Christabelle Grant Author

New Zealand

"Books are always a good idea."

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Live a life in yellow.

  • “Pass the Matches”

    I was 12 years old the first time I heard the phrase “feminism.””

    The boy sitting opposite me in class, with a tablespoon of snot coming out of his nose sniggered as he said to the boy beside him “She’s a feminist.”

    I remember the feeling distinctly and I remember that he thought, in using that phrase, he was putting me down. I remember staring him straight in the eyes (just above the snot) and thinking what a piece of sh*t.

    Because weirdly in the past 15 years, a lot has changed in that time and a lot hasn’t.

    As women we have been knocking down walls and smashing through ceilings- since the very beginning.

    Intelligent women were called witches and burned at the stake. Men have stolen our ideas and lifetimes of work- and called them their own. We’ve been oppressed, shut out of universities and been unable to own our own homes or make choices in our own lives.

    Up until recent history we have also been in unpaid labour, in unsafe homes, with unsafe men.

    In 1983 Aotearoa New Zealand we became the first governing country in the world to grant women the right to vote in parliamentary elections.

    Only 133 years ago.

    And it was only in the 1870’s that women were “allowed” to start enrolling in universities to gain a higher education.

    No wonder we were pissed.

    So whilst today 8th March 2026 on International Women’s Day a lot has changed- as I said earlier- a lot hasn’t.

    I come from a long line of strong, independent women and thankfully in my family, gaining a higher education, owning my own home and being in control of my own life- was not only an option, it was the only option.

    And whilst that is my reality, I am aware there are others out there who still feel that feminism is associated with snot and do not like to attach themselves to it.

    These attitudes are flung around daily, with people making statements such as ” I hate the women who burned bras, why did they have to do that? I want to stay at home and not work.”

    And honestly, most of the time- I look at them in sadness.

    Do you want to live in an unsafe home?

    Do you want to live your life with a man’s boot on your neck?

    Do you want your potential to have been squashed before you were even born?

    Do you want to be chained to the ground, quite literally, in every aspect of your life?

    Or do you want to stay home and watch Netflix?

    If that is what you meant when you said you don’t want to work- then say that. Say “I’d like to spend more time watching t.v. I want to see my friends more. I’d love to travel. I’d love to have enough money to not work again.”

    Be specific with what you want in your life.

    Say what you mean- keep the boot off your own mouth.

    Feminism is about equality. Equal rights, equal choices- and ultimately living in a safe world.

    So to those who still think it’s funny to dis all the women who created positive change for all of us and burned those damned bras- I say this once- louder for those at the back

    – pass the matches.

    Christabelle Grant 8th March 2026

    International Women’s Day

  • The Little Red Hen

    On my very first week of Primary School, we had “Book Week” where students were encouraged to dress as their favourite book character, and parade around the school, waving madly as if our lives depended on it.

    Now I went to school not when I was five, yet at the seasoned age of six, bowl cut at the ready, chubby cheeks bursting at the seams.

    Let’s keep in mind the year was 1995 and the obvious choice for a little girl at that time was to be a little princess with a tiara wobbling dubiously on the top of one’s head.

    I on the other hand, had a mind of my own (clearly) and so instead I decided with triumph that I would go as The Little Red Hen.

    Now the Little Red Hen, was quite that- a Hen and I was in fact, not a hen (just yet).

    The night before the Big Event, my Dad- a maths teacher by trade- sat on a wooden chair by the fire place, and painstakingly made a yellow beak out of cardboard, and threaded elastic in between holes on either side, tied together in small knots.

    Come morning, with my beak firmly attached to my face, and Mum’s apron tucked in around my middle, I tottled off to school, and waved like mad in that parade.

    Now, something I forgot to mention is that on this winter’s day, I had a particularly runny nose, which over time, despite my constant snivelling caused the bottom part of the yellow beak to become soggy, ensuring that the beak slid further and further off my nose, to the point where half of my costume was predominantly snot- and not the discrete kind either.

    So whilst a Princess may have been the obvious choice for others, The Little Red Hen was the only choice for me- and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    The (Big) Little Red Hen.

  • “Science Experiments”

    I never was good at Science.

    Physics was merely a bunch of strange hypothetical questions about trains going odd speeds to get to a location nobody cared about.

    I didn’t care then and I certainly don’t care now.

    But there was a time, that I did care about science.

    It was relatively short lived however I’ll take it none the less.

    When I was a child, my sweet tooth led the way and was the basis of a lot of my decision making.

    As kids, we ate for the most part a very healthy diet with lots of fruit and vegetables- including yes, the disgusting brussel sprout, or as my Brownies used to call them “Mini cabbages of death.”

    We did baking every week with mum, and always, always got to lick the spoon, however, I decided I needed access to more sweet things in my life, and thus, I declared my need to make “Science Experiments.”

    Now you may be wondering where I might get a train from, alas, the science experiments I had in mind did not involve a train, or an unknown destination.

    My science experiments only needed an empty egg carton and a series of baking ingredients from the pantry.

    One cardboard egg holder would hold brown sugar, the next white sugar, coconut, chocolate chips… you get the picture.

    Everything sweet in one egg carton, in which I would then “mix” ingredients together to get the best combination.

    These “Science Experiments” were a big part of my childhood and would keep me entertained for hours on end- much to my parents amusement.

    So whilst Physics and I were quite literally never on the same page, my own “Science Experiments” always were.

    Once a sweet tooth, always a sweet tooth, and no-one, I mean no one, can take that egg carton away from me.

    23.10.2025

  • ” I am NOT a delectable Panda”

    Everyone starts somewhere.

    For me, I started young, with the books that is, and soon after ,with words.

    For the past quarter of a century I have been obsessed with words, stories, poetry and the way words can make you feel.

    My journey to being a published author has been a long one, weaving in and out of the ups and downs of life.

    Recently I had my first book launch and I’ve been on cloud nine ever since.

    On my journey to date, I have spent hundreds of hours in libraries. I have researched, taken out books on writing, and learned of all the many ways one can become a writer, and how writing can change every part of your life.

    One book I got out was titled “Social Media for Writers” by Tee Morris and Pip Ballantine. I read this book cover to cover in a matter of days and several mugs of peach and pineapple tea.

    One of the tips was to create a blog, to start writing, continue writing and build your own community.

    I started this blog just one month ago, with the vision to connect with more writers and share our passion for words and supporting each other with our dreams.

    I recently checked my subscribers, of which I had four.

    One was myself, another my mother, the third, a fake account (also my mother) called “Delectable Panda” and lastly, one from Mohammed. I do not know a Mohammed.

    Last night I hit my mum up about the fake account and she goes ” Who me?! I am not a delectable panda! I haven’t created a fake account, I don’t know how!”

    I laughed until l I was wheezing, alongside my Dad, as Mum’s eyes popped out of her head, her sleuth alley cat nature on the internet uncovered. She (and we) had no idea how she had managed to both create a fake account, and also simultaneously not know how she had done so.

    To be supported twice by your own mother, and to have her make up 50% of your subscribers really is a moment to remember.

    Delectable Panda even though you are a fake account, you are real to me.

    Here’s to our mum’s supporting us from the sidelines, the dark side of the internet and most importantly, for supporting us from the very beginning.

  • “Between the pine trees and the beach”

    The waves were there before we were, lapping the shore of Rarangi Beach.

    The Community Hall was opened and the wooden seats were carried one by one over the stones to a clearing beneath the trees, lectern front and centre.

    High vis vests were worn, as the cars were directed left and right to park, people piling out.

    And as the people came, there was smiles and laughter and well wishers all around.

    9th August 2025, the day of my very first book launch for “Orchestra Class.”

    My friend and Illustrator Debbie Godsiff arrived, with her daughter Freja and partner in tow.

    Person after person walked over the rocks and made their way to a seat, where they chatted amongst themselves.

    The Mayor popped out of a car, and joined in on the fun too.

    Everything was still and everything was perfect.

    My Mum got up to welcome the community of people that had gathered to celebrate this day.

    I got up, and hobbled over the stones and pine cones to the clear lectern that stood proudly beneath the trees.

    My gold dress and moon boot were quite the pair and as I stood there and told my story, I couldn’t believe that we were finally here.

    Becoming a published author had always been a dream of mine since I was 4 years old. It was all I knew I wanted to be.

    A day to remember, a day between the pine trees and the beach.

  • That witch in the damn cherry tree

    When I was a kid, a new book hit the shelves at the local small town library.

    “The witch in the cherry tree” by Margaret Mahy, a well known New Zealand author, flew off the shelves and straight into my little hands.

    I was obsessed with witches and this one in particular, took my fancy.

    The story goes that a young a young boy was baking with his mum on a rainy day, when out of the blew (or out of the sky) a witch appeared in the cherry tree- watching them both and devouring only one of the best scents in the world- that of home made baking.

    The young boy ended up giving the witch a taste of his baking- which was all burnt- and coincidently, the witches favourite.

    Now, at this point in my life, I did an awful lot of baking with my own mum alongside my brother and sister, with my favourite part being licking the spoon after the butter and sugar had been creamed together.

    There really is no taste like it.

    However, I was of course, very wary of the fact that each and every act of baking, could bring on an un-invited visit from a witch in the garden.

    Now one might say that that was illogical, but given the fact that I had read about this very thing in a book and was highly aware of my surroundings- including the every looming cheer tree in the backyard, I was not and I repeat WAS NOT going to have the wool pulled over my eyes- not then, not now, not ever.

    As I baked, I scanned the garden. Watching, waiting, for that damn witch to make an appearance.

    Oddly, she never did.

    Now perhaps that may be due to the fact that she didn’t like the particular cherry tree in the garden, or perhaps it was due to the fact that I never burned my baking (just the way that witch liked it) we will never know.

    What I do know is that books, both big and small, have huge influence over our imagination, especially as children and can prepare us for situations (ahem) that may or may not take place in our lives.

    That damn witch in the cherry tree- she had me then, she has me now- and I for one, won’t let my baking burn- and I bet after this blog post, you won’t either.

  • It started with words, as it always does.

    When I was a kid, I was surrounded by books.

    Books in my bedroom, books down the hallways and books in my hands.

    Every good thing- it came from a book.

    When I was four years old, my sister went to school and it was there that she learned how to read. It was there that she started bringing books home, always tucked away in her fluro book bag with the velcro at the top.

    One thing I always wanted to be, was my sister.

    As my sister went to school each day, my brother and I spent a lot of our days with Mum, doing baking on the kitchen bench, playing in the sprinklers in the garden, and when we were lucky- which was once per fortnight, we would get to go with mum to the supermarket and “help” her with the grocery shopping.

    Now I feel it’s important to note that Mum’s definition of “help” and ours appeared to differ somewhat.

    To keep things easy, mum would pop my brother and I into the shopping trolly and then place all the grocery items around us. It seemed like nothing much could go wrong. However, as the designated ring leader in any situation, I soon found that if I scratched the bottom of a bag of brown sugar quietly and discretely enough, that my brother and I could slowly eat our way through the deliciousness that is brown sugar. Time after time, mum would get to the checkout, load the items up, and then became exasperated that there was a hole in the brown sugar bag. She would race back up the aisle, and bring a fresh bag up to the conveyer belt- and away we would go again.

    Fortnight after fortnight this happened, and to this very day, or should I say to this very blog, Mum had absolutely no idea that her two little bowl cut cherubs were the reason for the never ending holes in the brown sugar bag.

    Now on one of these fateful trips to the supermarket, we somehow found ourselves in the VHS section- a section that was often swiftly passed, as the video tapes were a whooping $30- which was 30 weeks of pocket money at that stage.

    I remember vividly seeing a VHS tape, with an ostrich and a dog dressed, naturally, in Safari gear, with the title “Working with Words.”

    I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

    Day after day, I begged Mum and Dad for this VHS tape, and day after day they said “We’ll see.”

    I must have wore them down, for a few weeks later, I was presented with my first (and last) VHS tape in my small little hands.

    “Working with Words” became a daily event, and soon my brother and I could chant it by heart.

    The fact that a taking dog and ostrich had to move hell on earth to find their friend Schnoz Ali was mere semantics.

    The point was that I was learning to read, and learning to read fast.

    I went to school at six, with books flying through my hands both day and night.

    I knew then, that I was going to be a published author one day

    – and the day has finally come.

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