Dipping into Short Stories (and Why You Should Never Trust Me with an Artichoke)

You’d think with all the time I spend telling stories about other people (even ones that don’t physically exist), I’d be a gold-medalist in the blogging department. After all, who knows me better than I know myself? Instead, I’m clutching my slightly crumpled participation ribbon and wondering why I struggle to write about my lived experiences. C’est la vie.

Anyway, Dan and I are back from France, where we spent nearly two weeks exploring the towns, cities, and medieval villages sprinkled along the country’s southern coast. We stayed with my family, who insisted on feeding us every two hours like newborn kittens, and who graciously agreed to drive us to several of the locations on our “must see” list. To my surprise, my most recent travel video is currently the most popular video on my channel. My goal was to showcase some of the lesser-known areas around the French countryside, but sometimes, the best travel memories are never caught on camera.

While I highly encourage you to check that video out, here’s what it doesn’t show you (and why it’s still important to travel, even if your vacation isn’t picture-perfect):

The night I butchered an artichoke. Admittedly, my only encounter with this particular vegetable has been in the form of a dip, which is delicious but not quite so humbling as plucking off each individual bract and consuming the only edible part of the plant. But did I do that? No. Instead, I hacked at the poor thing’s heart like it had murdered my entire family—much to the horror of my actual family, who looked genuinely traumatized by this savagery.

The fact that I spent three out of ten days sick with a cold. Before we’d left, I’d made a comment to Dan about how surprised I was that I hadn’t gotten sick this year (I always seem to catch something between late January and early March. This is how I got COVID, twice). So, when I woke up four days into our trip with a sore throat, I knew what was coming. Later that evening, I was so congested I could barely breathe. Luckily, there was a pharmacy just down the road from where we were staying—and let me tell you, you cannot get this kind of cold medication in Canada. 500mg of Paracetamol without a prescription? Think again. The good news is, my cold was gone twenty-four hours later. Hooray for French healthcare.

The time we wandered around downtown Vence eating freshly-baked baguettes. Apparently, there’s a stereotype about the French traipsing through villages while munching on whatever goodies they picked up at the local boulangerie. I’m delighted to inform you that this is, in fact, true—and a wonderful way to burn off all those carbs you will inevitably consume during your visit.

The time we tried cactus ice cream. And it was divine—mildly sweet, with a bright, almost citrusy aftertaste. If you’re ever in Nice, I urge you to visit Fenocchio. As one of the most popular ice cream vendors in the area, they offer a wide range of flavours and a large outdoor dining area that allows you to soak up the city’s historic charm. Also, if you’re in Nice, make sure you have cash on hand to access the public toilets. If you can find them, that is.

The time I had to explain to a Canadian customs officer what lait concentré sucré is. After landing in Toronto, we were required to declare any items we were bringing into the country. We had seven bars of chocolate in our checked bag, along with a jar of honey, two bags of lavender candies, and a smattering of granola bars—all of which passed with flying colours. “Anything else?” the officer asked. “Yes,” I replied, “we also brought sweetened condensed milk in a tube.” When this explanation didn’t suffice, we were passed along to the next officer, who looked like he didn’t quite believe me when I said that in France, you can buy sweetened condensed milk in flavours like vanilla and strawberry, and walk around eating this paste out of a tube like a guest on My Strange Addiction who can’t stop snacking on toothpaste. “It’s basically cake frosting,” I said in a last-ditch effort to avoid being placed on a no-fly list. He let us through, thankfully. But for those of you who are curious (including that customs officer, if he’s reading this), here’s what those nefarious tubes of processed sugar look like:

But hey, the good folks at Pearson International Airport are just doing their job, and I’m grateful that they exist. Because this is definitely not going to be my last trip.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this trip has given me a huge creativity boost. A few days ago, I sent out the May edition of my Author Newsletter, which included Marcus’s Character Crossroads story (those of you who’ve read my series will know Marcus as Ray’s bossy but ultimately loving big brother). And since I spent nearly half the month abroad, I'm scrambling to write the next Character Crossroads story (the best part about it? I get to bring someone back from the dead—metaphorically speaking, of course). Keep an eye on your inbox, because I have a feeling this one’s going to be powerful…

And if that’s not enough, I’m also dabbling in short stories. I’ve never been overly interested in this particular form of storytelling, but after publishing six books in five years, I need a break from long-form fiction for a while.

Writing short stories has opened my eyes to a brand-new world. As previously mentioned, a short story is generally considered to be anything under 10,000 words, but for the purpose of short story contests and literary journals, they are further broken down and classified according to word count. Case in point:

A dribble is a story told in exactly 50 words.

A drabble is capped at 100 words.

Micro-fiction ranges from 300 to 500 words. Go even one word over this limit, and the judges will throw out your pint-sized masterpiece without a second thought.

Flash fiction is anything under 1,500 words.

And, of course, there’s the six-word story, which needs no explanation.

I’ve been thinking about entering a couple of short story contests—something I’ve never done despite my 25 years of writing experience. As much as I love novels, I think it’s time I branch out and explore other options. Maybe I’ll finally find my niche. (Translated from the French, it means nest—a word that wallpapers my brain with images of pastel-coloured birdhouses.) No matter where I go in the world, writing will always be my home.

Also, I started reading Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight, which isn’t relevant to this blog but seemed worth mentioning, for some reason.

That’s all for now! My AI assistant says I should end my blogs with a call to action, so tell me: what was your most memorable travel experience? And if you’re a vegetable killer like me, will you ever confess to your crimes?