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I love books more than cake. Every single book. I lie. I actually really hate anything written by Neville Shute. I know that sounds mean and a little bit blasphemous. Everyone has a favourite writer mine is Emily Bronte because she writes like a mad-woman and I suspect everyone also has a least favourite.

Oh, I also hate Beatrix Potter. Another sacrilege. It has its up side…I never get out of pyjamas. I work in bed. I am thirteen paces from the kitchen pantry. I can kill people and have wild affairs…on the page. The down side is that I think my butt cheek has died. No, really.

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I think my gluteus maximus has atrophied from sitting in the same spot day in day out, tapping words into a laptop. Also three of my fingers the ones that hit the most popular vowels and consonants like a and t on the keyboard are showing signs of deteriotive erosion. Also, being a writer is very, very bad for your self-esteem, your ablity to get along with other flesh and blood people and your general mental health…and your body parts.

You will pour your heart onto the page and send it full of good cheer and hope and wishes to those living in the impenetrable fortresses via the wire and you will wait and wait and wait and wait and wait….. They rarely use that word. Most politely pretend they never saw your words and you will just wither forever waiting for that never-coming response. It is all worth it. The dead bum.


The gnarled fingers. The abject poverty. The smell of my week-old pyjamas that are gunked into my crevices and will need to be showered off, leaving raw patches of skin. I have a new book coming out and I am so, so excited. This one. Maybe this one will be it. I seem to be painting this picture of being a writer all wrong. My name on an actual book. In a book store. A library. It is a thrill. An incredible thrill, to hold your very own book in your hands. All the words came out of your heart, your head, your soul.

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I love being a writer because it teaches you things. It teaches you humility and a bit of humiliation ; it teaches you courage and a little bit of masochism ; it teaches you resilience and a little bit of naivete …. And yet it clings to me. A cold mist. And it feels so real because its breath summons the hairs on the back my neck, bristling them like the quills on a frightened caterpillar.

With two books scheduled for release this year and two more being considered by people in the world of publishing, I can afford to rest a notch.

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But I have learned to read the weather-charts and can smell the petrichor easing up from the soil beneath my feet, up, up, into my nostrils, the tinny scent that heralds rain. I rug up, take a deep breath, put down my quill and batten down the hatches. Sleep is good.

It is actually raining. Out of the sky.

A Lorikeet, fluffed and soggy, sits at my window, staring at me and I know exactly how she feels. But deep, deep down in the subterranean cavern of my grey matter, a little bell rings and a tiny golden speck of light glows. My lighthouse is there. Or maybe the day after that. No longer will she sit silently while men decide her fate. She has been silenced and shouted down and shoved into subservience while being polished and pinched and powdered pretty in pink and poked and preened and pawed and played for cheap thrills.

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She is not a plaything but playful. She is not a trophy although you can earn her love.

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As the dawn of Aquarius rises, it brings a chariot with a new breed of Boudiccas, waving and shouting and singing and celebrating…the fact that they are strong and smart and hopeful. I am a writer and I have written young adult books with strong female characters, girls who inspire, girls who make sacrifices and work to make the world a better place for not only their daughters but also their sons. They build a world for the future where women and men stand beside one another without the handicap of sexism or racism or ageism or any other ism. In the wake of the most recent school shooting in the US, a new chant has arisen led by the youth who will be our future and for the first time in a long time, I have renewed hope for that future.

I listened to Emma Gonzalez so powerfully speak out against the system that allowed a 19 year old boy to buy a gun and kill seventeen of her school-mates in cold blood. Gonzalez is the role model young women need today. She is owning the President and the NRA like a boss!

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He stepped into the shoes of great men. But he was a scab on a diseased society, a man-child with grabby hands and a petulant pout. Women picked away the scab and let the pus pour out. METOO was born. Women are being heard. More importantly, women are being believed. The ants are resisting the grasshoppers.

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The crumpled suits may well represent the one percent but we have the numbers. We are legion. Jeanne Hachette — a poor French maid who led an army of women in resistance against the Burgundians, who sought to sack her town in Betsy Grey — an Irish lass who was a part of the underground Irish movement against the British occupation of her beloved country in Fiona McKechnie — a girl who gets caught up in the power and passion of the protest movement at a Brisbane university and marches against conscription into the Vietnam war Or a young adult writer.

Catniss Everdeen kicked down the door and strong girls are rushing through it en masse and it makes my heart glad. We write stories not to entertain but to inspire young people into action.