Welcome to the class blog for the Online Writing paper. The Online Writing paper is part of the Level 6 NorthTec Creative Writing Diploma.

In 2019 semester 1, students brainstormed a theme for their class blog and settled on Relationships. They decided relationships could take any form: between lovers, friends or families, or with pets or the environment. They also decided their posts could be fiction or non-fiction. All decided to write about human relationships and most are fiction.

In 2019 semester 2 , students worked with NorthTec’s Environmental Management team to write posts pertaining to environmental issues in Whangarei. Since rat-trapping is a hot topic at the moment, both posts are related to that.

Topics for 2020 are pending.

Topics for 2021 semester 2, students discussed which of the blog types they wanted to focus on, and decided on an educational style. After further brainstorming, the posts will be around what it was/is like juggling studying/working/running a business while being a mother with a young child/ren.

Topics for 2022 semester 1, students decided to create ‘slice of life’ posts, with non-specific topics but designed for an entertainment style blog. These posts will be creative non-fiction or non-fiction.

We hope you enjoy reading our posts
Kathy Derrick Tutor 2019
Lesley Marshall Tutor 2020

Justine Payen Tutor 2021 and 2022

A Slice of Life

Sharing my adventures using my voice without filters

Photo by tristanbnz from iStock
Image by tristanbnzh with iStock License

Autumn 2006,

                              Ngaruawahia, New Zealand.

Standing with you on the footpath, in the middle of the bridge to town, was peaceful. The sun’s rays were bouncing shadows off the cars and the trucks. The shadows were like pingpong balls, being smacked from one side to the other.

Click, click, click.”

That’s the noise the bridge makes every time something rolls over the joint where the concrete and steel plate meet.When I was growing up, crossing this exact same bridge, that sound used to scare me. Right now, though, I wasn’t afraid. If anything; the familiarity calmed me.

Click, click, click.”

 Another car passed over the bridge. It’s at this very moment that I turned my head slightly to the left, and noticed you staring at me. I smiled a crooked smile and shoved your shoulder.

“What are you looking at, Green Eyes?” I said with so much sass, or was it anxiety?

To be honest, I am not quite sure what it was, but I do remember my heart beating in my throat. It was in that very moment that you grabbed my hand and kissed the back of it. It wasn’t a yucky, sloppy boy kiss, I remember, it was soft, it was slow. It was love.

Click, click, clunk.”

The rubbish truck ran over the plate and we instantly grabbed our noses with our fingers.

“Damn. That shit smells so bad,” you said between gritted teeth.

My mind was confused. My face was super hot, and I assumed extremely red. I giggled, and in my mind I was angry at the weird way my giggle sounded. We locked eyes, and started laughing in deep, and contagious grunts.

“Sorry,” you said with such love. I shrugged and shook my head.

I, Ashley Dianne, was silenced. For the first time since meeting you, Green Eyes. And I noticed my hands were shaking and sweaty. My throat was so dry I thought I’d swallowed sand, while my heart was beating so loudly in my head I couldn’t see in front of me.

“I need a drink,” were the only words that escaped. You being you, Green Eyes, handed me a cold bottle of pump. I smiled and guzzled that back like my life depended on it.

“That’s much better,” I said after polishing off the entirety of its contents.

You smiled at me, but this smile wasn’t like any other you had shared with me before; this one seemed to reach the depths, as if your soul wanted to greet mine.

To cut the awkward silence and the meaninful glances I suggested we head to the point, just beyond the rotunda.  And instantly the spring in my step came stumbling back. We made our way to the end of the bridge, but before I could reach the footpath on the otherside, you cut me off and redirected me to the unmarked marked pathway, on the left hand side of the bridge.  You bounce over the barrier and offer me a hand to help steady me as I make the same move. I hesistate when I reach for your hand. 

“Are you okay, Hiki?” It was spoken so sweetly, so full of desire.

In that very moment, I was so afraid of you, afraid of you kissing my hand and what that meant to you, to me. I was anxious, and scared that our friendship was over before it began.

“Hiki, what’s going on in that pretty, curly-haired head of yours?”

I stared into your sharp green eyes.  I was frozen in that spot of dirt, in the garden on the left side of the bridge to town.  

Click, click, click.”

The sound of a car rollingover that steel plate snapped me back into my body. Out of frustration at my thoughts, I grabbed your hand with both of mine with such force, it sent us slipping and sliding down the side of the hill. Laughing at the bottom, grateful that we didn’t fall, we didn’t let go of each other.

“Hiki, what’s wrong?” Your eyes grew turbulent with fear.

I turned to look away but you stepped closer to me, and you caressed my face so that I was looking straight into your loving eyes. Mine began to cloud. With the solid ground between us, my knees became weak so I let your hands go. You reached out for me and I let you hold me, close. In this embrace I noticed how your left eye had more blue flakes in it than your right eye, and how blonde and curly your hair was. You looked so handsome.

While I was thinking all of these beautiful things my knees regained their strength, and my heartbeat began to slow down. I could feel puddles of sweat forming in the palms of my hands. I wondered if your hands had puddles too.  My groin came to life for the very first time, and man, was it weird, wet and wonderful.

Shit, I want to kiss him – my first and only thought I had before you said my name.

“Hiki. . .”

I planted a forceful kiss on your cherry-flavoured, chapsticked lips.

I exhaled and pulled away. I touched my raw lips with embarrassed finger-tips. Turned to leave. But you grabbed me, and kissed me. A kiss so huge and soft. I wanted to stay there. Your hands caressed my face and we stared at each other. We kissed, again, and again, and again. When we came up for air, it was like the weight of the world had finally lifted off of our shoulders. We giggled, and smiled.

Hiki and Green Eyes walked hand in hand to the point beyond the rotunda to catch the sunset.

Cheers to Friendship

Photo by Los Muertos Crew on Pexels.com.


My cousin makes the demand to our friend and me before downing her tequila shot.  One long lick of salt off my hand, then I down the tequila in a single mouthful, and follow that with a bite on a slice of lemon.  An eyebrow-bending frown stretches across my face as I turn my head side to side, and we giggle at each other’s expressions while we chase the tequila with Midori mixed drinks.  The music is loud for the pre drinks at home, thumping and full of sexual references; we shake our bonbons, trying to out-dance each other on our makeshift dancefloor in the living room.

Our taxi van has arrived with a beep, beep, and we pile into it with a few others that just turned up, singing over top of each other on the way to town, thinking we are Destiny’s Child but probably sounding more like the neighbour Mrs Dillon when she’s had too much sherry.  Once we are at the club, our night is full of socialising, dancing, more drinks, and McDonald’s on the long drive home. 

The next day, around noon, I wake up and my head is pounding; struggling to open my eyes with the sun beaming so bright, I can smell coffee and stretch my body.  I get up off my cousin’s couch and go to the bathroom for a shower.  Feeling reenergised, after a big, greasy breakfast we travel to our swimming spot for a dip.

This was a normal weekend for me in my early twenties, but once I became a mother the social outings occurred less often, and I felt more distant from society and people in general.  It was confusing for me why some of my friends, who were child free, seemed to be ‘too busy’ to hang out, and why catching up for food or a walk along the foreshore wasn’t as much fun for them as drinking and nightclubbing.  I mean, going out to eat was exciting for me, but why didn’t they find well-garnished food interesting?  Or different meals delicious?  I came to understand my life had changed, and it took some time to accept and appreciate that.

At different stages of life, we require distinctly contrasting individuals to surround ourselves with for growth.  As I have aged my life has changed. So have the decisions I’ve had to make and the people I choose to interact with.  These new life experiences and issues require new or evolved friends.  There is no problem with both stages of personal evolution, but how do we prepare for the transition?  And how do we know which friends are capable of valuing our friendship regardless of what stage we are in?  

My best advice is to be authentic.  If you are true to yourself — in conversation, when you meet people, are with your family, at work, or alone, then you will attract people who are on the same or similar life path as yourself no matter the stage you are in.  

Your friends will accept you as you are, or not, and either way that is a blessing.  If they accept you as you evolve and change, then that friendship and connection will become stronger.  If not, then the connection lasted as long as it was supposed to, and the bond fulfilled its purpose.  I have found my true friends love me no matter what stage I am at, and I love them no matter the phase they are encountering.

“Are you still on your first glass, cousin?”  she asks me as I wash the dishes after our gathering. My cousin, our friend and I all share meals with our children and partners frequently.  The boysenberry wine—sweet and decadent—pairs well with the meal and conversation.  The kids play while watching a movie, and all the adults are seated, deep in discussion, debating topics while my OCD takes over and I’m on a cleaning mission, scrubbing dishes and benches at my cousin’s house.

The music in the dining room isn’t too loud, but the voices trying to overpower each other echo into the kitchen.  “I’ll be right out,” I say as I finish up polishing the bench for the fifth time.  I walk into the bathroom and check my make-up and hair, and swing my hips from side to side, looking at how my black dress hugs my curves in all the right places.  In the dining room, my fiancé looks up at me smiling and I sit beside him.  An hour or so passes talking and laughing, and we are now watching my cousin passionately talk about her multimillion-dollar business. 

The kids have now all fallen asleep on makeshift beds of La-Z-Boys and couches.  The conversation flows from petrol prices to working through Covid, and shortly afterwards our partners decide it’s a good time to play darts while the girls and I chat.

“I have a surprise for you both,” my cousin says to me and our friend.  Grinning, she pulls out a bottle of tequila and we all look at each other.  “Shots, shots!”  she says.

We line up the shot glasses and my cousin grabs the salt and slices of lemon.  “One, two, three.”  We lick the salt, down the tequila shot, and bite the lemon afterwards.  I start coughing and they laugh.  “Twenty years later and I don’t think I was prepared for that,”  I remark.

Photo by Los Muertos Crew on Pexels.com.

We walk outside with blankets and relax on the outdoor furniture, looking up at the stars.  My cousin plays an old track we used to listen to and we break into a three-part harmony, singing, laughing and talking into the night until we fall asleep. 

The next day, hung over, I drag myself into the bathroom for a shower.  I feel horrible and no amount of coffee helps relieve the hangover.  I cook way too much for breakfast and we decide to take the kids to the park.  My over-sized black glasses cannot cover the seedy expression on my face.  Glancing over at my friend and cousin, and seeing they look similarly miserable, I giggle. We get some ‘No Doze’ pills from the petrol station and an energy drink on the way to the park.  While the kids play, my friend, cousin and I laugh at how we can’t handle it like we used to.

Back at the house our partners are cooking a BBQ. We make the salads and share the meal together and the kids have a game of footy.  Afterwards we all return to our own slices of heaven and get back to our lives.  

I am so thankful that no matter what is going on in my life I have been blessed with the friendships that have endured over my lifetime.  The wisdom and individual growth of each of us has helped pave the path for our lives to go in our own directions, and we have managed to maintain that connection, despite our different stages and experiences. 

True friendship endures every stage and experience of life.  My cousin, friend and I will continue to share life with each other till old age, if we make it that far. I can see us sitting in rocking chairs on a deck laughing at some of our experiences, while drinking tea and eating scones and wishing it was tequila—or not, in my case.

We’re All Mad Here: On being a Mother and a Writer

Image by RH2010 Adobe Stock Image License

I was a mother before I was a writer. Or rather, I was a mother whose nagging question of ‘who am I?’ eventually led me to the words on the page, the keys on the keyboard, the worlds in my head. I was a mother but what else was I?

I had left my career as a teacher behind before I had my son, and now I was home alone with a tiny, snuggling bundle of tiny nappies, midnight wakeups and a brand-new level of guilt and expectation. I didn’t have a career to go back to, and my hobbies were mainly television and food. As I began to question who I was outside of my relationship to this tiny human, I started to write. I honestly can’t remember what those first words were—they surely weren’t prophetic or inspiring, and probably didn’t even make sense—but  I was relieved to be creating something from nothing, pulling ideas out of the endless vastness of thoughts that swirled around in the dark ether.

As my infant hit the crawling stage, our family read book after book after book and I began to toy with the idea of writing a children’s book (something I’m sure has gone through many a sleep-addled parental mind). Having no idea where to start, I looked at local writing courses but they fell on weekend days when I worked. So I signed up to a part-time creative writing course through an online polytechnic. Thinking I would only enjoy the paper specifically about writing for children, I was surprised when I found my mojo writing short stories and poetry. Soon I had signed up to a full-time workload and wrote stories that I eventually felt confident enough sharing. The day I received an email accepting one of my stories into an anthology I was over the moon! I had never been validated in such a way before. Never had anyone said objectively, ‘This is good.’

So I continued, passing my course and being accepted into another. I began not knowing what I wanted to write but tried my best to stay away from the trope of ‘Mummy Blogger’ or ‘Parent-writer’ and set my sights on something that was completely out of my own writing experience: Fantasy. The first dozen or so acceptances I received were for speculative fiction stories, in both magazines and anthologies, and I now have a shelf filling up nicely with my words.

But the question for all mother writers —and indeed for most writers in general —is how? How do I become a writer while simultaneously being a mother, a wife, all the things that I need to be? It took a long while to get into a groove, working when my son is in preschool, or at night when my husband is squirreled away in his office. It’s messy and overwhelming but I know that I have found my ‘thing’. Only in the last few weeks would I consider myself a ‘writer’, however, and to this day I don’t think I’ve ever told someone else that I am a ‘writer’ when asked the inevitable question: “So, what do you do?”.

Many mother-writers struggle to fit their writing in around their children who, rightfully so, come first. Then the dinner needs to be made, the floors need to be vacuumed, the groceries need to be bought… but the writing doesn’t need to be done. As so many mothers before us have found out, motherhood is an all-encompassing, never-ending to-do list. And we put ourselves at the bottom. It wasn’t until my mental health took a severe decline that I figured out how to cover my ears and scream in the face of maternal guilt, and take some time for myself. I put my son into preschool an extra day or two a week and gave myself a full six hours twice a week in which to create my worlds.

It certainly took a while, but here are some of the things I’ve discovered on my journey towards being a mother-writer:

  • Find the space. Not just physically but mentally. Give yourself somewhere you can sit with a coffee and breakfast and allow the words to flow (or not, let’s be honest!). Add some books, some posters, photos, whatever you like. It doesn’t need to be big; mine is at the end of the dining room table but it has the books I like to flick through for inspiration, a bunch of pens and some notebooks that are too pretty to ever use.
  • Find the time. It’s so easy to put ourselves last, to do everything for anyone else, but we need to find our own time too. My husband was always supportive, giving me time to discover what I wanted to write, but it can be hard to find this in a big family. Remember, who gives a f**k if the dishes sit out until tomorrow, if dinner is chicken nuggets once a week. If you’re happy, the kids are happy.
  • Build confidence. Easier said than done for most people. But once you’ve written something, have some faith in it. Let others read it if you want to but PLEASE don’t automatically think it’s garbage and throw it in the digital bin never to see the light of day again.
  • Know the variety of markets. Okay, so this applies to writers in general, not just mothers, but when I started writing I wrongly thought that if I didn’t write a novel what was the point? I didn’t realise that there are markets for everything. Some of the writing I’ve published recently includes 100-word flash fiction about gruesome ways to die, short stories based on myths and legends, and fractured fairy tales. As a side benefit, writing has vastly expanded my reading shelves. I’ve discovered people write (and publish) poems and tweets and micro-poems, novellas, letters, diaries and even unsent text messages.

My motivation struggles to make an appearance at times, my schedule is a mess—as is the house and often the writing—but I’m making it work.  And I’ve never felt better.

Gateway to Imagination

Just a short step away from the centre of Kerikeri is a walk that has the ability to transport me to another world. It follows the flow of the river, and once you’re on the track, the town and all its industry melt away.  

If it happens to be at the right time of year, you’ll walk past a natural pond carpeted in hundreds of pink waterlilies, their rubbery green leaves shiny and round. Venturing closer here, you can peer down through the water and see the thick, graceful lily-stems anchored deep into the mud below. You may feel, as you look downwards, past the muted and rippling reflections of the surrounding trees, that a kind of magic is about to take place.

Venturing further, you’ll reach an incline in the pathway where jasmine cascades like Rapunzel’s locks—heavy, flower-laden skeins of it hanging down over the river below. If the river is full, this section can be a white, raging froth running powerfully over dark rocks that create an appealing contrast.

The songs of birds now start to increase. This bushland is full of them. Kererū wings whistle past high above, pūkeko strut, and tūī cackle and gurgle their tunes. It’s a sweet and lyrical cacophony.

You’ll reach a place soon after that I have dubbed the Emerald Forest. A friend of mine calls this stretch Jurassic Land, so it obviously evokes feeling in others too that make them want to give it a name. The terrain changes as soon as you enter this forest, and you are greeted by a large, bobbly-covered tree that seems like a sentinel. It’s dark, damp and sensory in this stretch. Thick green mosses cover huge, ancient-looking rocks. If you are willing to walk here while it rains, this turns into a breathtaking experience. Rivulets of water will create what feels like a billion mini waterfalls around you. It’s all twisted trees and vines with dark-green foliage—and a dense canopy above that lets only a little daylight squeeze through.

Coming through to the other side you’ll see the two Dancing Trees (another name of mine). They reach together as if in a twirling, eternal, ecstatic embrace. High above, where their branches meet, a giant natural beehive sits in the crevice they create, buzzing with its industrious inhabitants as they rush around collecting and depositing pollen.

Supplejack grows up, through and around the many other trees in this part. You can look out for the tender, supple end-shoots and snap them off cleanly to eat. They taste like green beans. A fallen trunk to the right, seasonally dependent, delivers a banquet of brown, velvety fungi that is both edible and nutritious. Its layman’s name is Wood Ear or Jelly Ear, and I was interested to learn that in the fifties it was cultivated in New Zealand for export to China.

Soon after the Dancing Trees you’ll hear the sound of water beating down, and rounding a corner you’ll see the Wharepuke Falls. This is a wide, not particularly high waterfall that spills over a lip of flat rocks.

The water lands in a rounded section of pooled river water—a good place to swim. Swallows nest here, generation after generation. They dart and swoop around the place territorially. Sometimes you will see a regal grey heron standing above the falls in statuesque stillness, waiting to catch a fish wriggling by.

And yes, there are many small fish and eels in this river. 

If you choose to veer off track a little on a summer’s day, dipping your toes in to cool off, you might just see an eel slowly make its presence known, thinking your feet are dinner. This is both thrilling and terrifying.

Next place of note is the Fairy Pools (their true designated name, not my own invention). These swirling eddies are like a natural spa. It’s another place to bathe, if you dare, though their true beauty can really only be experienced from the other side of the river. Then it becomes a world of wildflowers and long grasses that tumble downwards to the water’s edge.

Further we go, and we will likely see a family of black swans gliding about. I remember when there were only three fully grown swans; then a terrible thunderstorm arrived, shaking everything up, taking tree branches down as if an angry giant had stomped through the land, and flooding the river. Only two swans remained after that, and I presumed the third to be a casualty. However the next year I was delighted to see several fuzzy grey cygnets following the pair that had remained unscathed.

The Rainbow Falls are close now as you continue to wind through tall, straight trees. You’ll start to hear in the distance the thrumming of water cascading down. Turning a corner, you’ll see mists funnelling towards you, the effervescent spray coating your face. 

The mists curl up, veiling the large, impressive falls. Finally you are there, and if the sun and mist are just right there will indeed be shimmering rainbows suspended in the air. You have reached your destination, and a simple wooden bench allows you to sit and take time to gaze into the falls, and perhaps contemplate for a while the walk you just had.

From a personal perspective this walk has provided an endless scope of inspiration. I’ve written poetry and vignettes using the terrain as backdrop. In my mind it lends itself to mythical and magical creatures—it’s very easy to imagine it being a portal to a phantasmagorical world of dryads, nymphs and sprites, of oracles and talking trees, with perhaps a taniwha buried deep in a watery cavern alongside the eels.

Rainbow Falls

Serenity in the Garden City

No photo description available.
Botanical Gardens – Autumn 2020

There is always that one place that you hold near and dear to you. The place you go to when all else fails, the place you go to because it makes you happy. There could be many places that spark the joy within you, that give you your best ideas and allow you to seek the freedom you desire. The Christchurch Botanic Gardens is my place. Whatever day, whichever season, it’s the one place that is guaranteed to make me happy. 

Every time I go for a wander down the stone-covered paths I am entrapped by the beauty surrounding it. Each step provides a different motive to keep going forward, and even when you think you have seen it all, a new path will pop up, one that you haven’t explored yet. While most of the tracks are pretty straightforward, there are some that cross over and leave you slightly lost. Though that is half the beauty of the place. 

The best thing about this area is that it’s a stone’s throw away from some of the city’s biggest attractions, so even if it’s not in the itinerary of visitors, it can still be appreciated by them. The tram and the Christchurch City Cathedral are only a 7-minute walk away, the museum is located at the fountain entrance, the art gallery is across the road and some of the more historic features and buildings that Christchurch has to offer are conveniently located on the surrounding streets. 

My favourite entrance is ironically through the noisiest one—by the playground—because this gives me the longest route of walking to get to the best destination. The walk starts off at the beginning of the street; if you drive in, it’ll start at the car park, but then you’ll miss half the beauty. The street entrance takes you down a man-made path along the Avon River. Big trees encase you onto the track, and if you’re lucky enough to go in autumn, the colours are an outstanding shade of orange and rust, helping to make the river look so delicate under the sun’s lighting. As you crunch your way to the park’s official entrance there is nothing but silence, punctuated by the occasional runner, transporting you from the hustle and bustle of the CBD to the makeshift forest’s quiet, where it seems sound has been forbidden. It’s a welcome change that allows even city dwellers to enjoy peace.

The maze of the garden trails is a juxtaposition of the straight, flat roads that make up the city. The park is very open, almost as if it was designed for fresh air and foot traffic. While the entrances provide most of the population of the park, during your stay, it’s almost as if you could have the whole park to yourself. The locals are extremely friendly, which makes the place feel even more spectacular. With every passing person, a simple smile or a cheerful ‘good morning’ will be experienced, nothing more than that needs to be said in order for you to feel like the place is homely. 

The rose garden sits in the centre of the park and is host to many a rose bush, but the unique thing about this particular part of the botanics is that it’s closed off to the rest of the greenery. The wooden arches create an almost door-like entry to the bushes. A garden inside a garden, with the only difference being the colours it has to offer. Walking through the middle of the rose garden is as symbolic as releasing doves at a wedding, the colours of pink, red, yellow and orange pushing the serenity of the peaceful place. There are four entrances into this area of the gardens, and right in the centre lies a beautiful fountain. Which brings comfort to both the foreigners and the locals.  

The one focus point that brings me back time and time again lives past the duckpond, right at the beginning of the car park entrance. Its flowers attract the attention of many, and there is no way that if you were to visit the gardens, you would miss it. The spring season is when it is in its prime. This cherry blossom tree is a single reminder of the beautiful world we live in. It is beautiful from any angle so everyone can appreciate it without the need to wait until other people move out of the way. With the changing seasons, the beauty of this tree changes, and at each visit you will be treated to this difference. Autumn is one of the better seasons, when the leaves are dying and falling, but the tree always remains ever so elegant.

The paths are made up of different terrain, with each step being a welcome reminder that you are no longer in the city, almost as if you have been transported to another world entirely. The water fountain that sits at the museum entrance is the only indication that time is still moving. 

There are many secret spots in the gardens where you can fully isolate yourself from the outside world. I have enjoyed many summer and autumn days sitting in this garden, reflecting on life and writing some of my best poetry. Something about the open freshness of the place inspires me to get into my artistic groove. If art isn’t your thing, there are so many other things that you can be inspired to do. People watching is an excellent example. Since the garden is a main tourist attraction, you come across a variety of different people, making scenarios is never a dull moment with the international scene that is offered. 

While the pathways symbolise freedom and difference, it is also a great place for downtime, exploring, and having some fresh air, and above all it provides an amazing opportunity to get fit and be in touch with nature—something we often took for granted pre-COVID times but now cherish. 

An introduction to the mind of M. A. Phoenix.

This here is an Introduction to the mind of M. A. Phoenix. I wanted to write something funny, something witty and exciting that would have you rolling around the aisles and chortling with delight. Unfortunately there is no room in the aisles of my mind – it is far too cluttered and muddled.

For years I was led to believe my disorganisation, social miscommunication, and meltdowns, were indicators of an inherently wicked, undisciplined and lazy character. I became conditioned to assume my thoughts and desires were selfish unless they were endorsed by the authorities around me. I have since learned that my struggles were not from being born a bad person, but because I think differently. I am Autistic, I have ADHD, and because of trauma and many socially devastating experiences, I also have Social Anxiety Disorder.

Reading often changes my world from something frightening and scary, into a place I love. But more than being just an enjoyable experience, it unintentionally became a way for me to learn social skills. How to love or be loved, how to identify and try to modify behaviours that others are likely to view as odd, and – even more importantly for a person who views the world in a very black-and-white manner – how to understand and accept that people are never all good or all evil.

When I was a child my imagination knew no bounds and I would enact these imaginings as long and as far as I could while there was still light in the sky. Once the sun went down and I was confined to my room for the night I eagerly turned to my books.

As I grew older, I discovered with deep dismay that acting out my imaginings with others was no longer acceptable. Now it was only acceptable to delve into a dream world if the dream was about the hottest guy at school. Since I attended an all-girls school, this was somewhat difficult.

The most serious form of reading that was openly endorsed by my peers were Girlfriend and Dolly magazines. Oh, how little that extended my vocabulary. However, their purpose was not to extend the mind and enrich my life, but to provide endless opportunities to talk about boys, promote staying slim, offer tips on how to be popular and tell me what beauty products to buy. After years of trying to fit into this niche that I could never be part of, I returned to my first love. A love that had never abandoned me but had been waiting patiently.

That first time I lay on my bed and listened to the sigh of my fingers stroking the spine of my newest acquisition. I heard a soft creak as I slowly peeled back the cover and exposed the body of the book. Reading through the first few pages, I became enamoured.

Magic, sorcery, loyalty, and intrigue were thrust into my mind following the turmoil of a young lad’s unfolding tale. I identified with his awkwardness, frustration and insecurities, and was emboldened by his certainty that he would one day soar to great heights. On this memorable day I fell in love with the fantasies that had spilled out of the mind of Raymond E. Feist. His book, Magician, took me to places I had never been before, where I mastered spells, fought wars and spied on evil.

Licking my finger to turn the pages, I could taste the essence of the book ­– its ink-blood mingled with my flesh and the musty flavour of the pages. This was more than just reading a book; this was a full sensory experience. My mind was stimulated, my body tingled in anticipation, my breath caught in my chest awaiting the return home of loved ones, and tears caressed my flushed cheeks at both joyous and devastating news. Goosebumps appeared on my flesh as I wandered through snow drifts in stormy weather, and my eyes sparkled when I gazed into a black night littered with the jewels of the sky.

I was overcome, completely swept away by my raw and urgent need for more, and when the last page was turned I hoped against all hope that this would not be the end of my sweet love affair. With heavy heart, I trudged back to the library and tenderly returned my Magician home. I stroked his spine and whispered, “Farewell.”

And then my heart fluttered with excitement. There, right next to where my love resided, was the continuation of all I had just experienced. As I explored further, I discovered many more stories from my love. That night I slept, deeply satisfied and secure in the knowledge that my new pleasure did not have to end. This was no one-night stand; it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the written word.

When I was a child, I explored the world in a childish manner, including the words written for me to enjoy. As an adult initiated long ago into the joys of exploring the fantasies spilled from the minds of others, I have learned to savour each word and am therefore deeply dissatisfied by a limp and flaccid tale. The tones and hues of my life are made richer and more vibrant by the books I have been blessed to experience. Reading is not just a hobby for me, but a way to experience the world the way most neurotypicals do. And just as it does while I’m reading, when I’m back in the real world, living my own story, my mind tries to adapt the storyline while the real-life characters flex and flow around me.

I have yet to determine if I am the wicked protagonist or the lovable antagonist in my life story, but since the final chapter has yet to be written I shall continue to grow and learn from my experiences. I believe that is all any of us can do.

M. A. Phoenix

An Introduction to Nina’s mind

Photo by runnyrem on Unsplash

My mind isn’t anything spectacular—just a large hallway, the light dimmed, and little green and red flecks frolicking about. I take a deep breath before walking onwards. There’s lots to explore, but an image suddenly appears in front of me, bringing me to a halt. It’s a glow-in-the-dark image of the burger and fries I ate for lunch.

Hmm, I wonder how many calories that was?

Initially, the thought is inquisitive, not really a big deal. But as usual, more intense thoughts emerge…

I bloody made a promise that I would eat healthy: salads, smoothies, vegetarian nachos, avocado toast. A pork-belly burger and fries from The Burger Shack definitely doesn’t count as ‘healthy’. And I’ve eaten badly for the past week pretty much, so my skin’s probably looking crap and I bet I’ve gained weight. GOD, I haven’t seen my friends for a while—what will they think when they see me next?

I should really get to studying, though. This new voice is quiet and feeble, barely cutting through my drilling thoughts.

Maybe I could skip my next meal?

Now, that’s just ridiculous. I’d be miserable and wouldn’t be able to focus on anything. Hmm, maybe a small egg salad could hold me over?

Just ignore the food thing—it doesn’t matter; it was just one junky meal. The thought pretends to be sturdy and determined but it’s a fraud, still weak and quiet.

I’m holding my smartphone, so I put the torch on, shining it around the hallway. There are all sorts of doors: family memories, friend memories, school, TV, movies, music, politics, and in the distance I see a door labelled ‘Study’. I take a couple of steps in that direction, but the hallway begins to tighten, making it harder for me to move.

The image of the burger and fries appears again. I squint at the meal, deciphering every aspect of it.

First, there’s the brioche bun. Maybe around 200 calories, considering the melted butter. Then there’s the pork belly bites—probably around 500 calories, give or take. And there’s the coleslaw, avocado and sweet chilli, most probably 250 calories all up. So, 950 calories for the burger.

Not too bad.

But there’s also the large container of fries, which is probably around 400 calories.  So, 1350 calories for one meal.

Geez. I punch my arm in frustration, and the thoughts come in.

How the fuck can I ever burn that off. That’s just way too much of the wrong calories. For. Fuck. Sake. I hate this.

A reassuring notion comes to me: Just exercise—a home workout can sort this issue. I exhale in relief. Finally I can get rid of these compulsive thoughts.

My physical self starts a 60-minute Zumba class, but the hallway’s still too constricted. With each move I feel my limbs pressing against the walls, the pictures in the frames sneering at my efforts.

Do you really think one Zumba class will make a difference?

My body feels too big for the hallway, which fills with the upbeat Zumba music until I’m choking on it—walls tightening, breathing becoming harder.

I take another deep breath, ignoring the way it catches in my throat. I focus on the exercise and force the hallway to give me enough room. The walls reluctantly expand. My body has room to move. With the ache in my muscles proving that I’ve burned off at least some of my meal, the hallway finally opens. 

I need to study; I need to work on my project. If I fail that then I might as well drop out of the paper. The thought is blunt and sobering and I’m reminded of my goal.

The study room is once again in view and I start to head towards it.

But I’ve barely taken a step forward, and there it is. Perfect and wholesome as could be: A Dog Meme. Glorious and so out of nowhere, framed on the wall as if it were a Picasso.

I grab my smart phone and go onto Facebook. I want to share it with one of my closest friends from college who used to always share cute Dog memes with me. But then I notice that she has deleted me as a friend. What?

At first I choose to look on the bright side.

She could have done it by accident.

Nonetheless, I still get hit by a plethora of frantic thoughts.

How can someone ‘accidentally’ delete a friend? Maybe she doesn’t like my posts. ᴚBut I don’t think I’ve posted in ages. Or maybe it’s because we don’t stay in touch as much? Though I don’t detect any problem when we talk on Messenger. Maybe she found out I talked badly about her that one time in year thirteen? Or what if she doesn’t really like me, and has just been nice cos she feels sorry for me?

I’ve been down this type of route before, and I’d rather not go down it again.I push forward, but once again the hallway’s become smaller.

I want to get away from this, but I can’t. I must stay here and sort the problem out.

I look through my profile to see if there’s anything ‘annoying’ that I’ve posted. Nothing. Haven’t posted since February. Then I look at our messages, checking if I’ve sent something upsetting. From the first read I don’t notice anything, so I analyse the messages I’ve sent, line by line.  

Oh, damn. There is the fact that I forgot to message her back when she sent a Happy Birthday message in July. Maybe that’s it. But I messaged a couple of weeks later, saying sorry for the late response, and she didn’t seem to care.

There’s a familiar taste in my mouth – bitter, metallic. It’s the typical worry and self-punishment, as toxic as ever.

I DM my best friend, ranting about my problem. She responds with: Ohh don’t worry about it—she does stuff like that all the time. Pretty sure she’s doing one of those social media detox things. You’ve done nothing wrong, you’re always super nice. Just ignore it and live your best life—you’re over-thinking it.

She’s right. Just ignore it. I don’t need to get worked up.

I turn my phone off and let the taste in my mouth disappear.

The constricted hallway opens again, and I can finally move forward and focus on other things. I exhale deeply and jut my chin out, feeling determined and free.

I’m behind in my project schedule and if I don’t pass I’ll fail this paper.

The study door beckons me and I push myself to walk faster. Soon I can wrap my fingers around the golden handle, pull the door open. I’ve made it. I’m here. Finally, I can start what I came here for.

But… What does she mean by ‘live your best life’? Am I wasting my life?

Should I be doing more?

Am I behind in life?

The gust of self-doubt tugs the door out of my hand. It shuts with a click.


Self-doubt’s biting wind then wraps me in a familiar hug. Like a friend.

Until even that disappears, and I’m left alone.

So, yeah. This is it; this is my mind. This is my hallway. The hallway that I struggle down, my goal at the end, all the way battling the trials that my own mind sets to trip me up. 

Would you like a sandwich?

It's a sandwich

It’s a blessing-curse sandwich about being productive that’s been stuck in my throat since childhood. Actually, I don’t think I can get it out to share, so best I just swallow it and make the most of it. You’ve probably got your own blessing-curse sandwich to digest anyway. I’ll tell you more about my sandwich later, but I’ll do the polite thing and introduce myself first.

This is a blog post.

I know you know that—I put it in there to remind myself as much as anything. It was supposed to be a blog post about the goings on of my writerly mind but I got distracted with the whole sandwich thing.

I’m a Kiwi. Born here. Raised here. I reckon we’re a pretty conservative bunch, as a whole. Me too. And I don’t mean that I’m afraid of being struck down by the Lord Almighty if I eat meat on a Friday—far from it. When it comes to that sort of stuff I’m a sceptic. And if we’re talking about the political spectrum I’m positioned like my hand-ness, over on the left. It’s just nicer over here.

What I mean is that we’re kind of reserved, generally. Did you know that overseas there are whole groups of adults who dress up as mermaids for entertainment? Like, they make a living from it. I’ve not seen that here in New Zealand.  

There are communities of these mermaids, and meet-ups, and tailors, and an industry in waterproof makeup and silicon tails. There are workshops on how to swim in all that get-up—better than drowning—and ones on how to pose underwater for that killer shot. There are also mermen, of course, and merwranglers. They say things that make me suspicious. #mermaidsarereal

At first it was all very confusing for this conservative Kiwi. But I’ve met some of them. They’re friendly people, with Instagram accounts promoting good causes like conservation and chronic disease. (Chronic disease isn’t actually a good cause. I’m quite anti-disease, in general. But talking about it is good.)

Yet when my five and seven-year-old nieces were dressing up as mermaids last summer I thought, That’s about the right ages to start and stop doing this. But who am I to judge? I like imagining that I’m things I’m not, too.

Like a writer. That’s why I’m starting this blog. #writersarereal They actually are.

Mermaids are out there in the world doing good, so maybe I can too. I’m not flamboyant enough to dress up with a tail. In fact I’m not even buoyant enough to be in the water. But I can use what I have to talk about what I care about. And hopefully entertain along the way. Really, I’m just a shy version of my merpeople friends.

Now back to that sammy…

I am in a good mood today. I am often enough — but it’s guaranteed in the morning. Further bonus, if I feel like I am productive for an hour or two early on in a day, it extends that good mood out for longer. So thank you for allowing me to write this post and thus feel like I have achieved something. It feels good. I am set for the day, and I smile and I know that I am worthwhile. And really, that’s all it takes. That’s the blessing bit of the sammy—I can be hugely motivated to produce, and I am self-rewarding.

I don’t know exactly where this particular sammy came from, but undoubtedly some mild form of childhood trauma. I am sure I got off pretty lightly in the childhood-trauma front. But like most, I still have a few sandwiches I’m coming to grips with.

The curse of the sandwich, of course, is the days when I don’t achieve anything. Those days the sandwich burns in my throat and churns my otherwise empty tummy. I am worthless, even though just two days ago I conquered a mountain or wrote a three-thousand-word essay.

This makes weekends and holidays a challenge. Weekends need physical exertion—that counts as a form of productivity, you see—or work. Holidays longer than four days need to have a goal.

But I’m getting better at managing my sandwich. I can now go a few days without suffering the curse. And I can write blogs or do bike rides and cash in on the endorphins that way. If all else fails I can take a nap—I’m an expert at that.

Now that I’ve written all this sammy hoo-ha I’m not so sure about it. That’s the writerly self-doubt kicking in. I liked the bit about the merpeople though. They’re cool, so I’m glad they got a mention. I’m trusting you to just go with the sandwich thing; otherwise I’ll have to start all over. 

This is where convention says I’d ask you to like, subscribe, comment, share.

Fortunately my sandwich doesn’t need any of that—I’ve posted this so I am already doing well today—but I’d love to hear about your sandwiches if you do want to comment. Hmmmmm. Must be lunchtime. #writingishungrywork

A Day in the Mind of Giselle Simoes, or I Should Be Writing

Welcome and good morning, everyone. Your journey through the mind of Giselle Simoes is about to start. Join me, fellow visitors, for a trip you’ll never forget. Please, leave your belongings at the entrance. You will find individual lockers to store your valuable items. Photos are not permitted. The artificial light from camera flashes can expose hidden sections and cause irreparable damage. You may bring a notebook with you to take notes or work on a quick sketch but beware of the dark corners. 

Buckle up, folks. The tour is about to begin!

You will notice a small door to your left. Don’t be afraid to open it. Go on, let yourselves in. See that bookcase further down? It’s a live archive with numerous to-do lists. Come closer, pick a folder. Good choice – that one is entitled Things to Think Before the Alarm Rings and, boy, isn’t it a treasure? How can someone have so much on her mind before the day even starts? Well, Giselle Simoes can. But it’s too late for that, guys. Pick one of her thoughts of the day to take with you. What about I need to go to the library at some point today? Or perhaps How many episodes of Cobra Kai can I watch in two hours?  Take your pick, dear guests, and let’s continue our tour, shall we? 

This time, let’s turn right. And right again. Oops, the last turn, I promise. Ah, here we are – the best side of the house. Attention, everyone! We are now approaching unexplored territory. Follow me to the safety checkpoint and retrieve your starter kit containing a guidebook and a parachute pack – it is the only way to navigate through this space. Read the instructions, put the backpack on and mind the gap, people. This bottomless room is called Things I Want to Learn. As you can see, the list spirals down and has no end. Come on, gravitate around it and take a closer look. If you observe it carefully, you will notice the listed items change every few seconds. No, do no touch it. The list is fragile, and it will disintegrate immediately. 

Now, onto the next room. Here you can watch the live-stream I Need to Write, where you get a glimpse of what Giselle’s writing process is like. Come on, take a seat and make sure to grab a bag of buttery popcorn – her favourite. Speaking of popcorn, watch Giselle use the first thirty minutes of her scheduled writing time to…cook! That’s right, dear visitors, she is going to prepare something to eat first. Feeling hungry too? Let’s make a quick detour and visit the Cerebellum Café on the ground floor. You can grab one of our delicious treats while you wait for the show to restart. See you in thirty!

Ah, welcome back! Look, Giselle has a cup of hot chocolate coming right up. As you can see, she is placing it on her desk. And isn’t it a welcoming workspace? But do not let yourselves be fooled – that is not where she is going to work. No, no! Check the third door to her right – that’s where she is going to be in about… twenty to forty minutes. She needs to read the local news first. Well, the international too. Come on, folks! Let’s have a look at what’s behind that door, shall we?

Surprise! I was hoping I’d get to see that look on your faces. Yes, this is Giselle’s bedroom. It’s always been a mystery why she insists on writing in bed when she has such a perfect mahogany writing desk. If you observe carefully you will notice that the first thing she’ll do is to open the skylight blinders and let the sun rays in. She will then fluff her pillows and put a thicker one behind her back for extra support. Cosy, isn’t it? Ten more minutes, my friends, that’s all.

Now pay attention to the next instructions. This is a bilingual screening, and you will need an automatic translator to navigate effortlessly through Giselle’s thoughts. You will notice a package under your seats. Go on, open it. Place the headphones on your ears and press the green button on the device attached to it. All set? Here we go!

Uh, sorry, everyone. It seems we are having technical issues. You weren’t supposed to be bombarded with heavy metal on this tour – it usually happens only on the Sunday afternoon visits. Give me a second and I’ll check what’s going on. Ah, I see. Giselle is not quite ready yet and wants to have a hot shower first. It is her favourite place to come up with new story ideas, after all. However it should not take longer than fifteen minutes – unless she decides to sing along to the tunes.

No. Please, don’t go anywhere. If you put your headphones back on they will now be set up to cancel the music in the other room. You are about to watch a short film called How Many Words Do I Really Need Today? Fun, I know! It’s a remastered version of a classic title. Popcorn, anyone? The Cerebellum Café has a special deal for seconds… 

No, miss, tickets are not refundable. But if you stick around I can give you a two-for-one voucher to purchase her latest book, I Truly, Truly Need to Write

My Lockdown Adventures (Or Lack Thereof)

By Ayden Dugmore


It was the 23rd of March, at approximately 2pm when Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern announced that New Zealand would be going into Alert Level 4 Lockdown at midnight on the 25th of March, just two days later. As an avid movie lover, I felt this was surreal. The scenario seemed to have been plucked right out of a Hollywood studio, only there was no Will Smith, and this wasn’t a movie.

Thoughts raced through my mind as I went to pick my son up from school for the last time in a while. I had some silver-lining thoughts like Maybe I won’t get behind on my homework for once, and Maybe I can catch up on all the movies I’ve wanted to see. But mostly I worried—not necessarily for myself but for my son and my at-risk nan and aunty.

My son got in the car and like most eleven-year-olds he seemed to not have a worry in the world. I figured he probably wouldn’t know what was going on, so I told him everything.

“I know,” he replied ever so nonchalantly.

I was taken aback. “Okay. Well let’s go home.” As I started to drive off, I received the inevitable text message.

We need some things from the supermarket.

I sighed heavily and changed course. On the way, I remember hoping that maybe people were already home, bracing for this new experience we would all be going through as a country.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. The supermarket was jam-packed, and people were acting as though COVID-19 wouldn’t affect them until lockdown was in effect. There was no social distancing to be seen. You might even call what was happening “social narrowing”. To be fair, this would be the most excitement any of us would see for the next month.

In the days that followed I took in all the news I could, whether by way of Jacinda’s daily press conferences or the internet. This Lockdown was unexplored ground for me—and nearly everybody else—so I wanted to be as informed as possible. But after a week it had become this juxtaposition of being both overwhelming and too much of the same. For something that was so different, it didn’t take long for it to feel a bit like Groundhog Day.

Around this time that I stopped taking daily notes too. There were only so many ways I could write, “Slept in. Went for a walk. Ate. Ate some more. Ate too much. Went to bed,” although I would spice up the odd day with a trip to the supermarket. In fact, I probably went to the supermarket more than the average person in Lockdown because we had a large bubble. For the first week there were eight of us, one being my twenty-year-old cousin who consumes the same amount of a food as a panda, except instead of eating bamboo, he eats everything in sight.

One interesting thing I did note from my frequent supermarket trips was the activity of other shoppers. The first couple of times I went there were very few gloves being worn and even fewer facemasks. After the first week though, you’d have been hard-pressed to find somebody not wearing them. Then just within the last week, with the end of Level-4 in sight, people seemed to be lowering their guard as I once again saw very few gloves and facemasks. Yet as the Lockdown rules changed with each different level, the one thing that didn’t change was people’s behaviour while shopping. Much like what I witnessed on the day the Lockdown was announced, shoppers inside the supermarket acted as though they were invincible. Social distancing? Gone. Common courtesy? Also gone. I witnessed a gloveless person handle a plethora of loose apples before deciding to buy pears instead. Needless to say, I did not buy any apples.

With no work obligations or school runs, the opportunity to complete plenty of writing was ripe … or so I thought. I hadn’t factored in the eleven-year-old boy. It turns out trying to normalise an unprecedented event like being on Lockdown due to a worldwide pandemic is time-consuming. Due to the lack of work I was getting done, I ended up getting pretty down in the dumps. But then I kept hearing people like parenting guru Nigel Latta and world-famous author Neil Gaiman say that our only obligation over this time was to get through it intact. Gaiman often talks about “walking towards your mountain”, meaning that your life journey should always be heading towards your main goal aka the “mountain”. In most situations, my mountain is becoming a full-time writer, but if I am to go by the words of Gaiman, Latta and other such experts then my “Lockdown mountain” would be making it to the other side. I made it to that mountain and I hope you did too.

Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started