest, something stronger) and ask themselves: Why do I do this to myself? I’ve written thrillers. I’ve written romance. I’ve written thrillers again because apparently, I enjoy stress. But no matter where my writing adventures take me, I always— always —come back to cozy mysteries. And you know what? They’re my most successful books, too. So, why cozies? Simple. Have you looked outside lately? The world is one sigh away from an absolute meltdown. I mean, it’s a lot. Every time I scroll the news, I have to resist the urge to grab my dog and escape to a remote island where WiFi doesn’t exist. But instead of moving to the middle of nowhere, I write cozy mysteries. Why? Because I need to believe that somewhere, somehow, a kinder world still exists. A world where people bake pies instead of doom-scrolling. A world where a cup of tea and a bit of small-town gossip can actually solv...

Ah, the Canada day - Fourth of July weekend. Fireworks! Freedom! A glorious expanse of uninterrupted time stretching out like a freshly opened notebook, just begging to be filled with literary brilliance. This, dear reader, is what I tell myself every single year. "This is it!" I proclaim. "The long weekend where I finally finish that chapter, outline the next book, update my website, reorganize my plotting board, and maybe— maybe —even alphabetize my coffee and chocolate drawer. (Creative minds thrive on chocolate, okay?)" I even tell my friends. With utter conviction. "Oh, I'm writing all weekend. No distractions. Just me, my laptop, and the sweet click-clack of productivity." But then… Well, then real life crashes the party with potato salad and a sun hat. Let me set the scene. It's the first truly beautiful weekend we've had in forever . After an apocalyptic winter that left me questioning if I should start writing Narnia fanfic and...

  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...