Candyfloss

I was the little girl who locked herself in cupboards and other random spaces. I'd take with me an exercise book, a pencil and an eraser. If I had those three simple items, I could make sense of anything and everything that happened to me.

Some days were great.

I'd make short entries about the planet from my tiny worldview — my chosen hiding spot for the day. The spaces were not always glamourous. I spent a lot of time writing in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat itself and not using the room or bowl for its intended purpose. My family never looked for me there. It was awesome.

Depending on the space, my story would turn out differently. For example, let's say I was hiding in my parent's room. On Dad's side of the closet, my tales were full of the smell of leather, paint, old boots and hair cream. On Mum's side, my stories smelled of moisturiser and Frangipanis. But, when writing days were less productive, my mum's side became more mothball, lavender and musty.

On fantastic writing days, my stories flaunted rock-and-roll and the fumes of fast cars. My father loved to combine those two passions by playing Elvis while speeding up freeways on Saturdays, with a car full of us kids, on the way to a Hi-fi shop. So, the smells from his good and bad days ended up with me in the cupboard too.

Also, with my mum too. She had her up-and-down and everything-in-between days with the Frangipanis and mothballs. For example, sometimes, the sherry she had taken a swig at while making the Christmas trifle would infiltrate a story. Once, I decided to add that smell to a pancake recipe for a school event. But, even the detention with Sister Agnus was not enough to deter my joyous moments as a writer living in small, lofty, smelly, super-charged and musically-enhanced spaces.

But, here's the thing:

Believe it or not, writing life was simple back then.

If I happened to be at the beach, I'd write about the sun and how warm it was. I loved the way the heat would sink into my skin and drown me in what I called 'happiness.' I didn't have much of a vocabulary back then. All I know is, my words described what was right in front of me. And so, the sun on my skin on a perfect and beautiful 70s day at the beach, with my Dad's music blaring from the Valiant's speaker system while he held mum's soft, well-moisturised hand - became my small view of the world and the stories followed.

And, of course, as a young writer, the tales were only 'slightly' embellished for dramatic effect. So, for example, Dad never wore floral Hawaiian shorts with maroon tassels.

I just made that stuff up.

And, it all came straight out of my head, with no help from anyone. I was so chuffed with my ability to create something so big from a tiny seed of thought. I felt invincible. I felt as if I could turn the entire world into one massive stick of candyfloss. And I could do it all, with words, a notebook, an eraser and from the smallest space ever.

My first love was to write about the ocean. And, while doing that, describe the habits of birds too. I was fascinated by the way they'd dip their feet (that's what I called them) in the water while flying and then skim along the shoreline as if they didn't even get wet. I wished I could do what birds do.

They were so free.

But birds couldn't write, so I was always super happy to stay human.

My second love was to write about food. I'd document all the food I ate in a day, as well as the food I wanted to eat. I focused a lot on food I couldn't have. I wasn't the only one with this problem. All kids I knew had trouble getting their hands on exactly what they wanted food-wise. Those chocolate cookies and bags of chips were always just in reach. My arm just never felt long enough. It was sad. So, I wrote about every food item I could never have, listing them one-by-one every day for years.

On bad writing days, I'd scribble and rub words out for a much longer timeframe. I'd put lines through words, re-write them, add them back in and then rub them out again. I'd sit in that cupboard, or under my bed, or on the roof of my Dad's stationary Valiant. Hours, days, weeks and even years would go by.

Sometimes, I'd work on the words for so long; my parents would find me asleep in random corners of the house. I'd be lying there, out cold as if I had no measure on reality. I'd barely realise that Dad sold the Valiant and that the new car I was surfing on as a writer was a Cortina station wagon, it was a new decade, and I'd grown boobs.

But that's what the writing life can do to a person. The rabbit hole is by no means for the faint-hearted. If you can't sit on the roof of a Valiant for three days straight without eating or leaving for a bathroom break (or your parents finding you) or just because you've been there so long you couldn't find your way home, the writing life may not be your thing.

In short, the stories have always kept me awake at night.

Whatever happened, I'd stay there on a bad writing day for as long as it took me to turn any crappy, lousy day - back into a good day again. And if I didn't do it on time, my goodness me - I'd fall asleep trying.

If I did persevere, I'd finish with my happy Hollywood-style ending. Then, I'd close the journal up and place my pencil and rubber neatly back into its case. I'd brush my teeth, say goodnight to my parents (who could barely ever find me- because I was hiding) and shuffle along to bed. Finally, I'd shove my journal just under the mattress. I needed to hide it from the prying eyes of my brother and sister (both nosey). My journal was never more than an arm's length away.

I could never sleep thinking about pulling it back out again.

I'd lay there for hours staring at the ceiling. The idea of making up and telling stories for an entire lifetime was a concept way too much to ignore or miss.

Here was my life-changing moment:

Even though I was only five years old, I realised I could keep telling stories, even after I die - through books!

I still marvel at the level of forethought. Though, admittedly the time has passed more quickly than anticipated that day. As a young child, I was blessed with years to come - instead of more years to look back on now than more to expect.

While painting the ceiling above my bed in my mind on one of these sleepless nights, I figured something else out. I realised I could turn every prospective lousy day into a more impressive story than the one I just turned good again.

At 50, I'm still this little girl in the room.

Though my father is gone, I can still smell the leather, paint, old boots and hair cream when I think of him. I can still feel the wind rush through my hair out that car window on the way to a speaker shop every time I hear a song that reminds me of him. Whenever I kiss my mother on her soft cheeks and smell those Frangipanis, I still see my parents holding hands on a beautiful beach.

But, the world is changed. Many of the world's beautiful beaches are gone. The beautiful oceans of my childhood now float the bottles and travesties of greed on our planet. 20 years ago, I left the corporate world to pursue my life as a writer. I dreamt of writing novels and children's stories.

But, for the past 20 years, I've dedicated my writing life to creating eco-smart home systems to feed poverty-stricken families. I've written over 50,000+ savings tips to help people in need. My husband, a painter, has woken up every day since I met him to support the important work I'm doing to help many struggling people out of poverty.

Challenge Entry Notes:

People follow me, read my stories and want to hear what I have to say because I deeply love and care about what happens to our planet. I'm heartbroken by the state of the world. I have a deep desire to give the children of this planet (including my own) the incredible simplicity my generation enjoyed: clean beaches, clean water and clean air. And the means to help others less fortunate live a better day.

I've never stopped writing about it and trying to find solutions to help fix things. I've written many books and over 50,000+ savings tips to help others live a better day.

I've just spent four years writing alone (a small room, no longer a cupboard) to bring my new eco-smart cookbook and home-cook membership site into being. I'm most passionate about sustainable living and providing practical home systems that make life easier for people doing it tough across the globe. My product includes a book, a social network and hopefully Memberful site, to help my readers connect, learn and grow together. Australian, NZ and UK media, as well as my current readers, support this project. I would love people to support this project, as my new system can help millions of people come off the breadline. Consumers will receive the exact tools they need to stop food waste, drastically reduce packaging and live easier and happier days. Readers can save about $10,000 a year using my new and upcoming book. My new book and membership site can help many COVID affected families doing it tough. I've been writing books eco-smart books for 20 years. This final book is my life's work and purpose in terms of helping others survive hard times.

At this point in my career, only my family know that creative writing is my first love.

Finally, in the future, I hope to write incredible stories for children and fun adult fiction. I'd love to deliver that giant stick of candyfloss and happiness - for everyone in the world to enjoy.