It’s Moments Like These You Need Mentees

Te Papa Tupu Mentees 2018
L-R: Nadine Anne Hura, Colleen Maria Lenihan, Cassie Hart, Hone Rata, Ataria Rangipikitia Sharman, Shilo Kino

A couple of weeks ago the Te Papa Tupu program held its second workshop. This time it was in conjunction with the National Writers Forum in Auckland. The lead up to it was pretty exciting, we were given a list of sessions and had to choose the ones we wanted to attend. As a new writer, I’ve never attended anything like this, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect, or what to attend. In a way this is freeing, because without knowledge or experience, you can’t really go wrong. Everything is going to be new and have something to learn. So I just chose the sessions I thought would give me some insight into the book I’m writing and the business side of being a writer today.

Before the forum itself we had the opportunity to catch up with our mentors (though this was cruelly interrupted by the vagaries of aircraft mechanical resilience), and to  experience a masterclass with Dr Anita Heiss. Dr Heiss took us through her journey to becoming an author. I was impressed by her tenacity and boldness. Her willingness to put herself out there and write the books that she wanted to write, to tell the stories she wanted to tell and most importantly impart the messages she wanted to impart. She asked us, “What are you trying to say?” And in all honesty, I have no idea. I wrote a story, but it was just a story and I suppose it has themes of a kind. It speaks of family, and friendship, and corporate greed, and the dangers of a society run by and for commercial aims. But not deliberately, and not in a considered way. Just accidentally.

I was left with so much to think about.

I travelled with my fellow mentee and friend Cassie (Hart). In this, I am super lucky, because I always have someone with me who I know. A comfort in challenging and nervous times. Someone who I can turn too, and who will make sure I get to the airport on time. So, after the workshop, we went to the registration night, and it was amazing. We were early (because Cassie), so we got to see most of the other attendees arrive.  Just seeing this community of authors come together was amazing. Watching the room, I could see the camaraderie in the group. Old friends coming together, hugs and smiles, handshakes and kisses on the cheek. It was encouraging to just be a spectator in this group of authors and aspiring authors. To see this fabulously eclectic group congregate. Before too long our fellow mentees and mentors arrived and it was my turn to smile, and hug, and shake hands and kiss cheeks.

Over the next few days, I attended workshops on Writing Short (Pip Adam, straight up the most fun and engaging presenter of a workshop I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing), writing for Young Children (Kyle Mewburn, an artist of fart jokes and how to properly apply them for different ages). I attended lectures on the business of writing and getting published and promoted. I also attended a keynote by John Marsden that I never wanted to end. I could happily have spent the whole day listening to this wonderful storyteller talk. I attended a panel on writing YA that was full of sage advice and such inspiration. I was equally inspired by Lani Wendt Young’s journey and her experiences with self-publishing.

But equal to the content provided in the workshops was the times between them, where I’d meet back up with this amazing collection of authors that are my fellow mentees. We’d share stories, and inspiration, and crispy duck. I also met new people, other authors on the same journey I was on. I shared the love of story, and character, and verse, and lyrics. I found a tribe I never knew I was a part of. And even after long days,I was energised, returning to my room to write, and to try to integrate some of what I’d learned during the day into my own work.

I left this weekend energised and invigorated. Awash with ideas and inspiration. And almost immediately slumped.The writing was hard. The challenges seemingly insurmountable. Life was full of other demands on my time and distractions. It was really hard, but I wasn’t alone. Because there is a Facebook group I can turn too. Set up by Cassie (who else?) at the start, it’s a place all the mentees can get together and share the trials and triumphs being a part of Te Papa Tupu presents. And here I found that a couple of the others were feeling the same way. I was not alone. I was quiet thought this time, I didn’t post much, but it was reassuring to read their conversations.

So here I am, finally back on the horse and finally applying the inspiration and learning I picked up to the words that are, for today at least, flowing out onto the page. I know I would have gotten back to this eventually. I’ve had slumps before and muddled through. But I also know that I wouldn’t be here yet if it wasn’t for the support of the tremendous wāhine I’m lucky enough to share this journey with. It is their passion, their energy and their wisdom that is on these pages as much as it is mine.


Hone Rata (Ngāti Maniapoto, Ngāti Ruanui, Taranaki) is an aspiring author currently embroiled in the fraught journey that is preparing his first novel for publishing. Hone is pleased to have been selected for the 2018 Te Papa Tupu writing programme. He is excited to learn new skills and apply them to his novel.

The Three Ed’s and a Bit of CD

Editing, editing, editing. The three Ed’s and a bit of character development. You see a month, or so ago, I had finally finished the manuscript to my YA fiction novel. The elation that I felt at that time, it was real. There I was, staring at that beautiful final sentence couched in clouds of are splendent white page.  It was fantastical. It was fabulous. For a week or so.

Then it wore off.

Like most writers who are just starting out, I mistakenly believed that finishing a novel is the hardest thing in life. Bashing out those thousands of words day-after-day. Surely there’s nothing harder than that. All I knew was that I had finally joined the league of “extraordinary writers” who’ve finished a BOOK. My ego swelling to hot-air balloon proportions. The Māori J.K Rowling of Aotearoa here I come. After a week or so floating around in “I’m a famous writer already land,” I decided to start editing my “amazing” novel.

Editing is hard work! It literally takes longer than writing the words in the first place.

So, I began by re-reading each sentence line by line and fixing grammatical errors. I also did some more character development and finessed the storyline. It was at this point that I realised how much more work this novel needed. It had seemed so good when I was bashing out words on a keyboard, but now I knew I was staring at just the beginning – the trainer wheels stage – of a truly imaginative and enjoyable book for young adults. During this time, I also learnt something else. Editing is hard work! It literally takes longer than writing the words in the first place. To top things off, editing can sometimes make the writing even worse than it was in the first place.

In my opinion, there’s a fine line between editing and DESTROYING the work.

In the space of a couple of weeks, I edited the first two chapters and emailed them to my Te Papa Tupu mentor. Simon is a freelance editor and an excellent one at that. He knows how to take an average manuscript (unlike mine obvs) and somehow magically turn it into an enjoyable book with interesting characters, and storyline readers will love. Even so, it was a hard pill to swallow receiving his feedback with the central theme being – shock horror – that the characters in the story are too perfect.Too perfect? Too perfect! But they are perfect! “But why?” I ask. “Why can’t the characters be perfect?” Of course, Simon had a readymade answer.

“Perfect characters are boring. Imagine a perfect character.”

I screw my face up in disgust. You know the ones, the beautiful princess in the castle or the stunning model with the to-die-for wardrobe and wealthy parents. A photo of Kate Middleton taken just after she had given birth where she looked like she had played a gentle round of golf, some yoga and then meditated instead of had a baby. Too perfect. Okay, point taken Simon the Wise. I don’t want my characters to be like that. But then, what do I want them to be like?

In search of devious ideas, I turn to those people around me (my whānau) who due to whakapapa have to pretend (sometimes unconvincingly) to care about my book and my questions. I start with my sister and the Studio Ghibli movie My Neighbour Totoro. “What do you think about perfect characters? Do you think Totoro (a furry, cute, giant forest spirit) has flaws?” She suggests that Totoro doesn’t feature enough in the movie to really have flaws. I tell her about my predicament, the perfectness of the Patupaiarehe people in my novel. She reiterates Simon’s conviction about the annoyingness of perfect characters and begins to conjure up her own ideas of how the Patupaiarehe could become more three dimensional. “What if they are shy? What if they hide in the forest and don’t want to come out? They could be scared, terrified of the main evil guy.” I love her ideas, and I gleefully realise something. Corrupting characters is actually quite fun.

The whānau that corrupts imaginary thought forms together stays together.

Next, I ask my mum (Mumma J). Mumma J loves Star Trek so I suggest that the Patupaiarehe might be a more “spiritually advanced” race than humanity and therefore imperfection may not be as necessary. Now one thing about my mum, she doesn’t need any excuses to talk Trek. She launches into a detailed commentary of various characters on the Starship Enterprise and how they too possess their own imperfections. We return back to the task at hand. Corrupting the Patupaiarehe.

“What if they are arrogant because they think they are better than humans” suggests Mumma J. I take this idea and run with it. “The Patupaiarehe could believe they are superior over humans and therefore always choose to put the forest and the animals first… which could lead to them risking the life of Pakū (a human boy) to protect themselves.”

I am mulling over these suggestions in my head when I receive an email from Simon. It reads, “Ngaro is a bit too healthy. Maybe he was tortured or is held by cruel bonds that are magically tied to be as painful as possible. This means Pakū will have to rescue him as well.” To which I respond, “He should be broken both physically and mentally so Pakū has to help piece him back together… ooooooohhhhhh. This is good!” This is so juicy. Together Simon and I have just mentally and physically harmed the imaginary thought-form named Ngaro in this book, allowing Pakū to further develop as a character.

My eyes glimmers lightly as I imagine having this much power in the real world. Mwahahaha.

But what this really blog highlights is the unexpected tedium of editing, challenges of character development and power of collective brainstorming to solve all problems. Which leads me into the single-handedly best thing about being part of Te Papa Tupu. Your mentor.Someone who gives a fuck about your book other than the ones that literally birthed you or are forced to care due to whānau/societal expectations.

Because to be honest, no one really gives a fuck about my book, or your book, or anyone else’s book as much as I do/the writer does.

Unless perhaps, you are Māori J.K Rowling of Aotearoa. So, to have someone – an editor no less – who are giving their time to me and the book I wrote? Straight privilege.

Thanks, Te Papa Tupu.


Ataria Rangipikitia Sharman (Tapuika, Ngāpuhi) loves writing. Sometimes what she writes is good and sometimes it isn’t. But she persists nevertheless, in the form of essays, poetry and articles. Ataria’s writing has been published on E-Tangata and you can follow her poetry on Instagram @atariarangipikitia.

A Void

It feels like I’m sending these journals into a void. Like an actual journal, for my eyes only, which is kinda freeing.

I had writer’s block until recently. Prior to that, I wrote a short story about a Japanese piano teacher who goes on a surfing trip to deal with a broken heart.This melancholy tale poured out of me in two or three days. Working in the second person for the first time gave me a sense of urgency that propelled the story forward, and I found that almost breathless quality made the writing experience deeply enjoyable.  I’ve learned that Voice Is Key.  I’ve realized that once I have the voice right, the story flows. The words come from somewhere else. Every creative person knows this feeling. You become a channel for the universe to express itself through. We’re all jonesing to get back in the zone. Where do ideas spring from within this state? The nothingness of a blank page. The collective unconsciousness. The void.

My mentor, the novelist James George, has a startling intellect. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve somehow gained a couple more IQ points after listening to them.  Or more accurately, desire to be smarter so you can fully comprehend all the gems they keep dropping. I told him I was struggling with my short stories. Unlike writing a novel, which you can potentially plot out and continue moving forward towards an ending, whenever I finish a story I have to start again. Almost from scratch. New protagonist, new POV, new plot, new voice. This is a complication with writing short stories for a cycle. How many ways can you write about a thing? And I wasn’t totally sure what that thing was. There were many things!

James spoke to me about the notion of a controlling idea. He talked about Hemingway’s novel ‘The Sun Also Rises,’ about a damaged soldier coming back from war, a familiar Hemingway trope. And how this controlling idea gave Hemingway licence to roam through a landscape. To write about bullfighting and real drinking expeditions, changing the names only. JG explained that once the controlling idea is set in the readers mind, you can do that. I really liked the sound of this… how a controlling idea could give me some freedom to roam around too, in this psychological hinterland I’m conjuring which floats between Tokyo and New Zealand.

JG said, and I’m paraphrasing here: What truths are coming out? Is there a presence you can use as a controlling idea? The thematic presence is like a vessel where everything is being held like a bowl of soup, a series of reflections and responses to this central theme. It can be very subtle, a thematic resonance rather than a direct through-line.  Every single thing doesn’t have to point to the masterplot. Also, what are you leading up to here? Someone after reading your short stories will ask, well what do I make of all that? How close do I feel to the conflicts and ideas I’ve read about?

Plenty to ponder. I looked at the fifteen or so stories I’ve written and methodically listed their themes which include loss, intimacy, the male gaze, mothers and daughters, the expat experience, dislocation, where is home anyway? A theme of running away emerged, which although should have been obvious, took me by surprise.  However, that was not my controlling idea. I realized that what’s really behind it all, although yet to be dealt with directly in any of my stories, is transgenerational trauma. Kinda heavy and something I’ve been trying to, well… avoid.


Colleen Maria Lenihan (Te Rarawa, Ngāpuhi) is a photographer. Upon returning to NZ in 2016 after fifteen years in Tokyo, she began writing short stories. In 2017, Colleen received an Honourable Mention for the NZSA Lilian Ida Smith Award, and a scholarship from The Creative Hub and Huia Publishers. She is thrilled to be selected for Te Papa Tupu 2018

Specificity

I’ve known fora while now that my biggest weakness when it comes to writing is in the detail. I mumble through stories using broad strokes rather than a fine haired brush, and in doing so I lose something.

Part of methought none of these details mattered because they have no relevance to readers outside of our country, and when most of those in the book biz will tell you that there is no market for adult genre fiction in New Zealand(written by NZ’ers, anyway), one must try and think about the global market.

But I was also scared of pinning things down too much as well, in part due to my overwhelming fear of doing my culture wrong (I push through those fears, but that doesn’t mean I have less anxiety about them), or doing anything wrong, really. That risk of stuffing something up, offending someone, getting the facts wrong held me back and meant I skimmed over the top of things rather than going deeper.Which is where research comes into play in a big way, and I’ve gotten so much better at that in the last few months.

 What I’ve come to see is that the importance of the specifics lies in their relevancy to me, and to my characters. I’ve learned that when I imbue my work with these details it helps every part of my story come alive.

‘What I’ve come to see is that the importance of the specifics lies in their relevancy to me, and to my characters.’

Because it’s the little things that matter.

When I was reading Bugs, by my mentor, Whiti Hereaka, I was struck by how well she does this. There was a moment when reading that it finally hit me how I could colour my world without overdoing it. And it was something so simple but utterly beautiful to me: when Bugs is learning how to clean a hotel room there is a mention that they clean the taps then wipe them down with a dry cloth so there are no water marks.

See, simple right? But it made it real. I knew that hotels always look perfect, but it had never crossed my mind to think how they did that. This was a touch of insight that made this scene real to me. Like I was on the inside. Like the characters were real people with real knowledge.

I want my stories to feel real too, even when I’m writing about ghosts, possession, aliens, or gods. And it’s particularly important for me that I do this with Butcherbird, but at the same time, that feeling of importance might be what makes it hard to do.

‘I want my stories to feel real too, even when I’m writing about ghosts, possession, aliens, or gods.’

You see, I set this book on a fictional version of my grandparent’s farm. It was a farm I spent a lot of time on, nestled at the foot of my maunga, Taranaki. And so, it should be easy to make things real – I’m not writing about my family (Rose is definitely not my grandmother, I am not Jena), but I know what growing up in the country is like, I know the curves and folds of the land, the feel of the air, how cold the rivers coming off the mountain can be, the taste of water which comes from a spring and not town supply.

And yet almost none of those things are present in this book. Not even my mountain.

The view of the farm

When I was halfway through writing Butcherbird my Nana had a massive stroke. We rushed home from Paraparaumu to be with her, though she never regained consciousness. I wrote bits of Butcherbird while holding her hand during her last days.

Writing this book gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the fact Nana was dying. She is so much a part of this book because of time spent by her side, both on her death bed and throughout my life, and because I was writing it as a love letter to that place we called home.

But it’s not home anymore, and she’s not with us. Hasn’t been for almost a year now.

It took mean other twenty-four days to finish the book, but I did, even though it was so freaking hard and I had to face death again within the pages. She was a pragmatic woman and I could hear her telling me to just get on with it. And Idid. I got on with it. I finished the book. And now here I am, revising the book. And while sometimes it hurts to dig deep, I know that I have to reconnect to my initial desire for this work and that’s going to require me to get specific, to get detailed.

And yeah, I have some resistance to that. Because it still hurts. I miss her. And sometimes digging deep makes that ache a little harder to bear.

But specificity is important.

It’s vital.

When we were at the National Writer’s Forum in September this was one of the key things I took away from it – it turns out that the books from NZ authors best received both here and around the world were those deeply grounded in New Zealand’s culture, land and experiences. People want those details, they want our flavour.

‘… the books from NZ authors best received both here and around the world were those deeply grounded in New Zealand’s culture, land and experiences.’

I listened carefully to the keynote speakers over that weekend; Lani Wendt Young, Dr Anita Heiss, and John Marsden. All who spoke eloquently, their experiences and passion for writing blooming in our imaginations as they spoke due to the details they used to richly colour their lives.

It’s very clear to me now that the broad strokes I mentioned earlier aren’t doing me any favours. More importantly, it’s not doing my story any favours either. I’ve been bashing my head against this lesson for what feels like years now, but I think I’m almost there. I think I’m finally brave enough to dig deep and do the things that need to be done.

The writing life is a series of lessons – there are always more things to be learned – but this particular one has been a mountain I’ve failed to climb many times before. It’s well and truly time I conquer it.


Cassie Hart (Kāi Tahu) is a writer of speculative fiction and lover of pizza, coffee, and zombies (in no particular order). She’s had short stories published in several anthologies and been a finalist for both the Sir Julius Vogel and Australian Shadow Awards.

Some Guidance Required

You know how I was saying that one day I might be able to introduce myself like this, “Hi, I’m Hone Rata. I’m an author”? The last month has shown me that while I might be able to say that, I can’t follow it up with “And I’m kinda good at it.” Because if I have learned anything this past month it’s that I have a great deal left to learn. A GREAT DEAL TO LEARN. Like the proper use of capitalisation for instance.

“I’ve never read about how to story. I’ve never studied story.”

My whole life I’ve read story, watched story, listened to story, told story. But I’ve never read about how to story. I’ve never studied story. I’ve picked up a few things. Like it should have a beginning, a middle and an end. And that things should happen to people, and that we should care about these people. So, I wrote this story, it’s pretty long, ninety-five thousand nine hundred and four words, at the end of my last edit. That is twenty thousand more words than when I first thought I’d finished. And it’s not nearly done! Half of the notes my mentor leaves point out things I haven’t explained properly. Or mentions a character I haven’t fleshed out properly. Or weaknesses in the structure that need to be reinforced or plugged. Or worse, points out where the chapter should end.

Chapters! It’s a perfect example. When I wrote my story, especially at the beginning I wrote to an audience. A small group of supporters who I emailed my story to every night. I would put my kids to bed, watch a bit of TV with my wife, and then sit down and write for a couple of hours. I’m not a fast writer, I don’t type quickly, so it’s a drawn out and laborious process. In two hours I can write maybe a thousand words. So, I would write away into the evening, or the early hours of the morning. And my chapters would end when I got too tired to go on. I’d see a break point coming up, I’d try to finish on a hook, to make it exciting for my email audience, then I’d save my document, and go to sleep.

“You need to write down the ‘beats’ of your story, so you know where the tension rises, and where it falls.”

Turns out that chapters should have a purpose beyond letting you go to bed. Who knew! They should have a beginning a middle and an end. They should take a character on a journey, and the choices they make need to be inevitable. Each chapter should be like a little story of its own. They may or may not be made up of separate, thematically linked, scenes each one of which should kinda have a beginning a middle and an end. These are general rules; some books don’t have chapters at all. But that because the authors made a choice, not because they went a really long time without going to sleep. I’m learning how to think about chapters as I write. At the same time, I’m learning how to give my characters distinctive voices. I’m trying to remember not to use too many tropes, or cliché. Trying to remember to show stuff happening, not just have it reported (action is more exciting). I’m struggling with expressing my characters emotions. And making sure things are happening while they are talking, so they are not just disembodied heads chattering away (ironically, I have disembodied heads chattering away in my story, but you never hear what they have to say).

But before you can do that you need to actually write down who your characters are, and what they are like, what they think, and why they are trying to achieve. You need to plan and document your world; how does it work? What’s it’s history like? It’s government, it’s economy. Now does it view non-binary genders? What about gender politics? Matriarchy? Patriarchy? You need to write down the ‘beats’ of your story, so you know where the tension rises, and where it falls. I’m not sure my writing style suits this kind of preparation, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore it, it means I have to do it after I’ve written the story. I call it postparation. And this is important because I need to know this stuff, so I can use that information while I am editing. To improve my consistency, and make sure the characters are acting in a way that makes sense and in a believable way (even if they are not supposed to be sensible and the things they do are unbelievable)

“I struggled this last week to re-write two chapters. I couldn’t figure out a good way to tell the pieces of story I needed to tell, with the characters I needed to tell it with.”

There are so many balls to juggle that I didn’t even know I was holding. So many. And some chainsaws, and knives, and probably a bowling ball. But there are also butterflies, and doughnuts, and puppies. Not every note is an error to be corrected, some are notes of congratulations, inspirational suggestion, or slight adjustments that I just know will make my words sing. And there is nothing like looking back on my writing and seeing how I have improved. How my story is better. And sometimes I think that maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to write a paragraph without using an adverb.

It’s hard, hard work. I struggled this last week to re-write two chapters. I couldn’t figure out a good way to tell the pieces of story I needed to tell, with the characters I needed to tell it with. I had three birds, and only one stone. I just couldn’t get traction, and my deadline approached. In the end I just decided to do it badly, make a ham-fisted job of it. Not because that’s what I want to do, but because once it’s on the page I can go over it and refine it until the turd is nicely polished. And if I can’t polish the turd, if I can’t see the shine under the muck, my mentor can tell me where to start.

That’s the magic of this whole thing. Someone who is good at this, someone who can see the diamond in the rough, takes the time to give me advice. Tells me how chapters work. That adverbs are the devils work, and how doing is better than telling. Leaves notes I can weave into the sheet to make music from laboured beats.

It’s invaluable, these pieces of advice, so hard to juggle today, will become second nature. When they are, then I’ll be ok at this. I’ll still need an editor, it’s really very hard to see your own errors. I’ll never stop learning. But maybe I’ll be able to poop something closer to a diamond.

“I’ll never stop learning. But maybe I’ll be able to poop something closer to a diamond.”


I’ve attached a picture of the two chapters I edited this week, zoomed right out in Word, all the colours in the image are changes I’ve made. All the red dots are suggestion my mentor made on the first draft.


Hone Rata (Ngāti Maniapoto, Ngāti Ruanui, Taranaki) is an aspiring author currently embroiled in the fraught journey that is preparing his first novel for publishing. Hone is pleased to have been selected for the 2018 Te Papa Tupu writing programme. He is excited to learn new skills and apply them to his novel.

What is Creative Non-fiction?

What’s creative non-fiction? What’s an essay? What’s the point of all this writing? These are the questions swimming around in my head right now. I began last month with a burst of energy and inspiration. I got out a bunch of books from the library and immersed myself in the genre of creative non-fiction. At first, I enjoyed all this reading and reflection. I could almost see the possibilities opening up in front of me. Unlike the academic essay, which intentionally fabricates emotional distance between the writer and their subject, a creative non-fiction essay is all about the spaces in between. The subjective experience is the motivation. You’re rewarded for admitting what you don’t know and examining your own ignorance on the page.

Cheryl Strayed (whose book Wild was turned into a movie starring Reese Witherspoon) says that a good essay should end with the unwritten line “and nothing was ever the same again.” She’s talking about the way an essay should stay with you, change you. A good essay should pick you up in one place and drop you off somewhere else entirely. Of all the things I read and re-read, her quote is the one I printed out and stuck on my noticeboard:

“Behind every good essay there’s an author with a savage desire to know more about what is already known. A good essay isn’t a report of what happened. It’s a reach for the stuff beyond and beneath. Essayists begin with an objective truth and attempt to find a greater, grander truth by testing facts against subjective interpretations of experiences and ideas memories and theories. They try to make meaning of actual life, even if an awful lot has yet to be figured out. The grapple and reflect with seriousness and humour. They philosophise and confess with intellect and emotion. They recollect and reimagine private and public history with a combination of clarity and conjecture. They venture into what happened and why with a complicated collision of documented proof and impossible-to-pin-down remembrances. And they follow the answers to the questions that arise in the course of writing about what happens wherever they go. The essay’s engine is curiosity; its territory is the open road. This is what makes them so damn fun to read. The vibrancy and intimacy, the mystery and nerve, the relentlessly searching quality is simultaneously like a punch in the nose and a kiss on the lips. A pow and wow. And ouch and a yes. A stop in a go.”

‘A savage desire to know more about what is already known’ is the sentence that sticks out. And also ‘impossible-to-pin-down remembrances.’ I feel like this is entirely the territory of my manuscript. I’m going through the stuff of my past, holding it up to the light and turning it this way and that, unsure what is true at the same time as I know how things turn out.

What I’m doing feels like a form of therapy. This gives me occasional attacks of self-consciousness. Who wants to read about all these unspectacular people and unspectacular events in my unspectacular life? It’s a question I try and avoid because doubt is debilitating and I really want to submit this manuscript so that I can go to Aussie next year to the Sydney Writer’s Festival with the Māori Literature Trust and Huia Publishers.

In a moment of reaching, I sent my mentor, Paula Morris, an email, and asked her if it was normal to feel ‘icky’ about my writing.

She replied like an editor, not a therapist. “Avoid vague words like ‘eventually.’ You need to give details. Specifically when did these things happen. Where did you go? Not ‘across town,’ but from which suburb to which suburb?

She’s right, of course. I could see what she meant as soon as she pointed it out. She also wants more characterisation, which is something I don’t think I’m very good at. Characterisation has to do with the little details that help the reader to picture the people that only you, as a writer, can see. It’s the kind of stuff Ashleigh Young nails. In her award winning book of essays Can You Tolerate This, she describes the vet as ‘a cheerful man with a loud guffaw who’s as tall as it is possible to be.’ She likens her mother’s delicate mouth to the edge of an upturned saucer.

I’m not very good at this. I find it hard to describe people. My father, unoriginally, has brown skin and deep frown lines like gashes on his forehead. I don’t know how to liken him to anything else. He is the thing I compare other things to. I would describe the couch, for example, as something that holds the shape of my father.

Ashleigh makes all this seem deceptively easy. It’s not as though her words are fancy or complicated. It’s that she sees the world in a very peculiar and interesting way. I’m not quite sure if I do. I think it’s one of the reasons I struggle so much to ‘think’ in Māori. In Māori, you wouldn’t say that someone is forgetful, you’d say – ‘he tangata māhunga wai’ – that guy’s got a mind like water. You wouldn’t say someone is old, you’d say they have hairy ears – taringa huruhuru.

Perhaps that’s another reason I should prioritise my reo studies. Seeing the world with a Māori lens might give my characterisation in te reo Pākehā the boost its missing.


Like many New Zealanders, Nadine Anne Hura (Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Hine) has grown up with a foot in two worlds: Te ao Māori and Te ao Pākehā. She joins Te Papa Tupu eager to work on her manuscript of essays about identity, language and belonging. She has three children and lives in Porirua.

No Written Language


“Because the early Māori had no written language all we have to go on is oral tradition.”

This is a quote from a book – it doesn’t really matter which one because we’ve all heard it a million times. The idea that Māori aren’t literary because our language was never written down is something that’s been drummed into us since the moment our ancestors walked through the school gates. How can people with no written language be considered literary? In a colonised mind, to be literary is to be a master of words on paper. There’s no place for oral traditions in this definition of literary. Unless words are communicated by means of a precisely arranged set of characters on a page they are unreliable at best, suspect at worst.

I’m not interested in rebutting the idea that Māori aren’t literary. Anyone who thinks that subject that needs debating probably isn’t reading the Māori Literature Trust’s Blog. What I’m interested in is the tacit agreement within the literary world that there is something superior about written forms of communication over oral forms.

The notion that the printed word is more reliable or robust doesn’t stand up to interrogation and yet we all go along with it anyway. We’re in the era of ‘fake news’ and white people everywhere are outraged but indigenous people the world over are like: ‘oh, you just noticed?’ The dubiousness of words in print isn’t news to us. If it weren’t for the fact that printed words have caused so much mamae (Treaty of Waitangi, Tohunga Suppression Act 1907, every single NZ School Journal that called Māori a dying race) it’d almost be funny. 

Almost. 

The difference with oral cultures is that everyone knows that truth is subjective. We make sense of ourselves through story but the story isn’t fixed. Everything can be challenged. Robustness is proven over time and the person telling the story is as much a part of the narrative as the events they’re recounting. The vantage point – the papa on which they stand – affects everything. The only omniscient presence is Io.

Oral stories unfold fresh every time. They are old and new at the same time. Narratives full of potential that can be woven and rewoven anew in keeping with our changing world. As stories are handed down new truths come to light and new revelations emerge. Last night, at the launch of Toi Māori’s latest poetry exhibition, I heard Briar Grace-Smith retell the story of Māui’s birth from the perspective of his sister, Hina. In this year of suffrage celebrations even our ancient stories have modern applications. 

We have mōteatea, layered stories unfolding in verse and passed precisely and carefully from one person’s lips to another. Whoever planted the idea in my head that stories retold over hundreds of years are somehow less reliable than something that is printed once onto a page needs to be accountable for this fallacy in my thinking. 

Karanga: a sacred summons performed by a female to initiate a ritual of encounter. The looping words rise and fall like a wave, weaving a connection between the living and the dead, the haukainga and the manuhiri. The energy of the words seem to pull you forward from the chest but their power does not come from any book. You can’t study the art of karanga simply by learning a repertoire of phrases. 

Whakataukī are proverbs of wisdom that draw deeply on metaphor, relying on the skills of an orator to say one thing while saying something else entirely while whaikōrero is the art of pursuing words. When you turn up to speak with your words printed on speech cards you are preparing to talk. When you turn up on with an emotion in your belly and words yet unformed you are preparing to listen. Which one now appears inferior? 

And yet still we seem to attach greater esteem to books than we do to history and knowledge that is spoken, sung, chanted or performed. As a writer, being published in a physical book brings with it legitimacy. To me, looking from the outside, it seems to represent acceptance. It’s like being invited into an exclusive club – and I can’t help myself, I want to belong.

For the briefest moment last month I felt like I did. Huia flew all six writers on the Te Papa Tupu programme to Auckland for the National Writers Forum. They put us up in a lovely hotel at the top of Queen Street, across town from the University of Auckland where the two-day conference was held. I arrived, exhausted after a day of missed flights and endless transfers, and had to pinch myself that it was real.

I lay back on the bed and tried to take in all the images. The mini-bar stocked with little bottles of booze, my carry-on suitcase lying open in the half-light, a tumble of books strewn across the carpet and the sound of nothing – no children calling my name, not even cars on the street below. 

The sensation was still there the next morning when Whiti knocked on my door to take me downstairs for breakfast. It was surreal because once upon a time Whiti Hereaka was the name of an author I admired, not someone I ever expected to be picking me up for breakfast like an old mate. And yet here she was, sitting in my hotel room practicing Mandarin in preparation for her upcoming residency in China, occasionally looking up to provide an opinion on the selection of my outfit. 

Later that night, after all the workshops and panel discussions were finished, I found myself at a table surrounded by a group of authors I’ve followed for years. People whose books were sitting on my bedside table at home. When a plan was made to go out for dinner I almost declined. I felt like an imposter. How to feign belonging? There was only one other unpublished person at the table, another Te Papa Tupu intern, otherwise, everyone else was working on their second, third, fourth or even thirteenth title. I felt like someone had opened the door to the club and we’d snuck in while the bouncer was looking the other way. 

Coming home was a relief. Writers’ forums and book festivals can go either way for an aspiring writer. Some sessions leave you motivated and inspired. Others can make you doubt your capacity to fill out forms let alone finish an entire manuscript. I withdrew to gather myself. I wanted to spend less time thinking about the work and more time doing it. 

As the weeks have passed and I’ve settled into a rhythm, I’ve found myself returning to ask why I want to belong to this club of published authors so much. Part of it is to do with ego, I suppose. I have identified the pinnacle and I want to know if I can reach it.

But lately, I have started to wonder if, in pursuing legitimacy in the Pākehā world of literature, I am turning my back on the inheritance offered by Māori literary traditions. How much better could my writing become, what potential could I discover, if I didn’t reject the qualities of excellence embedded in oral traditions in favour of those of the written word, but instead held both in my hands at the same time? It’s something our ancestors have been doing for a long time – perhaps this is the true pinnacle I should be aiming for. 


Like many New Zealanders, Nadine Anne Hura (Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Hine) has grown up with a foot in two worlds: Te ao Māori and Te ao Pākehā. She joins Te Papa Tupu eager to work on her manuscript of essays about identity, language and belonging. She has three children and lives in Porirua.

Wanderlust

There are two kinds of people: people who stay, and people who leave.

I’m not judging people who stay. Someone needs to keep the home fires burning. Close ties and family must come before travel for many. I am grateful that my brother has been here to keep connections to whānau alive. On my last visit to my daughter’s grave I saw the chunks of streaky pounamu and black pakohe, Whanganui River stones, that he’d been leaving over the years. Deep aroha tinged with guilt rose up within me.

Still, staying wasn’t for me. If the world is like a book, why would I only want to read the first page?

I have a vivid memory of being ten years old and gazing at the green hills that surrounded Hautu Village where I lived, and feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I felt a visceral, profound yearning; a lump in the throat that was almost painful. I wanted to get out, get away from those verdant hills hemming me in and see something, anything, different. Even at that young age, I felt like I was trapped in a box and everything in it was too familiar. My family were poor, so international travel seemed like an impossible dream. I didn’t even get to the South Island until my early twenties. But then, the Fates intervened, and at twenty-five I was offered a lucrative opportunity to be an exoticdancer in Tokyo, flights and accommodation paid. I took it. I didn’t accept the job due to a lack of education. I had a bachelor’s degree, wasthe valedictorian of my year at art school, and had landed a respectable job in arts administration. I was simply tired of working hard for peanuts and was eager to have an adventure, and at the same time make some real money.

I left in 1999 and came back in 2016. Since my return, I’d only been out of New Zealand once toto organize shipping all my stuff from NYC that had been in storage for months while I travelled around, figuring out my next move.These past two and a half years have been the longest I spent in one country, since I first left all those years ago. That old emotion of feeling stifled by “home” began to resurface. I knew I had to escape before I lost my tiny mind, so this month I went to one of my favourite places in the world, the Kingdom of Thailand. Siam. The Land ofSmiles. Sawadee ka!

The moment of take-off is a deep release. That feeling of leaving everything, your life with all its petty hassles, behind. It’s not only transportive, it’s transformative. Up there, above the clouds, no one can reach you.


It’s my last day in Thailand today. I spent six nights in Koh Samui at a five star resort and three nights el cheapo styles in Bangkok. Or as a fellow New Zealander we met on a boat trip called this energetic, delicious, snarling metropolis: Bangers.My hotel is steps away from chaotic Asoke intersection which is choked with scooters, tuk tuks, and taxis that take traffic signals as suggestions only. I’m in love with the massive shopping mall, Terminal 21, designed to look like an airport with each floor named after different parts of the world. I spend most of my time inside this air conditioned consumer’s wet dream, constantly snacking. The food market here is just like depachika in Japan, those magical wonderlands of gourmet delights found in the basement of department stores. Skewers of succulent meats and vegetables. Sweet sticky rice with mango. Cups of fresh tropical fruit ready to be blended into delicious smoothies. All kinds of Thai street food, including the lightest, freshest and reputedly the best PadThai in Bangkok for $2.50 NZ. Coconut soft serve? Don’t mind if Ido! Can I possibly avoid saying that this place is a feast for the eyes? There is even a Japanese bakery where, joy of joys, I procure my favourite Japanese treat, mitarashi dango: glutinous rice balls on a skewer glazed in a sticky soy sauce syrup which reminds me of the spoonfuls of malt extract my mother would make me eat when I was a kid. I didn’t particularly like the taste back then but now, drizzled over rice mochi I can’t shovel it in my fat face fast enough. I know how much I will sorely miss this vast array of cheap, tasty, and plentiful food options when I’m inevitably confronted by bulky paninis and the same cafe stodge everywhere back home. $20 NZ dollars for lunch in AKL would get me four lunches in BKK. Not for the first time I think, why didn’t I move here?Bum around South East Asia for a year or two? I love you New Zealand but you’re too damn expensive, which is hard to understand when you’re basically a giant farm. NZ produce often sells for considerably lower prices overseas. We’re all getting royally fucked at the supermarket cash register. Why?

I decide to have a night out, and head to Soi Cowboy, a short pink and red neon-lit street packed with go go bars. A friend suggestedI head to trendy Thonglor instead because its nicer, but I am hungry for some red-light realness. You can take the girl out of the club etc… I stroll around looking for a place to hang out. Suzie Wongs, Deja Vu, Kiss, TheDollhouse… Clusters of scantily clad women mill around, waiting for business. I sit down outside at a bar called Lighthouse, and a woman with a worn face sidles up and says “Drink for me?” She is wearing a white strapless cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline. It has some lace on it and looks kinda 80s, like something Molly Ringwald would wear to the prom.

I could use some company, so I motion for her to sit, and light her cigarette. From my hostessing days in Tokyo I know her drinks will be more expensive than mine and that she is trying to make a little extra cash at the beginning of the night until she gets a real customer. She must be a prostitute, as she isn’t dressed like a go go dancer or hostess and looks too old to be either. She tells me her name is Nong and that at 40, she is an old lady. She laughs when I tell her that I am 44. Nong makes a joke in broken English that I think must be about anal sex because she acts out being fucked from behind. I chuckle along with her to be polite. A dancer sits down and asks for a drink too. She is pretty and has honey colored hair. I check the price first, and agree. Nong tells her friend that I am 44, and she says to Nong that she looks ten years older than me, which makes me feel sorry for Nong.

“Why you look so young?”

“Because my mind like child,” I say, and tap the side of my head. She wouldn’t understand the word “immature.”

We discuss Thai boob jobs, and the dancer invites me to feel her fake tits. They are very soft. I ask where the bathroom is and Nong takes me inside, where aUV-lit stage is packed with young women dressed in white bikinis wearing numbers. She leads me upstairs, where the floor is glass and you can look down at the girls on stage below. I try to surreptitiously take a picture through the glass but Nong catches me. I feel bad, like a sleazy farang, and offer to delete it from my phone.

“It’s okay,” she says. “No one see.You my VIP.” 


Colleen Maria Lenihan (Te Rarawa, Ngāpuhi) is a photographer. Upon returning to NZ in 2016 after fifteen years in Tokyo, she began writing short stories. In 2017, Colleen received an Honourable Mention for the NZSA Lilian Ida Smith Award, and a scholarship from The Creative Hub and Huia Publishers. She is thrilled to be selected for Te Papa Tupu 2018.

I Have Always Been a Bookworm

When I was a child my mother worried that I didn’t get out and spend enough time with friends, but who needs friends when you have books?

I’m joking! I’m joking. I have many wonderful friends.

But I also have many wonderful books.

I spent a lot of my childhood embedded in pages. Mum didn’t need to worry, the books were taking very good care of me, leading me on all kinds of adventures through this world and countless others.

We come from a long line of avid readers, so the whole bookworm thing wasn’t really a surprise. However, my choice in books was a puzzle my mother could never solve. Our extensive, extended family library was mostly composed of science fiction and fantasy, and while those are genres I adore, it’s horror that really captured me.

It still does.

I love that breathless sensation you get when you think something bad is going to happen. The way the skin at the back of your neck tingles and your shoulders shrug into your ears as if you can save yourself – save the characters in the book – with that movement. The way your feet lift off the floor, subconsciously tucking underneath you because who knows what’s hiding in that space beneath your seat. As if these little movements will protect you from killer or monster, from the unknown, the unknowable.

The way that even after you’ve finished the book you might hear something and it triggers that gasp, that inhalation, that rush of adrenaline you need to get the hell out of there and somewhere safe.

Oh yeah, I love horror.

So, it’s no surprise that I love to write things that creep people out. The vast majority of my short fiction has elements of horror woven in. Which brings me to Butcherbird, because it was the first time I set out to do this in a longer format.

You see, I’d been writing a lot of romance and the need to creep someone out was overwhelming, an itch that needed to be scratched; I needed horror. Not the B grade slasher film type (not that there is anything wrong with that. I love a good B grade slasher). I’m more into the subtle chills, the rising levels of discomfort and fear than I am blood and gore. I want the creepiness that lingers, the one that’s kind of familiar and could be waiting for you around the next corner, in the next person you meet. The one that follows you home (the creepiness, not the person, though that’s creepy too).

“I want the creepiness that lingers, the one that’s kind of familiar and could be waiting for you around the next corner, in the next person you meet.”

I had this idea, and it hit me in the way the best ideas do, which is to say while I wasn’t looking for it at all (I was actually playing Minecraft with the kids… Seriously, ideas can come from anywhere). I was walking through a wheat field, water up to my knees, and it took me back to all the games we’d played in the rushes of the swamp on my grandparent’s farm. Birds swooping overhead, the sun blocked out suddenly by clouds, the drop in temperature that follows.

Once I’d scrawled down that initial flash of imagery, I set to work expanding this idea for a book and decided to fill it with all the things I love, and to set it on a fictional version of my grandparents farm, the very same place I spent so many years playing out stories with my cousins as a child.

And I couldn’t bring them to life – this book is not those stories, it’s a thing of its own – but all my memories of the farm, all my love of tales about family and secrets, of rural New Zealand, and that slow build fear that tickles the back of the throat are in this book.

These things aren’t perfectly honed yet, but they’re getting there with the help of my mentor, Whiti Hereaka. She’s making me think harder about all the elements I put in from the smallest reference to a book or object, up to much broader things such as character motivations. I’ve spent these past weeks researching and reading, and all this background work means I’m coming back to my book and finding new ways to breathe life into the story, to add touches to dialogue and setting, to ramp up the worldbuilding and make the whole thing shine more.

“I’m coming back to my book and finding new ways to breathe life into the story.”

It’s been really enriching to be forced to sink into research, to be directed towards specific texts to grow from, and to pick my own as well – and a real challenge being told not to work on the book itself for weeks. My fingers were itchy for the craft by the time I was allowed back to writing.

I’d been slacking a bit on my reading goals, and this has all been excellent incentive to drown myself in books again.

This bookworm has taken her reading game to a new level.


Cassie Hart (Kāi Tahu) is a writer of speculative fiction and lover of pizza, coffee, and zombies (in no particular order). She’s had short stories published in several anthologies and been a finalist for both the Sir Julius Vogel and Australian Shadow Awards.

Creating is a Wonderful Thing

It’s 12 pm on Saturday night. I am ecstatic, my cheeks red with exhaustion and exhilaration at the same time. No, I am not clubbing or at a party with friends. Here I am, sitting alone at the wooden dining room table, my heart pumping in my chest. I’ve decided that being a writer is isolating. It’s just you and the keyboard of your computer. Except perhaps for the friends I’ve discovered in the magical worlds I create through the use of words. Mōrena Pēpi Kiore (cute baby mouse). Kia ora Keatangata (cute baby Kea). As you can see, I like cute native animals in my storylines.

“I’ve been reading books written by writers on their creative process,”

I’ve spent five months and too many days to count, writing this novel. Waking up early every morning, my laptop open and the unnatural light of the screen searing my sleepy eyes. I’m lucky I have the flexibility of being a university student, as this week I’ve spent two entire days writing. My weight has increased as the amount of exercise I do has decreased to zilch, zero, nothing. If I could show it to you on a line graph (I can’t. I’m a writer.), you would see the line representing my level of physical exercise plummet dramatically. My natural tan has become steadily more vampire-like. Sometimes when I arrive at university for ‘mahi’, I go straight to the postgraduate student cafe and order a herbal tea. There I sit with my laptop and write for a couple of hours before I get into my Master’s thesis (also an imminently approaching deadline). Shoot me now.

I’ve been reading books written by writers on their creative process, including Terry Brooks Sometimes the Magic Works and Elizabeth Gilberts Big Magic. From Talisman Terry, I’ve learnt that taking the time to draft an outline for your novel is a good idea. I realise I might have been over-estimating my writing abilities by creating my plot on the run. As Terry says, “now on top of that you want to mess around with trying to figure out your plot? Who do you think you are – Houdini?” Ouch, that one hurt Terry. So, I write a quick outline for this novel and then find my writing output increases tenfold because when I sit down to write, I now know where I am going and how far I have to go.

“… if inspiration is allowed to unexpectedly enter you it is also allowed to unexpectedly exit you.”

From Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth, I’ve learnt that sometimes ideas magically ascend to those of us with living a creative life and therefore must be grasped fully with two consistent hands. Otherwise, it may flutter over to someone else who cares for it more deeply, “because this is the other side of the contract with creativity: if inspiration is allowed to unexpectedly enter you it is also allowed to unexpectedly exit you.” I am thankful I cared deeply enough about this story, so it didn’t leave me for someone else. Two-timing manuscript.

I binge-watch two documentaries on the creative process of Hayao Miyazaki, the celebrated Japanese film director and co-owner of the fantastical Studio Ghibli. I learn about work ethic from koro Hayao of Spirited Away, and Princess Mononoke fame, who even at the age of 72 was still working on his movie The Wind Rises from 11am-9pm Monday to Saturday. As a writer, those long and consistent hours would seriously churn out some big books and fast.

I am astonished to find out that koro Hayao draws the entire storyboard of his movie by hand. Every single, painstaking second of his movie, drawn by hand. Sheesh, writing is an easy gig compared to old-school animating. He makes up the storyline as he goes. Often the entire studio doesn’t know the outcome until the completion of the entire storyboard. What I find most impressive about this is the faith that the million dollar financiers of his movies must have in his abilities. I imagine a conversation between koro Hayao and his investors.

“Will you spend millions financing my movie?”

“Sure what is the storyline? Who are the characters?”

“I don’t know; I make it up as I go.”

“Please take my money.”

I read online articles on the creators of manga that inspire me, like Rumiko Takahashi and her Japanese mythological tale Inuyasha. All this so that my mind and body can be enthused with the kind of magical creative energy that will help me to complete this novel, or so I fervently hope.

So here we are. The first book I have ever attempted to write and the first book I have ever completed, all in one fell swoop. All 74,250 words, 343 pages and 35 chapters of it. I can see my characters Hine and Pakū in my head, or maybe they are in my heart. I wonder about the second book of the series that I hope to be able to write and how it might tie into the first. My eyes tear up as I reread the last chapter. I know this book is good. The ending worked out well, the characters grow and develop as they should in a coming of age YA novel.

“I realise that I’ve become someone who contributes creatively to literature rather than just another reader who takes without giving back.”

It feels almost sad like the magical, hair-raising, exhilarating, awe-inspiring journey is over. But then I’m also proud that I wrote my own magical story, rather than just reading someone else’s. I realise that I’ve become someone who contributes creatively to literature rather than just another reader who takes without giving back. Like Terry, Elizabeth, koro Hayao and Rumiko. But perhaps what I am most excited about is the story that I’ve written for me.

It is true; this story is the one I wish I could have read when I was a child. All aspects of it, the Māori goddesses, the wars, the animals, the battles, the beautiful and glorious nature. All of it is exactly what I like in a novel. A compilation, an accumulation of the favoured preferences of the lifetime (so far) lived by one precocious adult. It’s magical; it’s special, it’s loving. I realise what this feeling is. It’s pride. Like the pride, one feels when their child learns a new skill. This book is my baby. And my baby has grown into a teenager. She’s still got a way to go, a bit of editing, a lot of re-writing, moving things from here to there. But she’s on track.

I hope my bubble of happiness won’t be burst when I receive feedback on the completed transcript from my mentor. But for now, I feel proud. I thank my mentors Terry, Elizabeth, koro Hayao, Rumiko and of course my Te Papa Tupu mentor Simon. I pat myself on the back (figuratively) and go to bed, my mind still racing from the adventure I created solely from the colourful recesses of my mind. Which in itself is amazing.

Creating is a wonderful thing.


Ataria Rangipikitia Sharman (Tapuika, Ngāpuhi) loves writing. Sometimes what she writes is good and sometimes it isn’t. But she persists nevertheless, in the form of essays, poetry and articles. Ataria’s writing has been published on E-Tangata and you can follow her poetry on Instagram @atariarangipikitia.