Thinkingdog Publishing

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...

  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...

The ATM Ate My Morning (And Other Tales from the 5:30 Club) So, let’s talk about my mornings. I know I get up way too early. Like, the birds are still stretching kind of early. Honestly, if you're imagining some serene, yoga-mat-and-matcha situation, please erase that. This isn’t enlightenment, my friend—it’s insomnia. Unfiltered, unmedicated, and definitely uncaffeinated. But hey, there’s a silver lining to staring at the ceiling at 4:55 AM: by 5:30, I'm up, dressed (questionably), and getting stuff done like I’m starring in an infomercial titled "Organize Your Life Before the Sun Rises!" I’ve alphabetized tea, refolded laundry that was already folded, and—most importantly—gone for early walks with my faithful assistant, Blueberry the Papillon. She’s the real CEO around here. I just carry the leash. So this morning, full of smug efficiency, I decided to combine my morning walk with a quick bank run. Two birds, one stone. (Or in Blueberry's case, one squirr...

Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too) So… why do I disappear into the wilds of the canadian North with no Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and a fridge that sounds like it’s crying at night? Because it’s the only place I actually relax. Yes, I know, you can technically relax anywhere. A spa, a beach, your own backyard hammock with a pink drink and a book about Scandinavian murders. But here’s the catch: I don’t. When I have ten minutes of peace in my regular life, my brain goes, “Oooh, time to spiral!” Suddenly I’m obsessing over Chapter 4 and why it still reads like it was written by a caffeinated octopus. Or I remember that the audio edits on my last audiobook were a smidge less than perfect, and maybe I should recheck that pause at the 47-minute mark. And by the way, did I ever respond to that email about the email about the podcast interview? I don’t relax. I rev . Blame it on my upbringing. I grew up in a German household, and let me tell you, asking...

Let me tell you a little secret. One that I, like most writers I know, don’t say out loud unless coaxed with chocolate or caffeine or the promise of a free tote bag. Ready? I regularly think I’m a fraud. Yep. Impostor syndrome is basically my sidekick. My unwanted sidekick. Like a clingy ex who keeps showing up at book signings whispering, “You don’t belong here.” You see, writing is deeply personal . We’re not assembling IKEA furniture (though honestly, my last attempt at a bookshelf made me feel equally unqualified). When you write, you’re pulling thoughts from your soul, arranging them into fragile sentences, and then sending them out into the big bad world hoping someone doesn’t say, “Well, that’s garbage.” There’s no magical scroll that arrives by owl post declaring: “Congratulations, you are now officially a Writer™.” No license, no laminated badge, not even a quirky business card. If you’re waiting for someone to officially knight you with a pen and say, “Arise, Word Wa...

Let’s talk about the writing process. Ah yes, the process. That majestic, mythical, Instagrammable creature every indie author is apparently supposed to post about. You’ve seen the posts, right? The ones with a steaming mug of tea, a perfectly posed cat, a candle flickering beside a stack of color-coded index cards, and captions like: “Today I let my protagonist tell me where the story wanted to go…” Meanwhile, over here in the chaotic land of reality, my protagonist just refused to cooperate, the dog barked at a ghost (probably), and my coffee’s been microwaved three times. And I’ll be honest with you: if I waited around for my story to tell me where to go, I’d still be staring at Chapter One wondering why my main character is named Blergle. Here’s my writing process: Step One: Put butt in chair. Step Two: Put fingers on keyboard. Step Three: Make stuff up. That’s it. That’s the whole enchilada. No scented candles. No lunar rituals. No twenty-part TikTok series about ho...

Friends, readers, fellow caffeine-dependent life forms— This is your friendly neighborhood author reporting live from... somewhere just shy of the Arctic Circle. Okay, maybe not that far north, but it feels like it. Especially when your only connection to civilization involves plugging in the Starlink and hoping the squirrels don’t chew through the cable. Now, you know me. I’m all about showing up, putting on the writing pants (they're stretchy, obviously), and getting the words down. I love a good “sit down and do the thing” moment. That’s my jam. But sometimes, you’ve got to do something radical. You have to... stop. I know. Take a breath. I’ll wait while you recover from that bombshell. Truth is, the creative well doesn’t refill itself, especially not when I’m knee-deep in deadlines, plotting magical mysteries, and making sure Pixie the Papillon doesn’t unionize for more treats and magical screen time. So I did something wild: I packed up, left the to-do list behind...