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When a Poem Works Best

3/2/2026

When my mum died, I found some stories and poems written by Junior Jacqui. All of them were speculative. One of the poems was very dark—literally and figuratively. It spoke of being pursued in the darkness and ended in death. Click HERE to read a lightly edited and re-formatted version of it. I was twelve when I wrote it, but the fears it represents are heavy for a Jacqui of any age.

In recent years, I’ve returned to poetry as a way to express my darkest fears and deepest angers. The poetic form works when I can’t construct words into the sentences, paragraphs and sections that prose demands. I find it easier to express my rage, terror and grief when I’m not constrained by structure. I don’t write long poems, and while I’ve experimented with different poetic forms, for poems from my gut, free form works best.

My poems are often visceral reactions to events that exist beyond my power to control—death, misogyny, environmental destruction, natural disasters, and right now…fucking wars. These pieces flow from a deep well of empathy that some days brings me to my knees as I despair for the future.

I’ve talked before about how writing helps me make sense of the world and, how I use it as a release. My short-stories tend to be commentaries crafted with research, logic and order. In contrast, my poems are a blast of pure emotion, intended to leave the reader with deep feelings.

While the essence of what I need to express is almost always captured in the first sitting—the result is often too raw. It takes multiple visits to polish off the sharp angles and jagged edges. When editing, I agonise over word choices and line breaks and rhythm. I’m not sure my poems are every truly finished.

All this to say that for a multitude of unhappy reasons, I’m writing poetry because, right now, that’s what I need.

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Writing Feminist Speculative Fiction

2/1/2026

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I’m an unapologetic feminist writer of speculative fiction.

When I first read The Handmaid’s Tale in the 1980’s, it was very much an impossible fiction. Then, when I re-read it in the mid-2010’s, it made me cry because it had become a very possible version of reality. Globally, women and other minorities are having their hard won rights stripped away. Even supposedly democratic countries, like Aotearoa New Zealand, are systematically dismantling our legal rights. In countries ruled by conservative, religious-fascists, it’s even more horrifying.

Modern feminist speculative fiction requires more than passing the Bechdel test. It’s also more than just confronting the patriarchy and challenging misogyny. Over my lifetime, feminist speculative fiction has progressed from the comparative binary of dystopias and role-reversed separatist utopias, to intersectional fiction that considers race, gender, class, disability, sexuality, colonial history and ageism.

In much of my recent writing, I’ve combined that intersectionality with the concept of a separatist utopia. This comes from my belief that women/minorities need to save ourselves before we save the world, and we can’t do that when we’re in imminent danger.

In my stories, much like women preferring to meet a bear in the woods, my female characters often prefer to engage with the unknown of a cyborg, an alien or a monster than with human men who have demonstrated only violence, oppression and discrimination.

Literature, in the right hands, can be subversive—if it wasn’t there would be no calls for so-called ‘dangerous’ books to be banned. Through stories we can: create templates for rebellion, resistance & disruption; offer up cautionary tales; and, interrogate reality through metaphor—where rage and trauma are magic, ‘others’ are monsters, history is reclaimed & fates rewritten through time travel. Authors of feminist speculative fiction, are perfectly placed to offer hope and alternatives in the guise of fiction. Where speculative fiction asks, “what if?” feminist speculative fiction adds, “Why not?”

If you’re interested in reading my published feminist works, check out:

In Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, my short story Fires of Fate is retribution horror, where men are punished for their environmental damage.

In Byline: An anthology of poetry and prose from Tauranga Writers my poems, Her Husband (2023) and A Year of Death (2024), both deal with retribution for domestic abuse.

In my short story collection Letters from Elsewhere:
A Letter From Elsewhere: a street kid taken by aliens, prefers to die, the only human on a distant planet, than return home. The letter she sends home is described as fake by the new Christo-fascist regime.
The Abyss: retribution horror for rape.
Star Killer: where taxidermy becomes retribution for rape.
Redundant: retribution horror, where the spider/wasp is a metaphor for exploited women.

Some fantastic feminist speculative fiction that I’ve read:
The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvanna Headley. Retelling of Beowulf where Grendel’s mother is a returned servicewoman whose child is the product of rape from when she was held captive. She chooses a solitary life on a mountain until the small town kills her son. Blurs the line between literary and genre fiction.

The Stanger by Kathryn Hore. Feminist western set in an apocalyptic future. A walled off town, run by men, is steeped in lies maintained by fear. A woman rides into town, challenges the town’s view of the outside world and the patriarchy.

Upright Women Wanted by Sarah Galley. Another feminist western set in an apocalyptic future. Queer librarian spies spread resistance propaganda under threat of death by bandits and fascists.

The Binti Trilogy by Nnedi Orokafor. A young woman escapes family expectations to attend university on another planet. Attacked en-route, she saves herself, by assimilating with the attackers, further ‘othering’ herself.

Sister, Maiden, Monster by Lucy Snyder. A cosmic, plague horror told from the point of view of three women whose lives intersect in ways they don’t understand. Highlights gaslighting, violence against women and medical abuse (inserting IUD w/o pain relief).

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Learning to be a critical reader

1/3/2026

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A group of local women writers, including me, have established a writer’s book club. The intent is to meet once a month to discuss an agreed book from a writer’s perspective.

My mum was a voracious reader and raised me the same. She read me stories every night and taught me to read before I went to school. Into adulthood, many of our conversations revolved around what we’d been reading and we’d often mail favourite books back and forth across the country. Like her, I’m a fast reader—often too fast. Sometimes, I have to go back and read a paragraph two or three times because my eyes skip over the words too fast and I miss stuff.

I used to read anything and everything but have become more focussed as I’ve aged. These days, I’ve given up struggling through hefty tomes of literary fiction and only read books that interest me. Most of the time that means I read speculative fiction—but not always. If I don’t enjoy a book, I don’t bother finishing it. There are far too many great stories out there for me to waste my time on something that doesn’t work for me. But, I’ve never been very good at figuring out what I didn’t like and why.

Even after I began to write, I still read for the entertainment and not to understand craft or to critique technique. It’s only been in the last decade that I’ve learned to read with a more purposeful eye. In part, I learned through having my own work critiqued and then returning the favour. Later, I helped edit and proof read the annual anthology put together by my local writers’ group, and in 2025, I took up the opportunity to be a judge for the British Fantasy Awards. In 2026, I’ll be a judging convenor for Aotearoa New Zealand’s inaugural Te Pae Tawhiti Awards for speculative fiction.

Books that I love are often written from an odd perspective, they have well-written and engaging characters and enough world-building for me to be able to envision scenes. The story-line keeps me engaged and often twists and turns in unexpected ways. I don’t mind tropes, but I like to see them from a different view. I like the odd and off-kilter. Extra points for themes that challenge the patriarchy, racism, homophobia, transphobia, unfettered capitalism and/or confront ultra-conservativism.

Things that make my eyes glaze over and distract me are clunky and overwritten prose, massive chunks of information dumping, and extended descriptions of settings that don’t serve to advance the plot or contribute to a characters development. I now know that these are what I skim over when I’m reading for pleasure. I want action and dialogue to tell me the story, not extensive unbroken blocks of unrelenting text. If the character is in a forest, I want to experience the forest, I don’t want to stand outside the forest margins while it’s described to me in painful detail.

I dislike stories where a ‘thing’ happens, but nothing and no one changes as a result—what’s the point? Even flash fiction needs a purpose. Not long ago, I read a short story by a well-known and much-loved author. The words sparkled and glittered and the descriptions were rich and generous. But nothing fucking happened! I read it twice to be sure I wasn’t missing something. Nope, it was just a bunch of pretty words with no story or character arc—less satisfying than candy-floss.

Two other things that annoy me are unadulterated filtering (I don’t want to be told what the character saw or felt, I want to experience it), and an over reliance on adverbs instead of strong verbs (I’d be delighted to I never see the word “suddenly” ever again). I read the latest novel from one of my favourite authors last month and flinched at every adverb that told me what was happening instead of showing me. Sometimes even our hero’s let us down!

Learning to read critically means that I now understand what causes me to wince at words, skim over chunks of text or put a book down. I’m looking forward to a deep-read of our first book for book club and to hearing from others about their thoughts on the same book.

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Lessons From World Fantasy Convention

11/26/2025

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In the early months of 2025, my friend, and multiple award-winning writer-extraordinaire, Lee Murray ONZM, suggested that we attend the World Fantasy Convention in Brighton, UK. My first instinct was to say no because it’s fucking expensive to travel to the other side of the planet from Aotearoa New Zealand.

I’m so bloody happy that I changed my mind.

First, I got to travel with Lee, who shares my love of the weird and bizarre. We drove terrifying narrow roads, circled roundabouts searching for the exit, were kept company by ravens, wandered presque-lost across Bodmin Moor, laughed, ate all the cheese and revelled in ancient myths and legends brought to life in the curated landscapes of the south-west and south of England. She also held my hand throughout the Convention and introduced me to everyone—even people she was meeting for the first time herself. Being Lee’s friend meant that her friends, new and old, also became mine.

Second, after the disappointment of the 2020 WorldCon (CoNZealand), which thanks to Covid was virtual instead of local and in-person, it was incredible to experience a writers’ convention of a global rather than local scale.

I came away with new friends, personal contacts with several publishers, a deeper appreciation of the industry I’m part of, and some great book recommendations. Creative conversations in the bar, around tables, in the hallways and over food proved to be incredibly valuable. Both experienced and new writers were generous with their time and thoughts, and showed genuine interested in me and my writing projects. By the end of the fourth day, I was shattered but also reinvigorated with possibilities and ideas.

I spoke on two panels. The first was Feminism and Feminist Themes in Genre Fiction. I made the mistake of being too reliant on the page of notes I’d prepared, so panicked when they didn’t align with the first question I was asked. It threw me off. I was embarrassed and took a while to calm down and order my thoughts into something that made sense. I came away thinking I’d done a shit job. On the last day of the Con, I sat next to a horror writer who told me that the Feminism panel had been her favourite session. Redemption!

The second panel was Older People in Fantasy and Horror. By this stage, I was more relaxed and had managed to squash down much of my imposter syndrome. Also on the panel were, Juliet Marillier (Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient) and the UK’s master of horror, Ramsey Campbell. The room was packed. I only used my notes to refer to a few figures about the average age and sex of readers and for the rest of the panel talked from my experience of being older and writing older characters. I had fun, and given the audience response, they did to.

I don’t think I’ll ever be someone who speaks or sits on a panel without notes at hand, but what I learned was that I can trust myself. I have a wealth of lived experience in all manner of things and know stuff others don’t. I may not be able to give you a clear, concise and academic definition of what feminist genre fiction is—but I know how to write it.

I attended a heap of panels, some book launches and both the British (for which I was a judge) and the World Fantasy Awards (for which Lee was a judge) ceremonies. So there was lots of learning and clapping involved. My favourite of the panels I attended were Weird Fiction, Animals in Fantasy and Embodying the Non-Human. There’s a theme there!

It was a surprise to me that not everyone goes to Cons to attend panels, readings and book launches—some attendees spend the entire Con hanging in the public spaces—they go for the conversations, to make contacts, seeking opportunities for collaboration, and to develop relationships. Writing’s such a solitary pursuit, and yet success requires putting yourself out there. I’m not so good at that, but I forced myself to start conversations with strangers and talked about the Ghost Assassins of Bijou novellas to anyone who’d listen. I’d also taken a few copies of my short story collection, Letters From Elsewhere, with me and gave them to some lovely people.

The experience confirmed for me the extra challenges writers from Aotearoa face in being so physically distant from major markets. It’s so hard for us to raise our voices and be seen, when no one knows who we are. We can’t just catch a train or drive to next month’s Con to cement those relationships. Without substantial financial assistance or the Ghost Assassins of Bijou getting picked up and becoming a best-seller, it’s very unlikely I’ll attend another big international Con in the next few years so, for now, all I can do is rely on social media, my blogs and newsletters, and keep submitting my writing to keep my name in the forefront of people’s minds.

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Words Matter

9/29/2025

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I believe that it’s important to challenge people when they use offensive or damaging language. To be clear, I don’t mean censoring or banning words, because I also believe in free speech. But with that right to free speech comes responsibility.

The words we use matter not only because they have meaning but because there are consequences to how we use them. Take, for example, the former Aotearoa New Zealand Member of Parliament, who during a recent radio interview defined a woman as a “…person with a pussy and a pair of tits.” Within two days, he’d issued a public apology and resigned from his position at a recruitment agency. Yep, he fucked around and found out!

Politics are rife with inappropriate and harmful dialogue, and women, people of colour and other minority groups are usually at the sharp end of that rhetoric. On retiring from the Invercargill City Council on September 22, 2025, the Reverend Evelyn Cook had this to say, “I wish you to understand the power and the hurt that careless words create. The casual racism. The sometimes-intentional sexism. The misogyny. The lack of respect for one another, that I have seen in this room.”

Language frames our collective consciousness, it shapes the way we think and how we construct reality. When the meanings of words are twisted and appropriated as weapons, it impacts us all. The use of de-humanising terminology is especially dangerous. If a woman is reduced to ‘a pussy with a pair of tits’, then she doesn’t deserve respect or any right to bodily autonomy. It’s so much easier to torture or kill a ‘bitch’ or a ‘beast’ than it is a fellow human being.

The United Nations working definition of hate speech is: “any kind of communication in speech, writing or behaviour that attacks or uses pejorative or discriminatory language with reference to a person or a group on the basis of who they are, in other words, based on their religion, ethnicity, nationality, race, colour, descent, gender or other identity factor.”

Exposure to hate speech fosters an environment of hostility that not only erodes social cohesion, attacks human rights and incites violence, but results in individual and personal harm. People subjected to relentless hate speech tend to experience heightened anxiety, chronic health conditions, lower self-esteem and even premature death. Being aware of how words matter is the first step in preventing that harm.

How society uses language changes and evolves. Words and phrases that were once acceptable in common usage may now carry offensive implications. In my background reading for this blog, I came across an article talking about the history of the word ‘woke’. In the early twentieth century, the word was used in songs to warn black people travelling in racist states to be aware of the risks of being lynched. The songs urged them to ‘stay woke’. So, a word that once meant to be vigilant against the risk of death has been twisted into a pejorative term implying a person is performatively and overly sensitive to perceived societal injustices.

I understand that change can be hard, but to refuse to reconsider your position when challenged by the subject of your prejudice is a deliberately cruel and disrespectful choice. We all need to check our privilege and challenge our internalised biases. I know I’m not perfect, but I strive to do better and when confronted with deliberate and unapologetic misogyny, racism, homophobia, and fascism…I will make my words matter.

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Would I Lie to You?

8/31/2025

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I was reintroduced to the contrasts between the words ‘Verity’ and ‘Verisimilitude’ during a recent writing workshop. Where verity is a true principle or belief—the truth, verisimilitude is defined as the appearance of being real or true.

In writing, I aim for a kernel of veracity surrounded by a thick coating of verisimilitude. Stories don’t need to be truthful, but they do need to be believable, or believable enough that the reader will suspend their disbelief for the duration.

So, is there a need for verity in fiction?

It could be argued that historical fiction and hard science fiction require a degree of verity. After all, history is known, and science is factual.

But are they?

What’s known about history, is what’s reported. So, the truth of history is focussed in the hands of those who recorded it, and those who interpret it. We’ve all heard the well-known phrase “history belongs to the victors” so, how much do we trust those victors to accurately report all aspects of an historical event?

This brings us to another V-word, ‘Veracity’, or the quality or state of being truthful or accurate.

As a scientist, I understand that the truth changes over time. We adjust our accepted ‘truth’ as we learn more from the scientific process of research. I also know that how data are treated and interpreted can be influenced by our own perspectives. That’s why it’s important in that research is verifiable and repeatable so that others can verify the veracity of the researchers. This is achieved by testing the same hypotheses using the same methodologies or questioning those hypotheses and methodologies through vigorous debate (NB Reckons are not research, and doing a quick search of the internet is NOT fucking science!).

I’ve just read an interesting article by zooarchaeologist, Emily Lena Jones, in which she states that, “What we think we know about Neanderthals is always changing.” What she’s saying is that as we make more discoveries, we adjust our world view and the truth changes.

In fiction, writers will sometimes use an unreliable narrator, to deliberately mislead and confuse the reader. I would argue that, to some extent, all narrators are unreliable. A couple of months ago, someone told me that something was ‘true’ because she remembered it happening. Maybe she was right and did remember it correctly but, it wasn’t the same truth as mine.

Not only can our perspective on a single event be very different but, we can hold false memories.

For example, I have ‘memories’ of running across a lawn, over a road, through some sand dunes and disappearing into the distance along an empty surf beach. Those memories come with no sensations or feelings, and they play in my mind like a black and white movie seen from afar. That’s because, I was a toddler, and I don’t remember what happened at all. I’ve just been told the story so many times, that I’ve internalised it as a memory. Is it a true story? I have no idea—but it’s my truth.

My conclusion is that verity is a slippery and changeable beast and as a writer all I can aim for in my stories is verisimilitude. So, while today’s ‘truth’ is that it would take a spaceship about 600,000 years to travel the 31 light years to the planet Gliese 357 d, in my current project the trip will be MUCH faster, and you’ll believe it because I’ll make it appear possible. And, would I lie to you?

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Measuring Success

8/2/2025

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As a writer, I carve time out of my life to invest in my craft. Each completed poem, short story, chapter, or novella is driven by hope and belief—because, for most writers in my situation, that time is unpaid and there’s no guarantee of publication.

It’s a sad truth, but publication doesn’t always come with payment. As for many other industries, publishing budgets are increasingly tight. Many markets that previously paid for short stories no longer do and magazines and publishing houses are shuttering at a depressing rate. It’s not impossible to sell stories and make money from writing, but it is difficult. The average income for writers in Aotearoa New Zealand is less than $15K per annum. The best way to make money from writing books is to already be famous. This means that measuring my success against income, can be a bit depressing.

So, what does success look and feel like for writers who, like me harbour grand ambitions but aren’t (yet) already household names. There are numerous ways for an author to measure their success, and they can range from the personal to the very public.

Some days, success is as simple as getting words onto a page. If those words come together into coherent sentences, paragraphs, and stories then all the better. If those words are poetic and lyrical or move me to tears, or fill me with joy or fury, then all the better. Even more satisfying is when my critique group scribble love hearts in the margins of my manuscripts.

For many writers, success lies in the freedom to create stories that push boundaries and challenge views and explore the impossible. Writing can also be a form of catharsis, allowing writers to explore prejudices, address societal challenges, and resist injustices. Much of my own writing helps me navigate the world and imagine better ways for humans to live and interact. Until five years ago, I seldom had happy endings to my stories. Now, I like to at least leave my readers with a hint of hope, because that’s what I need. I have to believe that things can and will get better.

It's important for readers to be represented in fiction, but it’s rare to find stories featuring strong, independent, post-menopausal feminists with fluid sexuality. Offering that representation through my writing is one of my personal measures of success. Part of my legacy is my writing. I hope my stories and poems endure and stand the test of time. Even if only one woman finds something in one of my pieces that fills her heart or changes her course for the better, then I consider that a success.

Not all writers seek to be published but anyone who does will attest to the absolute joy of your first accepted submission. Those hours of work honing my craft are rewarded when someone I don’t know reads my work and deems it worthy of publication. For me, that spark of joy still explodes with every successful submission. With publication comes exposure, connecting with readers and the chance of awards.

While there are intrinsic and private rewards for practitioners of creative arts, it’s the extrinsic, or public, rewards that are most often used to measure success. These come in the form of reviews and awards, which in turn open doors to opportunities for not only sales, but for grants and residencies. Headlines aren’t written about writers who sit at their desk and produce glorious prose and poetry. No. Headlines feature writers who win prizes. Despite multiple nominations and applications, and making several shortlists, I’ve yet to win any awards, grants or residencies for my writing. My external measures of success are: reader feedback, both direct and through reviews; the subscribers who faithfully open my newsletters every month; and securing a literary agent.

Do I want more? Hell, yes!
Am I passively waiting for it? Hell, no!

I volunteer to judge awards, so I get to critically assess the best fiction in my genres.
I travel to overseas conventions and conferences to connect with writers and others in the publishing industry, which when you live in Aotearoa New Zealand is both financially and temporally expensive.
I attend workshops and courses to hone my skills.
I send out a monthly newsletter and write a monthly blog to connect with my readers.
I apply for residencies and grants so the people with the funding know who I am.
I submit stories and poems to paying, and sometimes non-paying, markets.
I write. I write. I write.
I’m not waiting for success to find me. I’m pursuing it.

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Villainous Authors

6/29/2025

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I was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling through my socials one morning not long ago and a post popped up that recommended the Mists of Avalon by Marian Zimmer Bradley as a classic read. After muttering a few disgusted expletives, I had a quick flick through some of the comments. They varied between ‘great book and a must read’ to ‘fuck right off, the author is a monster’ along with a whole bunch of comments like ‘I loved this book, and it broke my heart when I discovered MZB was complicit with her husband’s child abuse.’

MZB isn’t the first author I’ve loved who turned out to be a fucking horrific human being and she’s certainly not the last. But reading the comments made me ask the question: What do you do when one of your favourite authors turns out to be a real-life villain?

When Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa was published, I was thrilled that my short story, Fires of Fate, sat cosied up next to a poem by Neil Gaiman. I was so excited that I even posted a video of me flicking between my story and his poem on my socials. Since then, there have been multiple accusations of sexual misconduct and assault against him, including more this year. Now, my story, in all its feminist rage, leans away from his poem, trying to distance itself from the space I was so proud to share. Being such a fan of Gaiman’s work, this betrayal of trust cuts extra deep.

I never read J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter series, although, I do confess to reading one of the books she wrote when she was pretending to be a man. I have numerous trans friends and acquaintances. So, why would I support someone who actively goes out of her way to incite hatred and denial of their right to exist, and uses the earnings from her books to support her crusade?

I’ve seen many arguments along the lines of ‘you can love the art but not the artist’, and, to an extent, that can be true, but where does the line between the two exist? In buying the art, you're supporting the artist. When you check the book out from the library, you're supporting the author. And, yes, streaming their movies / series is supporting the author. As much as I loved series 1 of The Sandman, I won't be watching series 2.

Do I think that J.K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman or the beneficiary of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s ongoing income give a shit about me not buying their books? Of course not, but the point is—it’s very important to me. I give a shit. And, if enough of us share that sentiment, then maybe they’ll notice.

There are so many talented and worthy authors out there writing amazing stories. Most of them aren’t problematic and, often, aren’t financially comfortable. So, why would I give my money and tacit support to those who are?

My answer is—I won’t.

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Reclaiming the Crone

6/3/2025

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Speculative fiction (fantasy, science fiction, horror etc) is all too often populated with strong, young characters. People and creatures breaking out of their adolescence and at the start of their adventures or approaching the prime of their lives. Where young women and girls and non-binary characters feature more often as main and secondary characters, the same can’t be said for older characters. It’s uncommon for the protagonist to be of advanced years, and rare if that character’s a woman.

Older characters are either cast in supporting roles, like the wise old wizard and the sweet grandmother, or as the evil antagonist, the barrier to youthful success. If the antagonist is a woman—the witch, the hag, the crone—she’s often portrayed as jealous and spiteful, corrupted by age and bitter with disappointment. The crone is frequently portrayed as trying to regain their youth at the expense of the victim (some princess who’s never the hero). Youth is the prize.

In fantasy, crones are depicted as deceitful and ugly old women who use their powers for malevolent purposes. Recall how the beauty of Snow White’s stepmother and Melisandre in Game of Thrones corrupts when their true natures are revealed. As always there are exceptions to generalised observations, examples include Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg from the Discworld series and General Leia Organa from Star Wars—these magnificent characters embrace and celebrate their age and don’t pretend to be anything but what they are—but they’re rare.

The crone, with some exceptions, is a woman to be feared.

In science fiction, crones as characters are often, non-existent or invisible. Check out the list of SciFi books featuring old women compiled by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley HERE.

It’s disappointing that our literary interpretations of alternate and future civilisations are, again and again, bereft of the aged. That there are so very few examples of older women cast as characters who captain spaceships or rule societies or play an active role in revolutions and rebellions. And yet, in terms of readership, women prevail. Read Nikky Lee’s summary of a 2018 James Cook University study HERE.

We need to do better. It’s bad enough having to live in a society that worships youth and strives to push back against the ravages of time through surgeries, fillers, pills and creams. We’re urged to disguise our age with makeup and hair dye, then accused of being deceptive. It’s an unwinnable battle.

I not only need my fiction to offer escape from reality, but I also crave to be represented in the books that I read. I’m not ashamed of my age—it’s hard won. My husband and my parents died younger than they should have—I celebrate every day that I’m gifted. But I’m very aware that I’m often no longer ‘seen’ or ‘heard’. We older women exist, we’ve seen and experienced a lot of shit, and we can’t be fucked putting up with it anymore.

When I set out to write the first novella in the Ghost Assassins of Bijou series, I did so with the conscious decision to portray the invisible crone. I went further than that—I weaponised her invisibility. Although it’s not always explicit, more and more of my recent stories feature older women as the main character. I’m reclaiming the crone as a feminist icon and whether they’re the hero or the villain depends on your point of view.

If you consider my characters to be evil, then I suggest that you should fear the crone!

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Never Stop Learning

4/30/2025

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I’ve been a life-long learner. Beyond my formal education at school, teachers’ college and university, I retained my hunger to grow and expand my knowledge. Over the years I've:

Taken night-classes in art.
Learned to drive a bus.
Become fluent in French.
Qualified (in French) as a marine 3rd engineer.
Attended marine science conferences on subjects beyond my field.
Gone to farming seminars.
Travelled.
Taken courses in photography.

Just over a decade ago, following a major sharp turn in my life, I decided to write my way back into sanity. For me, it was only natural that I take courses, read books, listen to podcasts, and attend workshops and conferences to learn about the craft and art of writing.

Part of learning is recognising the point at which you can start to give back. In science, that came early, as it’s expected of graduate students to present seminars to their peers, and to present their findings at the conclusion of their research. As such, I learned to put together an interesting presentation in logical order. I’m grateful for that skill—it’s served me well.

The very first writers’ workshop I was invited to present was on Writing Emotion. It wasn’t a subject I’d given any deep thought to, but it’s something that I do in my writing. Being me, I dived head-first into research. First, I combed the internet for tools and practices and methodologies that would complement my inherent skills and knowledge. Then, I critically analysed books and stories that caused me to have an emotional response.

I learned so that I, in turn, could teach.

The workshop was a success, and I received lovely feedback from the participants. Since then, I’ve presented on short stories, how to write good sex, speculative fiction, and the impacts of AI on writing to numerous writing organisations. I would never call myself an expert on any of these, but I am good at research and sharing what I learn along the way. This has given me the confidence to volunteer as a presenter or panellist at every subsequent writer’s conference that I’ve attended.

Being a panellist is a whole different ballgame, as it depends on a pre-agreed set of parameters that flex and change over the course of the discussion. The mediator can help or hinder the panel. I was once told by a mediator that if I didn’t critically assess movies as I watched them, then perhaps I shouldn’t have volunteered for the panel—it was a panel on writing. At the time I was embarrassed—now, I’m just annoyed that I didn’t tell him to fuck off (another learning moment!). That experience didn't put me off, but I'm now much better at ensuring I understand the scope of the panel in advance.

Anyway, all this to encourage you to stay open to learning. No matter how much of an expert you are in your field, there’s always something new or different out there that you can learn. And honestly, my university was right, one of the best ways to learn is to teach. Don’t be afraid to volunteer to present a subject to your local writing (or whatever) group. Become the expert! (Alternately, get in touch, maybe I can help!)

If nothing else, learning is great for your brain.

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