Christmas Markets, Mulled Wine, and the Mystery of Why Everything Smelled So Good

Growing up in Europe meant many things: cobblestoned streets, more historical buildings than I could count, and the deep personal conviction that every pastry is improved by powdered sugar. But above all else—above the castles, above the trains that actually ran on time, above the little dachshunds we always had, multiples,—there were the Christmas markets.

If you’ve ever wandered through a European Christmas market as a kid, you know exactly what I mean. Every town had one. Big, tiny, and everything in between. It didn’t matter if the population was ten thousand or ten… the market appeared magically, like elves built it overnight after finishing their gingerbread shift.

And oh, the glow. The old towns lit up like fairy-tale book covers—golden lights wrapped around ancient buildings, each little wooden hut spilling warm brightness into the cold winter air. Even the stone streets seemed to sparkle, though that might’ve been leftover powdered sugar. Hard to say.

And the smells. Good heavens. Someone should bottle the scent of a Christmas market and make a fortune. A perfect mixture of roasting nuts, sausages sizzling on tiny grills, sweet pastries dusted in sugar, and enough spices to make every yoga instructor’s chai tea latte cry in defeat. And the mulled wine—steaming cups of ruby-red comfort that made adults smile in that “I’m fine, actually” way that told you everything you needed to know about holiday stress.

And the artisans! Potters, woodcarvers, glassblowers, knitters, painters—each booth like a treasure chest ready to be opened. I used to wander through them as a kid thinking, these people are magicians, which might explain everything about how I ended up writing paranormal cozy mysteries starring a magical Papillon diva.

Now, of course, I live in Canada, where we do have Christmas markets. Lovely ones! Charming! Festive! Beautiful! But—and I say this with deep affection for my adopted country—it’s never quite the same. Maybe it's the nostalgia. Maybe it's the history. Maybe it’s the fact that in Europe the entire town square looks like it was designed for elves. Canada tries, bless her cozy maple-scented heart, but when you’re standing in a parking lot next to a Canadian Tire, it’s… different.

But still—go. Support your local artists, makers, creators, and slightly-frozen vendors who desperately want someone to buy the handmade candles they've been stirring since August. These people put heart into their work, and they show up with smiles even when their toes can no longer be felt.

I’ve done a few Christmas markets myself this year, and let me tell you, nothing beats handing someone a signed copy of your book and watching their face light up like they just stepped into their own holiday story. I’ve sent people home with artwork, too—little pieces of magic wrapped in tissue paper that hopefully bring someone joy.

And every time someone walked away smiling, I felt just like I used to at those old European markets—surrounded by light, warmth, wonder, and that indescribable feeling that stories are everywhere and magic is real. Even if the mulled wine in Canada is sometimes served at “brisk” rather than “steaming.”

So here’s to Christmas markets in every country, every town, every temperature. Here’s to supporting small creators. Here’s to nostalgia and sausages and paper stars and cinnamon sugar floating on the air.

And here’s to you—for being part of my story, my journey, and my holiday joy.
Blueberry the Papillon approves this message, as long as someone saves her a tiny sausage.

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

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. ...

DIY Audiobook. A bit of equipment, good advice and lots of patience

I want to create an Audiobook - should I? Ever since the release of book one in the "Cannabis Preacher" series of thrillers, that question has been on my mind. The "Cannabis Preacher" books were quite long. To produce an audiobook from each of the four, including voice actors and audio production with a turn key service, I was looking at around $15,000 per book. Financially, that was a non-starter for me at the time. That amount represented a LOT of books and audiobooks to sell to recover the investment, and I shelved my plan again. With the popularity of the "Magical Papillon" cozy mystery series, I found myself coming back to the growing popularity of audiobooks. I knew that audiobooks could reach a wider audience and catered to busy readers who prefer listening while multitasking. The idea of bringing my characters to life through narration excited me, as it offered a new dimension to my storytelling. The cozy mysteries were only 60-65,000...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

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