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. ...

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

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...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

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