Category Archives: Writing

Diversity in Publishing

Walking through the halls of a big publishing firm, the first thing that will strike you is the books. Books everywhere: stacked on shelves, counter-tops, desks, spilling out of drawers and jammed into untold boxes leaning precariously against the walls. Once you’ve realised that no, you haven’t walked into an alternate universe where the streets are paved with countless copies of last years’ The Girl on the Train clone, you’ll notice the people. The sea of white, middle class people who have the power to decide which voices get heard and which will molder away in obscurity.

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National Identity: How straightforward is it?

As I stuff two years worth of accumulated junk into a giant suitcase, ready for my next big move, the question of nationality has hit me with full force. It’s something I’ve thought about for a while, but now that I’m moving to the the country of my forebearers, it has taken on a greater significance.

What is my nationality, how deeply am I affected by it, and is it even important?

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WRITING

Sometimes I write things. Most of it will never be seen.

Feminism:
To That Guy…
The Women from U.N.C.L.E
How to be a Narrow Gender Construct

Reflections:
Diversity in Publishing
National Identity: How straightforward is it?
Two Year Travel-versary
Chasing the Exotic
Love Your Neighbour, But Only If…
So do it!
“No, but what scene?”

New Zealand issues:
Flag It
Off your bike, love.
An Open Letter to Auckland Transport

Personal projects:
Who Needs France When You’ve Got Pirates!
Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!
A Novel in a Month… ARE YOU INSANE??!!

*art by Eden James

Super Libraire! Adventures of a bookseller

What if I told you there are people, people who look just like you and me, who have the knowledge to open our eyes to whole new worlds. You’ve probably over-looked them, seeing nothing in their outward appearance to suggest the secrets just below the surface. They are the silent footfalls in a quiet store, the cryptic glance over a computer screen, the soft rustle of pages of a book you can’t quite make out.

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