Check out Lesley Curnow – appearing at the Hokianga Book Festival

Lesley Curnow is a novelist and short story writer, who lives and works in Kohukohu.

The following info is from Lesley’s website. 

Born in Hong Kong, her family emigrated to New Zealand when she was eight. She was brought up in Whangarei.

In 2001 she moved to the Hokianga to study writing with Janine Mcveigh and fell in love with the harbour and its people.

In 2010 she launched her novel “Things We Can’t Untie” A story of the Hokianga, at the Geddes Gallery.

She and her husband, Peter, live in the village and apart from trips to visit family across the world plan to grow old here!

To contact Lesley send her an lesley.curnow@gmail.com or visit her website.

thingswecantuntieThings We Can’t Untie

What do you do when your world collapses−when the people you love fail you?

Catherine Jennings arrives in a remote New Zealand village hoping to start a new life. But she drags the past with her, plunging Chris, and his wife Anna, into a nightmare of old secrets and sudden death.

Both women must unravel their turbulent past before they can turn and face the future.

Things We Can’t Untie is a haunting, mysterious book that is difficult to put down.

The Novel has been well reviewed by readers on Amazon.com, gaining a four and a half star rating from thirty-three reviews.

downinginlightseasDrowning in Light Seas

It is New Year’s Eve and Leah’s Life is falling apart. Her husband, Max, is having multiple affairs and expects her to look the other way. When she confronts him, he leaves her.

Alone and grief stricken, she stumbles into an online fantasy world where people seem fascinating and sympathetic. Her increasing addiction to this world sends her life spiralling out of control.

Then the threats begin …

Why is her apartment trashed?
Who is her cyber stalker?

And is the online world any safer than the reality she is running from?

Drowning in Light Seas is a fast-paced, tense novel, which explores the many dimensions of online relationships – openness, trust, friendship, sexuality, power – and how they can affect your life.

Get your copy

kindleLesley’s books are available online from Amazon.  The Kindle version of Things We Can’t Untie can be downloaded from the Amazon website  for a modest 80 cents (US) and Drowning in Light Seas can also be downloaded from the Amazon website for about the same price.  If you don’t have a Kindle ebook reader, there is a free app for just about devices which can be downloaded here.

These links will also take you to the print versions of both novels.

kindle

Get your copy of Things We Can’t Untie at:

Amazon Kindle

Amazon Kindle UK

Smashwords.com

Deisel ebooks

Print Versions

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Kerikeri Creative Writing workshop -From Inspiration To Publication

Biz Space, 3 Cobham Rd, Kerikeri, Bay of Islands

Saturday 29 September 2018 10:00am – 3:00pm

Tickets: $45.00 Buy Tickets – 0212990984

https://www.eventfinda.co.nz/2018/creative-writing-workshop-from-inspiration-to-publication/bay-of-islands

From Inspiration To Publication – Fiction Writing Crash Course.

Delivered by writer Michael Botur.

10am-3pm with two 25 minute breaks.
Cost – $45, including writing feedback before and after the workshop.

On Saturday September 29 Northland indie author Michael Botur will be delivering a down-to-earth workshop on fiction writing.

The workshop looks at how to get fiction writing completed and self-published, in particular looking at the workflow required to get a story polished on the page so you can be confident publishing the work in a literary magazine or online.

The workshop covers voice, character, prose and editing. Botur says the bigger theme of the day is understanding that words on the page are just the start, and reaching an audience these days is about capturing inspiration, checking that the words are good enough to publish, then sharing it with the world online.

“Things move so quickly in the writing world that publication options which made sense ten years ago may not be relevant anymore in 2018 – however, the fundamentals of how to get difficult pieces of writing completed remain the same. So I’ll be offering realistic advice about how to make the most of those hours in front of the computer screen.”

“We’ll also look at the workflow required to get a piece of writing to perfection, then get it read by an audience online.”

Whangarei-based Botur is author of several acclaimed short story collections and young adult novel ‘Moneyland’ which has gained a cult following on the world’s largest publishing platform for teenagers, Wattpad – a site which has 65 million unique visitors per month. Botur will teach how to put writing straight in the hands of the audience.

The workshop will include an introduction to online publishing platforms Medium.com, Smashwords, Createspace, Wattpad, Bookfunnel and Goodreads.

Registration is essential – please RSVP to Mike@michaelboturwriter.com.
Cost is $45+GST for the day – RSVP by email and Mike will invoice you.

Mike will contact you to ask for details about your level of writing experience, and give you some feedback on your writing before and after the workshop.

Check out Mike’s gallery of writing and publication at https://nzshortstories.com/

Kerikeri workshop poster Creative writing workshop Michael Botur From Inspiration to Publication-page-001

Dargaville workshop – Creative Writing: – From Inspiration to Publication

Dargaville Town Hall, 37 Hokianga Rd, Dargaville, Kaipara

Saturday 6 October 2018 10:00am – 3:00pm

From Inspiration To Publication – Fiction Writing Crash Course.

Delivered by writer: Michael Botur

10am-3pm with two 25 minute breaks.

Cost – $45 + writing feedback before and after the workshop. For ages 15 and up. 
RSVP by emailing – mike@michaelboturwriter.com.

On Saturday October 6 Northland indie author Michael Botur will be delivering a down-to-earth workshop on fiction writing.

The workshop looks at how to get fiction writing completed and self-published, in particular looking at the workflow required to get a story polished on the page so you as an author can be confident publishing the work in a literary magazine or online.

The workshop covers voice, character, prose and editing. Botur says the bigger theme of the day is understanding that words on the page are just the start, and reaching an audience these days is about capturing inspiration, checking that the words are good enough to publish, then sharing it with the world online.

“Things move so quickly in the writing world that publication options which made sense ten years ago may not be relevant anymore in 2018 – however, the fundamentals of how to get difficult pieces of writing completed remain the same. So I’ll be offering realistic advice about how to make the most of those hours in front of the computer screen.”

“We’ll also look at the workflow required to get a piece of writing to perfection, then get it read by an audience online.”

Whangarei-based Botur is author of several acclaimed short story collections and young adult novel ‘Moneyland’ which has gained a cult following on the world’s largest publishing platform for teenagers, Wattpad – a site which has 65 million unique visitors per month. Botur will teach how to put writing straight in the hands of the audience.

The workshop will include an introduction to online publishing platforms Medium.com, Smashwords, Createspace, Wattpad, Bookfunnel and Goodreads.

Registration is essential – please RSVP to Mike@michaelboturwriter.com. 
Cost is $45+GST for the day – RSVP by email and Mike will invoice you.

Mike will contact you to ask for details about your level of writing experience, and give you some feedback on your writing to focus on for the day.

Check out Mike’s gallery of writing and publication at https://nzshortstories.com/

Dargaville workshop poster Creative writing workshop Michael Botur From Inspiration to Publication-page-001

 

 

 

Support Mike’s New Short Story Book – Give A Little

Support a Northland short story writer – earn yourself a book and a mention. 

Yo! Mike the Writer here.

I give plenty to the Northland creative arts community, putting on poetry shows, creative writing workshops and improvisation theatre fundraisers. TRUE COVER cleaned up by Sars

Now I’m wondering if you can support me to keep literature alive in Northland. I’m asking for help to pay for the printing of one of the best short story collections you’ll ever read, at just ten bucks per book.

The GiveALittle fundraiser is here:

https://givealittle.co.nz/cause/support-a-northland-author-one-book-at-a-time

TRUE? is a brand new collection of sixteen short stories. They’re tales of people working through shame to make their lives better, set in the milieu of Kiwi millennials. I’m one of the few people out there giving up hours each month to capture realistic stories of straight-up true blue Kiwis you’ll recognise. Previous book reviews have said I’m apparently one of the most original short story writers of my generation (Takahe #86) and my last short story set was a “remarkably satisfying collection” (North & South January 2018).

So can you support me to raise $1000 to get this bad boy printed? The goal is pretty modest. Put in ten bucks and you get a presale book, AND you get thanked in the acknowledgements.

Copies which aren’t pre-sold can be given to younger Northland writers to inspire them to write fiction.

 

What to expect when you’re expecting a copy of TRUE? short stories:

– 216x140mm printed book with 350gsm silk art cover and 90gsm white offset pages printed at JOP in Whangarei

304 page book. Cover = gloss laminated

COST: $920 ex GST, or $9.20 per book.

 

Love and thanks

Mike Botur

 

 

‘11.42’ by Jo Danilo – a taste from the new book

11:42

by Jo Danilo

Coming December 2018
One boy, one girl, one road, one long night, one long nightmare…
When a girl waiting outside the nightclub on Baker Street asks Noah to help her get home, he reluctantly agrees. He has no idea that she, Baker Street, and this one dark night, will be his whole world for a very long time. 
Category: Paranormal Romance
**
Jo profile
Jo is author of ‘The Blackwood Crusade’, ‘The Curtain Twitcher’s Handbook’ and ‘11:42‘. 
 
Jo writes stories for children, young adults and older young adults. Though she is essentially a Yorkshire lass, she now lives in the Far North of New Zealand – decidedly more tropical than the north of England – with her husband, two sons and several furry creatures. She likes nothing better than a whole, uninterrupted day of writing, which she generally gets on her birthday. Hurray for birthdays!
 
Her next book, ‘Foxfires’, is about a World War II pilot who crashes his plane on desolate, snowy moorland. He is rescued by just the wrong sort of people – a family bound to their lonely farmhouse for centuries by an age-old curse they have never been able to break. Until now.
 
**

Prologue to ‘11:42’ by Jo Danilo

 

NOW

. . .

She sits beside me on the sofa, close but not quite touching. Her clenched hand rests on her knee, inches from my own. I daren’t reach for it because I know she’ll flinch. The lights from the TV illuminate her face and flash like fireworks in the darkness of her eyes, reminding me of another place, different lights. I lean back so I can watch her without her knowing.

We’ve only been officially seeing each other for a few weeks and I’m trying my best to act cool about it. It’s incredibly difficult. She sets off explosive charges inside me with just one look. My heart is constantly stuck in my throat. Every rare smile I win from her is a small victory.

She’s still cautious in my company. When we kiss she’s always the first to pull away. She guards herself to the point of coldness. Understandable after what happened to her. Excruciating after what happened to me.

“I don’t want to watch this anymore,” she says, turning her face to mine.

On the flickering screen, a woman walks alone down a street full of shadows. I swear under my breath, and reach for the remote. There’s no point looking for anything else, so I turn the whole thing off.

Maybe this is my cue. Maybe it’s time to tell her. My parents are out with their friends. My brother is at his girlfriend’s tonight. We have three or four hours of being completely alone. It might just be long enough.

Before I have chance to think up a billion reasons not to do what I’m about to do, I drop the remote and reach for her hand. She flinches, as I knew she would, and I quickly claim her other hand too, before she can pull away.

I need her full attention for this, and I have it.

“Noah…” She tugs back and wriggles her fingers, but I’m not letting go. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to try to explain something to you, and it’s going to take a very long time. And you’re going to think I’m crazy. You’re going to want to leave. But I need you to listen right until the end.”

“You’re scaring me.”

But I bet I’m way more scared. If she doesn’t believe me, I’ll lose her, and I can’t bear the thought of that. If she does believe me, I have no idea where it will take us. It’s a gamble I’m willing to take because I can’t keep this secret to myself any longer. I thought I could, but it’s too big and too difficult for me to contain.

And I can’t tell it to anyone but her.

“Remember that night…,” I say.

Immediately, she knows which night I mean. Her pupils enlarge with fear. “I don’t want to.”

This is not going to be easy.

“Listen…”

Short story ‘Almost Christmas’ by Hannah-May Lee

Almost Christmas

by Hannah May Lee

Sally could hear the whine of the chainsaw in the distance and relaxed a little. It meant he was busy, which was good. She’d run up into the hills after another one of their fights. After windrowing trees with him all morning he’d asked her to set the table for lunch and she’d dared ask him why he couldn’t do it himself – so he’d thrown the cutlery at her. Seemed like a good time to run and hunker down for a bit. There were heavier things than knives and forks at home.

Her cool, damp sand surrounds were like the comfort of the womb. She’d crafted this bunker herself. Being close to the ocean, this farm was built on sand. Easy to break open, easy to mould into something private and perfect and yours. On the other farms she’d built huts above ground; impermanent structures from bits of four-by-two that toppled in strong winds, bivouacs built with specially selected branches and leaves, teepees encircling spindly trees. Once she’d sewn the old grain sacks together with baling twine to form a roof. Waterproof so she could keep some stuff there. Just in case.

But this hut was underground. Dug into the soft sand, firmer and more stable deeper down. Dug deep, so deep that standing on tiptoes she could just peer over the top. It was large enough she could lie flat on the floor at any angle without touching the walls. She’d built in some steps for easier access, reinforced with pine bark found in the neighbouring forestry. She’d pilfered bits of wool from the shed after the shearers went home – it made for excellent flooring. Over time her footsteps had felted it into a warm, dry, grubby carpet. And the smell of lanolin held memories of an easier time – Sally playing Mummy to Rosie the lamb. This always made her smile.

She’d used grain sacks as roofing again but this time had the foresight to stitch them into the undersides of surrounding ferns and bracken. She kept a blanket, her pocket knife, a hexi cooker, matches, some scroggin, a pen, a notebook and a battered copy of Wild Pork and Watercress stashed under a small tarp. She also had about forty dollars she’d made from various farm jobs stashed inside one of the beanies Mum had knitted her. She made sure she still had enough to buy a bag of lollies when they headed into town so he didn’t get suspicious. Sally had been a really good Brownie – the Camping and Adventure badges were just two of dozens that cluttered her old sash. She was always prepared.

It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes he was actually a pretty good Dad. Sometimes he explained what was happening in politics and taught her the ins and outs of 500 and let her have more than just a sip of his beer. During a really good patch he’d even taught Sally how to use his .22. And she turned out to be pretty good at it, so he wasn’t a bad teacher. Occasionally he even managed to make her mother smile. But coming up Christmas, this all disappeared. She didn’t know why. Maybe something bad had happened when he was a kid. Or maybe it was the prospect of Christmas – thinking of his estranged family and trying to scrape together money that they seemed to never have. She wasn’t sure. But she knew that every December from start to finish would be tough. But this year would be better. Because she had built somewhere to weather the storm.

She folded the blanket, sat down cross-legged and reached out for her notebook to start writing. She often hatched her best story ideas out here. Then she paused. Something had changed.

The roar of the chainsaw was gone. All she could hear was the orchestra of cicadas and crickets and the crashing of waves in the distance. Usually when the chainsaw started it meant he would be at it for at least an hour – chopping wood was like Dad’s version of therapy. It hadn’t even been 20 minutes yet. Something must have happened.

Sally wasn’t sure if she should stay put or sneak back to the house. When he was in this sort of mood anyone could cop it. Mum could cop it. And he was always worse with her. Maybe he considered her a more worthy adversary than a 12-year-old girl. Which was total bull. She stood up for herself way more than Mum ever had. Mum’s skills lay in taking a good smack in silence and lying low afterwards. Even when he hit her hard enough to burst her eardrum. Even when he pushed her down the stairs on their 10th wedding anniversary and her collarbone audibly snapped. She’d barely even whimpered.

Sally pitied Mum. She loathed her weakness in the face of the tornado that was her father. She swore she’d never be like her – she didn’t think she could be, Sally could never manage to keep her mouth shut. But Mum was all she had really. She was the only person Sally knew that understood this life. So many times she’d tried to push the words from her mouth to tell someone – anyone – what it was like to be in her family. So many times she’d failed. Nothing spoken could ever be enough to make anyone truly understand.

And Mum was not a bad person. Sure, she was weak but she was also kind. She did her best to bring a little sunshine into their lives. A fresh batch of extra cheesy scones, a new embroidery stitch for Sally to master, fairy-tales of growing up in the suburbs and that time Grandma saw the Queen and fainted. Sally just wished Mum could see that they could live that fairy tale if they wanted. All Mum had to do was call Aunty Steph to come get them one day when dad was out hunting with his mates. A phone call could be their fairy godmother. One phone call.

But Sally knew she would never make that call. Mum was so beaten down she probably couldn’t imagine a life outside, much less organise her own break to freedom. She was trapped. And right now, the prison guard was probably pacing the cells looking for some action. And even though she struggled to relate to her mother, Sally didn’t like to see her get hurt. Especially on account of her own defiance. She took a deep breath and climbed the steps to the world above.

She could smell petrol fumes and smoke on the air. This meant it hadn’t been long since Dad had turned off the chainsaw which was good. It meant she probably had time to get back to the house before anything really bad could happen. She moved quickly through the bracken on the hills, keeping low. It was possible she’d got things wrong – it might be her he was after. And he was much more practiced at stalking than she was. He could be closer than she thought.

With this in mind she took the less predictable path home, avoiding the outcrop overlooking the homestead. If he were waiting for her, that’s the place he’d most likely be. Instead, she took the path down through the gully, approaching the heifers slowly so they didn’t startle and give her away. Sally was glad she’d worn her gummies. Even at this time of year the gully was always boggy. The cows carved divots into the earth moving over the same pathways every day, which made for spots on the farm like this one.

It wasn’t long before, mud speckled, Sally emerged from the small stand of pines to the north-west of the house. From here, she could easily get to the barn. Other than the ute, there was no sign of Dad here. She was secretly a bit disappointed. She knew it was a long shot but she had hoped he might have driven up to the Godfreys’ place for a couple of beers. Sometimes that’s what he did when he got in this sort of a mood. Not this time though. Maybe he was still out tracking her and Mum was in the kitchen. Maybe.

It was the most likely explanation for the peace in what was usually a busy back yard, so not a bad bet. Still it made sense to move carefully. Sally figured the safest way to get into the house to check on Mum was in the back way, through the barn. It was also the quietest way. Because Dad liked being able to sneak up on them both the hinges and lock mechanism were regularly doused in WD-40. After a few tries he’d worked out this didn’t work as well on the ranchslider at the front. Quickly and quietly, Sally moved through the barn.

She pressed her ear up against the back door hoping to hear something. But there was no clanging of dishes being washed, no radio on, no obvious hint as to what had gone on in her absence. Sally had a feeling that Mum was there though – she just didn’t know where exactly, or what state she might be in. She slipped off her gummies and left them beside the back door. It was a clear sign to Dad that she was home, but it was much easier to sneak through houses barefoot than in gummies and by the time he’d realised she was back it wouldn’t matter. She took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle.

Adeptly avoiding the edge of the floor mat, Sally stepped soundlessly into the hallway. Everything in the house seemed eerily as she’d left it. Her bedroom door was still ajar at the same angle she always left it at. Her parents’ bedroom door was still closed. The toilet door, wide open. Cautiously, she made her way down the hall toward the living room.

This was also empty, and after several steps forward she could see that the kitchen was too. Sally was puzzled. She wasn’t really sure what to do besides checking the house room by room. But then a flash of movement outside caught her eye. She ran toward the ranchslider and peered through the glass. A hand. She was sure she could see a hand flailing in the grass behind the quad. A small and pale hand. Mum’s hand.

Sally yanked the ranchslider open. The sound wouldn’t matter now, if he was there he’d catch up with her soon anyway. Besides which, it didn’t matter. Things had changed. She was used to coming home and finding things weren’t right, but this was different. This felt different. Time had stopped. She raced toward the quad bike yelling “Mum! Mum?” as she went. But heard no reply. “MUM!” She yelled.  When she got to the quad bike she stopped in her tracks.

Dad was straddling Mum with his hands around her throat. Her face was a mottled purplish colour. Her blue eyes bulged out of their sockets. Her mouth stretched open. “Dad! DAD!” She thought her voice might snap him out of it, but her presence seemed, if anything, to egg him on. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of Mum’s throat. He was going to kill her. But her flapping hands indicated she was still somehow there. Sally sped toward them and tried to pull him off.

He did not budge. She tried again. Solid as a rock, he pushed his left hand into her face, strong enough to rock her off. She bit him on the ear, thinking surely this would move him. This time he slapped her so hard she saw stars and fell away.

Looking awkwardly up from the ground, she spotted it. Dad’s .308 was leaned up against the back of the trailer behind the quad. Instinctively, Sally grabbed it. She’d never held Dad’s rifle before. It was heavier than the .22 but cool and somehow soothing in her hands. It was solid – something to ground her in this break in time. “Dad,” she said with authority. “You need to let Mum go or I’ll shoot.” He grinned, hardly distracted from his task. “I mean it Dad, I will pull this trigger. You need to get off her now”.

Nothing. Mum’s hand was hanging limply.

Adrenaline aided her in hefting the rifle up into the snug of her shoulder. “Dad. This is your last warning. You need to let go of Mum and walk away or I’ll shoot.” Through tears, she slid back the safety. She pulled back the bolt and checked it – unsurprisingly, given the circumstances, it was loaded. She closed the bolt. She wished she had more time to talk him down, but it was too heavy to hold steady for much longer. Sally thought back to Dad’s lessons with the .22 down the back of the farm. She remembered what he’d taught her. Sally took a deep breath in then slowly released it out and focused her shot. She thought maybe Mum could live that fairy tale after all. Sally pulled the trigger.

**

Hannah-May Lee hails from West Auckland and juggles many roles and interests. Although a long-time lover of the genre, she is new to writing short fiction. Her poetry has previously appeared in publications including Potroast, Live Lines and Blackmail Press.

‘I view writing as a gateway to other experiences, granting readers access to places, people and situations they may otherwise never encounter’

This story first appeared in takahē 93, August 2018

Northland’s only short story competition – entries close July 31 2018. Eeep!

National Short Story Competition Run by Northland Branch, NZSA (PEN Inc) – entries close Tuesday July 31.

PRIZES:

  • First prize –  $300 plus publication on the NorthWrite website
  • Second prize – Edit of a 3000 word short story.
  • Third prize –    $50 Book Token.

To be judged by DIANA MENEFY & JUSTINE PAYEN

RULES:

Emailed entries only.

Entry fee $15 (gst inc.) per story.

Word limit 1500 words.

Only previously unpublished work will be considered.

HOW TO ENTER

Email your anonymous entry to northlandauthors@gmail.com

Your name, address, title and contact telephone number to be put in the body of an email with your story attached as an rtf or docx file only. Please do not include your name on your story since entries will be judged anonymously.

Any story not in an rtf or docx format or with your name on will be disqualified. Standard manuscript presentation conventions apply (1.5 spacing, 12 font, indented paragraphs etc.)

Pay $15 per story entry fee to bank account: ANZ 06 0493 0251640 00

Code SSComp.

Reference: First & Last Name.

The winners will be announced on 1st September.

Keep Your Mental Health Up Over Winter

By Michael Botur

Winter worsens our mental health for lots of reasons – there’s no daylight after work, it’s challenging to do washing or exercise, and Winston Peters is Acting Prime Minister. There are a few simple and shame-free instructions you can follow, though, to get your moods in a good place, and it all starts with owning your moods.

Be like my liberal pinko friends and use phrases like “I’m anxious” or “I’m worried” or “Recently I’ve been unhappy… .”

Don’t tell people to “Swallow some concrete pills” or “Sack it up.” Instead, try saying these sorts of things to people you care about:

  • Tell me how you feel about that.
  • Are you eating and exercising right?
  • I’m here to listen whenever you want to share.

If you are having low moods every day, phoning Lifeline is a good start and may lead to your doctor helping out (phone 0800LIFELINE or text ‘Help’ to 4357).

And now, some winter mood-lifting advice for you:

 

Cross That River

You won’t find spiritual satisfaction by binge-watching Lightbox. Instead, doing something as simple as walking a loop of a cul-de-sac you’ve never been down will help you feel happy. In the words of Anthony Bourdain, who emerged from a druggy kitchen in his 40s then completely revolutionised his life, “If I am an advocate for anything, it is to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river.”

 

Have muddy mini-adventures.

In healthy doses, risky activities can stimulate brain function and relationships or reduce symptoms of depression. You should find going into the wilderness and getting wet and muddy is wholesome, cheap, and replenishing. I personally go hiking and mountain-biking. There is even an entire therapeutic specialty around this: Adventure Therapy.

 

Don’t dwell online (unless you’re on Depression.org.nz)

Reading vicious whiny hipster rants on The Spinoff may seem like therapeutic problem-sharing, but sitting alone in one place staring at a bright screen late into the night is bad for your sleep, and bad sleep means bad moods. Piles of evidence tells us that face-to-face human contact is better for keeping depression away than lurking online. Find someone today to share a cuppa.

 

Depression isn’t just a bad day

Head to TheLowDown.co.nz or Depression.org.nz. Both websites offer checklists helping you distinguish the fleeting disgruntlement of having your short story rejected by Landfall from clinical depression which requires a medical intervention.

 

Walking around the block isn’t dorky

Kids and teens think walking is wack and driving is dope. They’ve got it all backwards, though: walk around the block and you’ll feel less anxious about your neighbourhood, your brain will release delightful hormones, your blood pressure will ease, and you’ll receive mental stimulation including ideas for excellent NZMEcolumns.

Wild Side Publishing: Big Success in Little Ruawai

Wild Side Publishing has amassed a catalogue of over forty titles – pretty impressive for a publisher run out of Ruawai while Auckland and Wellington book companies are struggling. 

Specialising in e-books and NZ Christian genre titles, Wild Side Publishing is operated by Ray and Janet Curle. Janet – under her Janet Balcombe name – did well with The Wild Side when it was released in 2016 and became a finalist in the Ashton Wylie book awards. 

Ray Curle with Janet
Ray and Janet Curle

Janet’s story revolves around conquering “a feral meth addiction” in another life, which included kidnapping.
Janet says she didn’t know she was a writer until 2014 when what was then entitled Take a Walk on the Wild Side was published.

Janet also headed the 2017 collection Radical Lives Vol 1, a collection of true stories, with Vol 2 soon to be released. 

Check out Wild Side’s impressive catalogue here. 

Get in touch with Janet –  janet@thewildside.net .

radical-lives-vol-i Janet Balcombe the wild side