My last post for 2017

Well, I don't know about you guys, but when I think back on the year of 2017, I whisper a quiet little 'wow'. It's been a crazy ride, from having a publisher express interest in my novel, and then offer me a contract, way back in January, to the extensive learning curve of editing, looking at book covers, getting my first box of The Boy in the Hoodie on my doorstep, book launches and signings, and of course trying to get the word out so people will consider keeping a copy of my novel on their bookshelves.

This year, the Christmas break is much anticipated in my household.

(Thanks for the Christmas spirit, http://www.interiordesigninspiration.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Christmas-Decorations-016.jpg)

Christmas, for me, means school holidays, the sadness of saying goodbye to good friends moving on, and taking the time to reflect with gratitude on the year that has been.

I know that's not the case for everyone. Christmas isn't always a time of celebration. Sometimes, it brings back painful memories of loss; thoughts of what never was; or the hurt of broken dreams for the way things were meant to be.

Sometimes, it takes effort to find the great in what you can be grateful for.

Sometimes, it takes effort to step out, to take a risk, and to go and find what it is that you're missing - to try to make it happen.

But if there is one thing I have learned in all I have been through in life, is that sometimes you have to tuck that anxiety down into a little box in the pit of your stomach and step out anyway. Being a good actress helps. Having a safe place to land is essential.

As you look forward into 2018, I pray you will find the strength to step out and move toward grasping what you want most in life.

And don't forget, if you're still thinking of Christmas presents for the young adult/teenager in your world, you could always gift them The Boy in the Hoodie, :), available in all good bookstores now.

May you find the merry in merry Christmas <3

See you all in a couple of weeks!

Photo: I was going to spend Christmas with these awesome guys, my parents, this year. However, circumstances have changed and we don’t get to now. Instead, we’ll spend Christmas with the other kind of family we have - the family we’ve chosen for ourselves, in our amazing friends. I'm really looking forward to hanging out with these friends who we love dearly. I have no idea who took this photo of me with my parents, someone from my family no doubt since we were celebrating Mum and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary at the time. :) Big celebrations deserve the overlooking of photo-rights, don't you think?

You can connect with Catriona through social media here

On the time I lost my friends at High School

Okay, so I said I'd tell you. This won't be easy. Or pretty. But if you've read The Boy in the Hoodie, you'll see where I got the idea for what went down between Kat and Paige in Chapter 8.

I had issues as a teenager, so let's just get that out of the way first. I had terribly low self-esteem and desperately wanted everyone to like me. Clearly, I also had no idea how to go about this. I was soapy-obsessed (Neighbours, Home and Away, and I read this series of books called Sweet Valley High - if you know the series there's no need to say anything more) and I think this was where I learned how you get and treat your friends. You can see this is headed for disaster, now, can't you.

(Photo: This is me on my first day of High School-Year 7. You can now wake up every morning with a sense of gratitude that, for all that may suck about your life, at least you didn't grow up in an age when it was cool to wear socks with sandals.)

Back then, I loved to write and one way I expressed that love was through having multiple "pen pals". I wrote to other teenagers all over the world; yes, with pen and paper, with stamps that needed to be purchased from the Post Office with a little blue AIRMAIL sticker running up the side. In writing these letters to strangers, I could be whoever I told them I was. I could be engaging and funny. And they liked me. Even people who I met on summer holidays would prefer to write to me, than hang out with me while our families holidayed together. In fact, one of my pen pals called me on the phone one Sunday afternoon and I didn't know how to talk to her. She stopped writing to me after that. On paper, I was good at making and keeping friends.

Which was probably why I was so shocked when one of my pen pals wrote to me saying she was writing to too many people and so was cutting back. I was on the exit list. I suppose it's yesteryear's equivalent of being de-friended on Facebook during a cull.

Well, it just so happened that I told my school friends about it, and Ella, our group's 'leader' came over so we could respond to the letter together. And we did; we wrote the letter together. We were nasty. We were rude. We were accusatory. It was full of terrible swear words and described in very unpleasant terms the type of person we thought she was.

To this day, I have no idea why we even wrote it. It was completely unnecessary. She was a lovely girl. And it was really lovely of her to even write to let me know she wouldn't be able to keep corresponding with me.

I have even less of an idea of what on earth I was thinking in posting it to her.

It was a couple of weeks later that my father confronted me in our family's kitchen, holding a photocopy of my letter and a note from the poor girl's parents saying that if there was any further communication from me that they would be involving their lawyer. My parents were horrified. They had barely heard me swear before, let alone knew I was capable of writing such a horrific letter to another human being.

They banned me from having anything more to do with Ella.

When I told Ella what had happened, she couldn't believe I'd posted the letter. She was smarter than me. Much, much smarter.

It was sometime later that Ella asked me if I wanted to go down the street with her, and without even thinking I told her what my parents had said. And that I wouldn't be allowed to go if she was going.

That was the last time I spoke to Ella, or her to me, for a very long time. Our friendship never recovered. And of course, she took all my other friends with her. I was in Year 7 at the time. I didn't socially begin to recover until about Year 10.

I sincerely hope no one else has such a tragic story to tell about losing their friends. But if you do, let me know in the comments and we can sob over it together ... through our keyboards, of course.

Photo: this is me and one of my besties (my daughter tells me only twelvies say besties, and I'm not allowed to use the word) best friends, Jax. This photo warms my heart. Best friends are awesome.

Thanks for dropping by. You can connect with Catriona through social media here

On my little secret. Shhh, don't tell anyone ...

Okay, so it's time you knew the truth about me. Here it is, I'm going to tell you. I'm just going to spit it out and let the world know what all my primary teachers, and my high school teachers, and my classes in those first few years of teaching down in Victoria knew. It's my literacy-fault. My Achilles' heel. The thorn in my side. It is an undeniable truth:

I am a hopeless speller :'( :'( :'(

Yes, it is true. All other aspects of the English language I have a pretty good grasp on. I've almost been considered a Grammar Nazi before. I can write essays in my sleep. I've been to Uni and have a degree in History and Politics, with a sub-major in English. I also have a post-graduate degree and am halfway through a Masters degree. And of course, I can now add that I am a published author to that mix.

And yet, I cannot spell.

You think I'm exaggerating?

The other day, for my day (paid) job, I was sitting at my desk watching a Dyslexia Daily video, and I learned for the first time how to spell the word Attendance. Before watching this video, I could never remember if it was spelt 'attendence' or 'attendance'. I have had to write the word numerous times since, and I have been able to spell it correctly every time (after I've reminded myself that I want to attend the dance). Here's the video, if it's a word you've always struggled with, too:

The video, and learning to spell a word correctly, is hardly rocket science. But it's really nice to now have engrained in my mind how to spell attendance correctly. Every time I realise I consistently spell a word wrong, and I make myself learn how to spell it correctly, I quietly congratulate myself.

As I write, I whisper to myself my little stories on how to spell words I've stumbled with in the past: The principal is my pal... two cats wear just one sock occasionally.

My 'watching the video' story is less embarrassing than the story I'm about to tell you, of how I learned to spell the word 'sentence' when I was, like, 23 years old. Oh, don't laugh! I TOLD you I can't spell. Here is how I learned to spell the word sentence:

It was my first year of teaching and I had a Year 7 class. For those of you not in Australia, that means the class was full of around 27 fresh and bright-eyed 12-year-olds. I cannot remember the context, but for some reason I wrote the word 'sentance' on the board. Immediately sweet little Lauren put her hand up. "Mrs McKeown," she said, with the innocence of a lamb. 'You've spelt sentence wrong.'

I looked at the board, to where I'd written the word. 'No I haven't, I said.

'Yes, you have,' she said, a little more forcefully. 'There is no 'a' in sentence.'

I laughed a little, trying to maintain composure and not lose the respect of the other 26 students in my English class. 'I'm pretty sure I'm right, Lauren.'

I went on my way, teaching the class. Suddenly, beside me with an open dictionary (it was 1996 and the Internet had barely been invented yet) stood Lauren. She held the Dictionary up to me and pointed at the word 'sentence'.

And that is how I learned to spell the word sentence.

You can see how it is better to learn how to spell words through quirky little videos, rather than through such real-life experiences. But, after that first year of teaching, I made the decision that I would no longer try to hide my inability to spell. Instead, for all my classes, I would make an announcement at the beginning of each year. I would boldly tell my students:

There are two things you need to know about me: One is I cannot spell. The other is I'm hopeless at Math. Fortunately I'm not your Math teacher, but I am your English teacher, but I'm living proof that not being able to spell doesn't have to stop you from being able to do English. Let me know when I spell something wrong; this year, we will all be learning something together.

I still will often say that, though I am a much better speller now that I was back then. I'll still pause and ask a student how to spell a word before I write it on the board. I have continued to learn. I have better learned how I learn to spell. And having a computer is amazing - that little red line (and the add-on Grammarly) make my life easier. I often say that I was born to live in the era of word processors and computers. Needing to spell is not what it used to be. And I seriously thank God for that.

NB: In the writing of this blog, I misspelt Achilles, embarrassing and exaggerating. But I fixed them up. :)

Photo: I hide my face as I make this admission. It is embarrassing for me; it always has been. But I haven't let it stop me. And it HASN'T stopped me yet.

If you'd like to connect with Catriona via social media, you can do so here

On talking about PP

PP - it needs to be in code. It's that Peer thingy. You know, the things that totally sucks but we've all experienced at some point. I mean, seriously, show me a teenager with at least one friend and I'll show you someone who has experienced Peer Pressure. Even as adults, it doesn't go away. It can be easier to stand up it, maybe, but despicably it can continue all through life.

(Doesn't this photo send chivers down your spine? The feeling of peer pressure, of feeling like you can't live up to their standards, or maybe that their values don't align with your own ... urgh ... thanks for the chills, https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/unhappy-girl-being-gossiped-school-friends-teenage-76512212.jpg)

In The Boy in the Hoodie, the opening chapters are all about PP and how difficult it can be to stand up to it. The thought of losing your friends, or being seen as someone different, or someone afraid to go along with everyone else, can be worse than the thought of failing a subject. Or landing in detention.

In The Boy in the Hoodie, one of Kat's friends has a nickname for her: Mary. Paige calls Kat "Mary" when she suggests they shouldn't do something, or that something might be unsafe - you know, when she puts voice to the little alarm that goes off when something doesn't feel right. Once again, Kat finds herself having to choose between her friends and doing the wrong thing, or standing alone:

The bottle was pretty much empty by the time it got to me. Only one mouthful left, at best. I toyed with the bottle for a moment, looking at it, rolling it in the palms of my hands. Three sets of eyes watched me. I could see the word forming on Paige's lips: Mary. Her narrowed eyes were telling me to hurry up and drink it. I stared down at the bottle. The first sip, I hadn't known what I was doing. This time, I'd be knowingly drinking alcohol at school.

PP is something we don't always take seriously enough in our teenager's lives. It can be really tough to make the right choice, and to know what the consequences might be. As the choices Kat has to make get more complicated, the less she feels she is able to talk to anyone about them:

Dad shook his head. 'Why are you doing this, Kat? There are going to be some really big consequences for this. If you are covering for Pai-... for any of your friends, you need to say so now. We've always told you to tell the truth, no matter what the consequences might be. You don't always know what is going to happen to the others involved. Telling the truth is always the best option.'

I lowered my head and stifled a sob. 'I can't, Dad.'

'So you're going to stand by everything you have just said to Mr Dean? To me, just now?'

I nodded.

Dad stood up and walked over to Mum. Her face was cold and unresponsive. I was crying so much that my snot and my tears were mixing into one steady stream of wetness that now covered most of my face. No sleeve was long enough for this level of sadness.

The results are that Kat gets herself into situations that she doesn't know how to handle. It's important teenagers have significant people, other adults, in their lives who they can turn to when they can't look to their parents anymore. It can be difficult as parents to parent and keep the relationship at a level where teens feel they can still ask for advice. You need to make room in your teenager's life for other options for them.

If you want to find out more about how Kat deals with the PP she experiences, and the journey it launches her onto, you can buy The Boy in the Hoodie at all good bookstores, ask for it at your local library, or buy it online at places like Booktopia :)

If you want to connect with Catriona via social media, you can do so here

And finally, I think this photo was taken by my friend, Paige, while we were on a YA trip to NZ. She's the babe in the white tee. All credit to you, gorgeous!

You can connect with Catriona through social media here

On how domestic and violence shouldn't go together

Domestic violence. It’s one of those phrases that sounds as bad as it is; for me anyway. When I hear the word domestic, I think of Dad at home mowing the lawn, or Mum washing up the dishes, or Dad cooking eggs for his kids for lunch on Saturday afternoon. And when I think of violence, well, I think how those two words just shouldn’t go together.

(photo borrowed from: https://www.pexels.com/photo/adult-alone-anxious-black-and-white-568027/)

But unfortunately, they get put together way too often. I was really saddened to have a teen reader tell me that she could really relate to The Boy in the Hoodie, because she had a close friend who’d experienced something similar to what happened in the novel. I guess the thing is, as a YA writer it’s really important to me that my readers can see all sorts of things in themselves in the characters, their experiences, their reactions. But to hear it, to know it really is real for some young people in the world, is really sad. 

Domestic violence affects more than just the person at the receiving end of the fist. It hurts the children, the wider family, the friends. It hurts our communities. It hurts our society. It segregates and isolates, it creates wounds which turn into scars, it makes people hide and it makes people change. When a child is the victim of domestic violence, whether directly or indirectly, it messes up their minds. And sometimes, it’s not until they become teenagers that the impact is fully realised. 

​It can help to know that. Teenagers often need counselling to make sense of things that happened to them in their younger years, even if they received counselling for it at the time. That’s because teenagers start to see things from a new perspective, and analyse things on a deeper level. So be prepared, and help them to prepare. Because being a teenager is difficult enough as it is. 

The Boy in the Hoodie, and his mother, were victims of domestic violence. His Mum continued in the abusive relationship, even after her partner was freed from prison. I saw this powerful Ted Talk by a woman who was in an abusive marriage. If you'd like to get a better understanding of the how and why of domestic violence, I encourage you to watch it:

Shine a light on it.

Photo: This is my hubby and me at our school swimming carnival. He's the "Larry" that The Boy in the Hoodie is dedicated to. He's a great guy, and an awesome dad and husband. He's also an amazing school teacher, and I love getting work at the same school as him even though I hardly ever get to see him there.

You can connect with Catriona through social media here

On keeping YA novels real

I read a blog recently about writing YA books, and what the age group, are looking for in their books. I found it interesting, but I’m not convinced one aspect of it is correct. I’d love your input if you’re keen to express an opinion. 

Jane, the blog’s author, gave a list of lessons she had learned from writing YA. The first was that YA readers what these kept real. This, I totally agree with. While writing The Boy in the Hoodie, one of the biggest compliments one of my teen beta writers gave me was how real the (caution: minor spoiler alert!) kissing scene was. The characters in the scene are a little awkward and it ends up being pretty confusing for them both, but especially for Kat who was caught unaware by the whole thing. 

(Image borrowed from: http://www.freeimages.com/)

But what Jane argues, is the characters need to speak, and what she meant was swear, like teens do. I question this. I hang around teenagers a lot, both in my house, at work, at Youth Group on Friday nights, so it’s not as if I don’t know they speak like that. But do we have to have it in print? 

Some very successful YA novels of late have had little to no swearing. The Hunger Games. Divergent. The Maze Runner had its own ‘language’ in terms of cussing and stuff, but nothing we recognise in today’s language. The Sky So Heavy was awesome until about 3/4 of the way into the book when the book became over-run by it. Personally, I don’t like it. I can choose to ignore swearing if I hear it around me (and admittedly, I’m sure the teens around me tone it down just for my sake) but it’s so much harder to ignore in novels. It’s like it forces my brain to think, to internally say, the word. And I’m not like that. And I don’t think all teens these days are like that either. Some may be, but I don’t think it’s required, and I don’t think teens expect it in their novels.

Am I wrong? 

You can read the article at the link here

P.S. I'd love to know what your opinion is, cause seriously if I've got this wrong, I'd like to know. :)

Photo: my daughter and I being too cool for school at the beach in Hervey Bay. I swear she doesn't swear. Unless she's swearing on how cool her mother is. ;)

Inspiring quote of the day: The "heart of the matter" is a matter of the heart.  Whatever you see and hear consistently over time (good or bad) will enter your heart and put your life on autopilot. --Pastor Sam Adeyemi, Nigeria

If you want to connect with Catriona on social media, you can do so here

On the next stage in the game

Have you heard of a writing community even called NaNoWriMo? It is an acronym for National Novel Writing Month, an annual event where writers from all over the world join in an online community and spend a month writing 50,000 words. In order to 'win' NaNo, you have to write 50,000 in the month of November, which equates to around about 1,660 words a day.

Sounds a bit crazy, don't you think?

Well, I won't lie to you. It IS crazy. It's nuts. It's insane. And, I'm doing it. Again.

Why, I hear you say?

Well, back in November 2015 I signed up to do NaNo for the first time. I hooked in with a couple of amazing writers through the forums, and I wrote The Boy in the Hoodie. I went into NaNo having already written about 7,000 words of the novel, so I had a good feel for the story, my writing voice, and for where I wanted the story to go. And by the end of the month, I'd completed a 60,000word manuscript.

I then spent the next three years editing and revising it. But the bulk of it, the guts, was written in that one month.

So, I'm going in for round two. I've prepared in a similar way, having already written about 8,000 words, though much of the contributing word count are notes about what I want to have happen in various chapters. There are a few fully-written scenes. And there are a couple of key chapters written to really help me get a feel for the characters. I also have fun things lying around my desk, like printed pages of the Australian Curriculum, for authentic connections for those in Year 10 in Australia, and pictures like this:

(Thanks, http://slideplayer.com/6324087/21/images/41/DNA+and+Chromosomes+Eukaryotic+Chromosome+Structure+Chromosome.jpg, you're making this revisiting Year 10 Science business a little easier for me!)

I haven't named the novel yet, but I'm calling it GRACELAND, which is the name of my main character. Jack is causing her some issues in Science. If you're interested, here's a little bit of what I've written so far:

I open my laptop and then sit back to allow the serenity to wash over me. Although the library isn’t a place I’ve visited very often, I’m comfortable in the spacious, colourful room. A few walls are lined with books, the multitude of binders lined up in random colours and sizes without any obvious system. A large poster on the wall shows some students breaking through the library wall about to enter into a new world behind it, with space ships and strange animals watching for them to enter. It reminds me of when I was a little girl and Grandpa, Dad’s dad, read me The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I must have only been about five, but I remember they were visiting because of the problems with Jesse after he was born. After Grandpa would read it to me, he would talk about how there really is another world within this world that we can escape to. They never visited again after that time. He’d had such a kind voice; it was a shame he hadn’t been able to pass his kindness on to my father.

I place my head in my hands for a moment and try to calm my growing stress levels. There’s no escaping to Narnia anymore; such worlds don’t exist. Just this one, with its rules and demands and hard work and hurt and people who worked more against you than for you. Like now. Surely this assignment for Science is a case of the blind leading the blind. I’m struggling to even understand the topic. I’m not able to help Jack any more than he can help me. Latisha’s no better; she said she’d answer the questions with her tutor and email them to Jack, but whether she’s remembered to, I don’t know. And if Joel would take his headphones out for more than a few seconds at a time, then I’d have some idea of where he’s up to. It’s hopeless. 

The automatic doors open and close and Jack walks into the library. He stands still for a moment, like he’s taking in his surroundings, before heading over to me.

‘Hey,’ I say. 

‘Has Cooper gone home?’

I nod. 

‘Are you sure?’ Jack’s eyes flitter around the room.

I lower my laptop screen. ‘Yes. I watched him until he was in his mum’s car.’

Jack fidgets with his hands. ‘Did you see them drive away?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the way out of the car park?’

‘Jack.’

‘Yes?’

‘Cooper has gone home. It’s okay.’

Jack nods and sits in the chair opposite me.

‘Don’t you think it would be easier if you sat beside me?’

He looks nervously around the room again, before moving around and sitting beside me.

He puts his head down on the table.

‘Didn’t you bring your laptop?’

Jack looks up in surprise, making momentary eye contact with me. ‘You didn’t say to.’

‘If we’re studying, if we’re working on the evidence of learning portfolios, don’t you reckon you’d need your laptop?’

Jack looks confused. ‘Yes. But no. You didn’t say to bring it.’

I sigh. ‘Well, we can just do everything on mine, I guess.’ I fully open my laptop again.

Jack pulls out a notebook from his pocket and starts scribbling something down. 

‘So, where do we start?’ I type in my password and a blank document appears on the screen Jack keeps his head down. ‘Maybe we could put together what everyone has done, and then we can see what everyone still needs to do.’

Jack looks up. ‘Did Latisha send you her stuff?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘She told me she was going to send it to you. Didn’t you get it?’

Jack shrugs. ‘I haven’t looked at my emails today.’

‘What? All day? You haven’t checked your emails all day?’

Jack shakes his head, his eyes plastered to the orange table. I can see he’s fidgeting with his hands beneath it. I refresh my email inbox for the hundredth time that day, but there’s no email from Latisha.

‘Okay.’ I sigh again. ‘Well, what about you? Did you finish writing all the answers up from last week?’

‘No,’ Jack says. 

‘Okay. What are up to? Did you at least finish to the end of question seven?

‘No.’

  ‘Well where are you up to? How many did you do?’

‘None, I guess.’

‘None at all?’ I say, finding it difficult to keep the frustration out of my voice. ‘Didn’t you answer some during class?’

Jack looks up to the ceiling and seems to be holding his breath. 

‘Man.’ My heart thumps in my chest and I grip the edge of the table. I put my head on the edge of the keyboard. The computer starts making a funny noise. 

‘Your head is on the space bar,’ Jack says. ‘That’s why the computer is making that noise.’

I lift my head to nod. The noise stops.

‘Why do you have your head down like that?’ Jack’s hands go still. ‘Are you okay?’

I raise my head. ‘I need to pass this subject. I need to do well on this assignment.’

Jack nods. ‘I know. You told me already.’

‘So, you’re not helping, Jack. You have to work with the group. You have to answer the questions the teacher sets. You have to check your emails. You have to come to school and go to class and you have to do the work!’

Jack frowns. ‘I’ve answered the questions.’

I hold my breath. ‘What do you mean? You just said you hadn’t.’

‘I read the questions and I answered them. But I didn’t write the answers down.’

‘Well, why not?’

Jack shrugs.  ‘Okay, well, how about we write down your answers now.’

Jack briefly makes eye contact again. ‘Okay.’

‘If you had your laptop here, you could look up the answers as I type,’ I mumble, as I open the document with the questions in it.

‘I don’t need to look them up,’ Jack says. ‘I know the answers.’

I frown. ‘Really? Okay. Well, let’s start with the first question: what is DNA?’

Jack looks straight ahead, as though he’s reading something from a screen in the back of his mind. ‘DNA is the carrier of genetic information in the human body. It is what makes someone who they are, or something what it is. DNA is in pretty much in every living thing.’

‘Hang on,’ I say, typing madly on my keyboard. ‘Not so fast.’

‘But to be specific, DNA is an acronym for Deoxyribonucleic acid.’ 

I pause typing and look at Jack. 

‘What?’ Jack looks briefly at me as I stare at him in shock. ‘Do you want me to spell it for you?’

‘Okay. Sure. Just until it comes up in the predictive text.’

‘D.e.o.x.y.r.i.—‘ Jack looks at the computer screen. 

‘It hasn’t come up yet, I don’t think. Are any of these words it?’

Jack leans in closer to the screen. ‘No. B, o, Capital N, u.c.l.e.i.c. And then acid.’

I nod, then shake my head. What the heck was going on? ‘Did you, like, memorise Wikipedia or something?’ 

‘I’m interested in Biology. Especially Biology. I like all Science.’

‘I can see that,’ I say. ‘But you don’t do well on, like, tests and stuff, do you?’

He shakes his head. ‘How do you know that?’

I swallow hard, clasping my hands and resting them on the table in front of the laptop. ‘A friend may have hacked into the school computer system to look you and Latisha up for me.’ I look at Jack. ‘I know you got a D for Science on your last report.’

Jack tucks his chin down into his chest. ‘That was not a nice thing to do. That was an invasion of my privacy.’

‘I didn’t really know you, then. Sorry.’

Jack nods. I can see him frowning under his fringe. ‘Just because you didn’t know me doesn’t make it right. Even if you don’t know someone, you shouldn’t do things like that to them. It’s unfair. You should ask people to tell you, not steal their information.’

‘You’re right, Jack. I’m sorry.’

Jack nods again. He looks from the table to the ceiling and back to the table again. His breathing has gone weird.  ‘Jack, I really am sorry. Do you forgive me?’

Jack closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, I will forgive you. But I hope you won’t do anything like that again.’

I smile. ‘Okay, I promise. I can see it hurt you that I did it. I really am sorry.’

Jack nods and looks up at me for the briefest of moments. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it. ‘I mean what I say when I say things. I forgive you. You don’t need to apologise again once I have forgiven you.’

I chuckle. ‘Okay. Well, let’s keep going, then. What about the next question: Why do scientists call DNA a blueprint for someone’s characteristics?’

A little spark explodes in Jack’s eyes. ‘That’s a funny question that one, because they do call it a blueprint, and it sort of is but not just for someone, but for practically everything; it’s what tells flowers that they should open and close with the sun, and to have different shades of purple. It tells a seed that it should start growing upwards once the conditions are right.’

My fingers dance across the keyboard in an ungraceful flurry of activity. ‘Okay, but what about for people?’ 

‘Well, calling DNA a blueprint is kind of like an analogy because blueprints are what they use to build buildings, and DNA is what our bodies use to know the way it’s supposed to build everything about us. So it tells the body it is supposed to have two arms and two legs and green eyes, but it also tells your body to make it so you feel it when I put my hand on your arm.’ Jack’s hand lands softly on my arm, sending strange impulses all the way down to my hand and up into my shoulder. I look down at his hand, still resting on my arm, and look at Jack.

  ‘Jack,’ I say. His eyes meet with mine for a moment, but he then looks to the side, as though he’s looking at my cheek, or perhaps my ear. ‘You have your hand on my arm.’ 

Jack looks down, as though he isn’t aware he’s doing it. ‘I was making a point.’

‘Yeah, but your hand is still on my arm.’

Jack nods. ‘It is.’

I smile. ‘Jack, what do you think it means when a boy puts his hand on a girl’s arm?’

He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, some people would think that means he likes her. That he’s, kind of flirting, with her.’ Jack’s face bursts into a dark shade of red. He immediately withdraws his hand and begins rubbing his hands together under the table. 

‘Jack, can you look at me?’

Jack shakes his head.

‘Why not?’

‘I have trouble looking at your face.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I have trouble looking at anyone in the eyes because it sends my brain crazy with thinking of a thousand million things at once and I can’t concentrate on anything that’s being said to me.’ ‘And with me?’

Jack pauses, his eyes darting around the room. ‘I have trouble looking at you in your whole face, not just your eyes.’

‘Why?’

He looks up at the ceiling, his eyes fixated in one place. ‘Because,’ his eyes are darting around again, ‘when I look at your face all I can think about is how soft your skin looks and how you have such little ears and how pretty your eyes are and that makes me think about how it’s amazing that you even have green eyes because your mum doesn’t have green eyes and neither does your sister but I don’t know about your dad, but he must have blue eyes because green eyes are recessive to brown eyes which your mum has, but green eyes can be dominant over blue eyes and so your dad must have blue eyes so the recessive gene could come out in you.’

I laugh.  ‘My dad does have blue eyes.’

Jack begins rocking back and forth, nodding. ‘I thought he must have.’

The large clock on the library wall clicks over to 4:30pm. ‘Geeze, look at the time.’ I close my laptop. ‘It’s time to go. My sister will be here any minute.’

Jack nods. ‘I am going to walk home because I only live two blocks that way.’ He points out the window and down the road. Jack stands up and begins walking toward the library door. I rush to keep up with him. As I fall into step with him, I say, ‘It looks like it might rain.’

‘I hope it doesn’t. My laptop might get wet.’

‘What do you mean, your laptop?’ I ask.

‘My laptop is in my school bag. My school bag isn’t waterproof, so my laptop might get wet.’

‘Jack, where is your schoolbag now?’

Jack looks at me as though I’m crazy. ‘It’s just outside the library. You’re not allowed to bring your school bag into the library.’

I hope you enjoyed that little sneak peak :)

What do you think of my characters, Grace and Jack, so far?

Photo credit goes to me again. This is one of my favourite writing places: my backyard. And this is one of my favourite mugs, given to me by my middle daughter, and today it is sporting a complimentary sloth's butt filled with tea leaves. Cute-as, don't you think?

If you want to connect with Catriona on social media, you can do so here. And if you leave a comment here or on my FB page, I'll let you know where I got my sloth from. ;)

On how the teenage years are brutal

My first novel, The Boy in the Hoodie, officially launched into the world this past weekend.  In fact, today is its release day. It is officially available in shops from today. 

It’s been a long-term project for me.

I used to love writing. And reading. Then I went to Uni and suddenly reading and writing became all about the work, and I kind of lost my passion for it. Throw into the mix beginning to work as a teacher, and all the planning and marking that came with it, and the flame well and truly threw itself under the proverbial bus.

But then, about six years ago, the flame caught alight again. I began to write because I’d had some stuff happen to me in my adult life that I needed to deal with. And so, like Kat in The Boy in the Hoodie, I began to deal with some of my issues through the power of the written word. It helped me to process things I hadn’t processed properly from years previously, and heal, and recover. And best of all, I began helping others with similar experiences also confront their pasts through my writing. It was liberating. I was hooked. So was then born, The Boy in the Hoodie.

The Boy in the Hoodie is the first of my novels I’ve pursued publication with. And just as my first writings were very personal, so this project was personal for me. I was a sad, anxious and terribly self-doubting teenager. Trying to look back without prejudice, I realise others probably didn’t see me that way. But I was desperate to be loved and validated by the world.

I flittered from boyfriend to boyfriend because I loved that feeling of knowing that someone new thought I was pretty and fun to be with. I got myself into trouble a couple of times with boys who wanted a lot more than I was willing to give, and that damaged my innocence. I figured other girls didn’t like me much, probably because I was a terrible flirt. But also because I could be mean. I didn’t like myself, so being mean to others made me feel better. I wanted to be in the in-crowd, but I knew deep down I wasn’t that kind of girl. I wore the wrong jeans. I bought the wrong clothes. I had a mole on my face where big hairs would suddenly, like overnight, grow in the middle. My hair was completely unfashionable no matter what I tried to do to it. I had freckles across my nose and a relentless supply of pimples across my chin. I was cursed with a blotchy tan. I couldn’t relate to boys except through flirting, which they loved, but made my boyfriends wild, so I learned how to fight - and not necessarily in a good way. 

The teenage years are brutal. But that’s why I write YA. I want the world to know (or be reminded) just how difficult it is to be a teenager. To make the right choices. To grow up and yet still do what your parents tell you. To be confident. Being YA is tough. But it’s also doable. It’s survivable. The other side is achievable. 

Should you chose to read it, I hope The Boy in the Hoodie imparts some of that hope onto you. 

The Book launched at the annual Omega Writer's conference (this year in Sydney). At the conference was an amazing YA author from the US, Alex Marestaing, who inspired and encouraged me heaps. I have since found an interview he did not long before coming out to Australia to speak at the conference, so if you're interested, here's the interview:

Photo credit for this photo goes to moi! I am generally terrible at taking selfies, but am in training by my teen and tweenie daughters. It's not brilliant, I know. But, you know, I haven't had as much experience as they have, so really, they just need to be patient and not laugh so much at me. #parentingproblems #borntoosoon #stilllearning

Photo credit #2 goes to children's author Penny Morrison, whose photo I "borrowed" from Facebook, so if she ever sees this, I hope that is okay, Penny! The photo is of me speaking at the book launch, with Rochelle Manners, my publisher, and Emily Sweasey, one of the editors at Rhiza Press who spoke about the novel.

If you want to connect with Catriona, you can do so here This week on FaceBook Catriona is giving away a FREE copy of The Boy in the Hoodie - so head on over there if you're interested in entering into the fun.

On anxiety

Mental health is an issue that has been a part of my life since a loved family member of mine was diagnosed when I was about 18. Suicide attempts, decisions about moving in and out of psych wards, phone calls to psychologists and psychiatrists, all became somewhat “normal” for my parents. (Hmm... Perhaps normal is not the right word. Perhaps common would be better. I’m not sure mental illness ever really feels normal, even to the person experiencing it.] 

I must admit, I was pretty sheltered from most of it at that stage of my life. But I knew what was going on. I knew what shock therapy treatment was (after all, I’d watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest at school). I learned what a mental illness could do to a person, to a family.

From a short distance, I watched and hoped that things would get back to normal again one day. 

(Photo borrowed from: https://www.twenty20.com/photos/1ed2159b-862e-4d48-8e38-25c338f5b518)

But I think what resulted from those earlier experiences within my wider family, was that when it happened to me, I didn’t recognise it. I didn’t understand the depression and the anxiety I was experiencing was the same thing as what my loved one had. It didn’t look like how I thought it was supposed to look. It was years later, around the time I was preparing for the birth of my first child, that I realised that I’d suffered depression for the first few years of my marriage and was in danger of PND. So I started to look for the signs.

So why am I telling you about this? 

I think sometimes we think mental health issues will look a particular way. Maybe because, like me, you knew someone who had depression, or you’ve read some things on Pinterest, or read extensively a variety of articles; whatever your experience, it can mean we put mental health in a box. But it can look like so many different things to different people.

For example, I know a few people with BiPolar, and it looks completely different for all three people.

So when thinking about mental health, or if you meet someone with a mental health condition, stay open-minded.

And, if you’re concerned for yourself or someone you love, go to a doctor and talk to them. Just like you would with any other health issue, mental health can be treated and needs to be, the sooner the better. 

I'm not sure who took this photo of me and some of my work budd-ios at work on RUOK day. Someone else who works in my office, no doubt. Whoever you are, mystery person, thanks! I hope you're OK with a, somewhat partial, acknowledgement.

You can connect with Catriona via social media here.

Maybe, someone needs to know

It’s warm outside. And humid. The backyard is a bit of a mess after the storm we had yesterday - the joys of living in the tropics - but I still enjoy the view from inside my office, where a fan blows gently on my face and I’m relatively protected from the heat. 

(This photo is totally not of me. For a start, I don't even think I could get myself into a sitting position like this on a chair, let along stay there long enough to have the timer go off on my camera to take the photo. She looks cute though, hey, sitting there all authory-like in her chair? All the best to you, random photo girl from http://www.freeimages.com/).

I’m safe in here, in my house, where I’m a bit of a nobody. In here, I sit at my laptop with my hair thrown up onto the top of my head and no makeup on. I could still be in my PJs and no one would know, unless I told you. No one is aware that I do weird things, like drink green tea and put ginger in my juice and brew kombucha tea in the pantry just behind me. No one knows the thoughts in my head; the way I write paragraphs about people as I talk to them, or how story ideas run through my head as they tell me something weird that happened to them, or how being at the hairdressers reminds me of Effie Trinket from the Hunger Games, and I can’t help but think about how Suzanne Collins was probably sitting in the hairdressers one day when she came up with that beautiful supporting character and told us her story at her computer one day. But sorry, that’s why I didn’t quite catch what you said to me. 

No one knows, unless I tell them.

No one knows why I’m sad, if I am sad. No one knows why I am angry, if I am angry. No one knows why I am frightened, unless I let them in, into my world, and tell them.

Fear and sadness and anger are caused by different stuff that happens. Maybe my friend ignored me. Or said something unkind. Maybe my mum didn’t trust me, or caught me out in a lie, or yelled at me for using up all the data on my phone too quickly. Maybe my parents keep fighting, or my dad hurts my mum, or the uncle Mum thought we could trust, we couldn’t.

(photo from http://www.istockphoto.com/au)

No one will know if I keep it inside. No one will know why I cry when I cry or yell when I yell or run when I run. And maybe, that isn’t a good thing.

Maybe, someone needs to know. 

You can connect with Catriona via social media here.

On body image

So today I went to the hairdressers. I have to admit, although I love it while I’m there, I’m not a huge fan. I go, maybe twice a year. But every time I go, I remind myself that it's not so bad and that I really should make an effort to go more often.

(This isn't actually me at the hairdresser. My smile isn't that big - meaning I'm never that happy to be there - and as much as I go in with high hopes, my hair never comes out looking this good. My hairdresser is fabulous and all, but she's still human. I borrowed this photo from http://chelleybeanhair.com/ which looks like a nice hairdressing place in Brisbane, but they probably wouldn't drive all the way to the Fraser Coast just to do my hair.)

Let's face it. Going to the hairdressers can be:

* a little socially awkward as you have to chat to the hairdresser

* time-consuming - who has three hours to spend sitting in a chair watching a beautiful person fuss around behind you trying to make you as beautiful as you think she can make you?

* depressing - as fabulous as they may be at hairdressing, they suck at making tea/coffee

* and, like going to the dentist, at the end you never really know what you’re going to have to pay. 

Don’t get me wrong; I loved my hairdresser this year, and I kinda hope I remember her name to ask for her at my next appointment in a year's time. Her name is Candy (which I don’t think is her real name. The other hairdressers in the salon also have unusual names, like Bams, which makes me think they all have nicknames so the customers can remember them easier. Does anyone know if this is true?). Her ash-blond hair stopped just above her shoulders, except for the top of her head, where her hair was positioned like a whale spout, and it cascaded down over the rest of her head. It looked awesome. If I tried to wear my hearing like that, I’d look like a middle-aged-four-year -old and they’d tell me to go home and sleep it off. 

She also wore a tight short black skirt that hugged her (dare I say) large thighs. Candy had beautiful curves. A single black feather clung to the underside of her right arm and another tiny tattoo hid on her shoulder blade, only popping out every now and then for viewing. She didn’t over-wear her make up like some hairdressers do, either; you know, like they have to put a whole new face on top of the one they already have. And I wondered what it was about some people that they could wear these sorts of things, with confidence, when they weren’t a Size 8 and were only 22. 

The more experienced hairdresser in the salon also wore a frighteningly short black dress and had a colourful sleeve on her upper left arm. A few more years and I wondered if she’d start covering it up, as wrinkles were beginning to make the floral arrangement wilt. Somehow, her confidence was less interesting to me. Women of her age worry less and less what others around them think of their fashion and lifestyle choices. But for one so young - Candy - to bear such confidence, I was impressed. And perhaps a little jealous that I didn’t enjoy such luxury of spirit when I’d been her age. 

My conclusions from today’s pondering at the hairdressers? It’s not so much about how you look, as it is about how you feel about it. Candy was gorgeous. She looked it, because she felt it. So much of what you think about yourself comes out in the way you present yourself to the world. The more you’re happier in who you are, the more the world will see a beautiful and confident you - and love you for it. 

You can connect with Catriona on social media here.