Thinkingdog Publishing

There are dog people. There are cat people. And then there are those magical unicorns who manage to love both. Me? I’ve always been a dog person, no hesitation, no fence-sitting. At the tender age of seven, I marched into dog ownership with my very first dachshund. Her name? Spot. I know, I know. You’re thinking, “Wow, that’s original.” In my defense, I was seven, and frankly, every dog book I’d ever read led me to believe that if you named a dog anything other than Spot, Fido, or Rover, it simply wouldn’t fetch. Also - look at her face! Spot was the beginning of a lifelong love affair. With the exception of a few (tragically dogless) years, I’ve always had a furry companion—or two or three—by my side. Some people collect stamps. I collect dogs. Now, I’ll admit something that every dog lover secretly knows: this is a story that never ends well. Dogs are with us for such a heartbreakingly short time. But still, given the choice, I’ll sign up for the heartbreak every single time. Th...

  Roughing It Like a True Canadian (Yes, We Pay for This!) Let me explain something about being Canadian—specifically a Torontonian —that might sound completely bananas if you’re from, say, anywhere else. Every summer, without fail, we pay actual money to drive for hours (in traffic, because everyone else is doing it too) to stay in small, creaky wooden cabins that proudly boast such luxury features as… basic electricity, questionable plumbing, and the gentle hum of mosquitoes dive-bombing your forehead at 2 a.m. We call this “going to the cottage.” But don’t let that charming little word fool you. We’re not talking about lakefront villas with infinity pools and catered meals. No, no. We’re talking about roughing it. This is glamping ’s awkward cousin who wears Crocs unironically and thinks canned beans are a gourmet side dish. My American friends are baffled. “You pay for this?” “You drive hours to voluntarily not have a dishwasher?” “You left the city to use a compostin...

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...

There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together? I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.) But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and ...

  The question comes up all the time. It’s inevitable. Like taxes. Or discovering that you’ve been walking around with spinach in your teeth all day. "Who’s your favorite character?" And I should have a definitive answer, right? Like, boom—here’s my favorite! Neatly tied up, no hesitation, no emotional turmoil, no staring off into the middle distance questioning my life choices. But no. That is not how this works. That is not how any of this works. My knee-jerk reaction is always Pixie . Pixie, my telepathic, sass-infused, magical Papillon from the Magical Papillon Mysteries . How could I not pick her? She’s got it all—wit, charm, fluffy ears, and, most importantly, magic. I mean, who wouldn’t want a touch of magic? I can barely find my car keys half the time. Pixie would just twitch an ear, and boom—problem solved. And she’s funny. Not just “accidentally amusing” funny. No, she’s deliberately funny. She says the things we all wish we could say, with perfect comed...

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...

  A Century of Storytelling: What The New Yorker’s Legacy Means for Indie Authors On February 21, 1925, the first issue of The New Yorker hit newsstands, marking the beginning of a literary and journalistic powerhouse that would shape modern storytelling. Today, a hundred years later, the magazine stands as an enduring symbol of wit, intelligence, and literary excellence. But beyond its status as a prestigious publication, The New Yorker’s journey holds valuable lessons for indie authors navigating the ever-changing world of publishing. As independent writers, we may not have the reach of a legendary magazine, but we share a common goal: to tell stories that matter, challenge perspectives, and leave a lasting impact. So, what can we learn from The New Yorker as we carve our own paths? 1. The Power of Voice: Defining Your Unique Style From its inception, The New Yorker established a distinctive voice—one that was sophisticated yet accessible, humorous yet serious, litera...