The Work Behind the Work.

 

What My Writing Process Actually Looks Like

People love to ask writers one question as though it has a single neat answer: So… what’s your process?

The honest truth is that mine looks less like a gleaming spaceship and more like a working salvage crew: turning up, checking the bolts, listening for strange sounds in the hull, and keeping the lights on long enough to get the job done.

Behind the scenes, it is messy, practical, occasionally hilarious, and surprisingly disciplined.

I write speculative fiction shaped by connection, consequence, and hope. At this stage, that work includes shorter fiction as well as a couple of full novels, but the process behind it remains much the same: begin with the spark, follow the question, and keep going until the story earns its ending.

It begins with a spark

Most stories begin for me with an image, a feeling, or a problem that refuses to leave me alone. It might be a marae in orbit, a station carved from debris, or a starship corridor lit like a tired hallway at 2am. It might be a hum of awe, dread, grief, or stubborn hope. It might be a crew who cannot leave, a promise that cannot be kept cleanly, or a system that was never designed to care.

But the spark is not the story. The story begins when I ask: What does this cost?

I love wonder and the unknown, but I also love consequence. If a world feels real, it pushes back. If a character feels real, they pay for their choices — sometimes in small ways, sometimes in ways that change everything.

Values before plot

This may sound backwards to those who prefer spreadsheets and carefully pinned plot beats, but it is the way my mind works.

Before I settle the structure of a story, I anchor it in the values that matter most to me: Whakapapa, Tikanga, Kaitiakitanga, Manaakitanga, and the holistic understanding of wellbeing held within Te Whare Tapa Whā. These are not decorative ideas sitting politely in the corner. They shape the emotional and moral physics of the story. They help decide what feels true, even when the setting is far in the future and the sky above is metal.

They remind me to ask not only what is possible, but what is right, what is owed, and what must be carried.

Proverbs as compass

When I draw on proverbs — whether whakataukī, English proverbs, or other forms of traditional wisdom — I do not treat them as ornaments. I treat them as instruments of navigation.

A proverb does not hand me a plot. It gives me a standard. It asks difficult things of both character and story. You can survive, but who did you leave behind? You can win, but will you recognise yourself afterward? You can do what must be done, but what are you responsible for once it is finished?

Sometimes a proverb leads me somewhere I had not planned to go. Usually, that is a sign that the story is becoming honest.

Drafting the rough shape

My first drafts are allowed to be untidy. In truth, they need to be.

This is the stage where I discover what the story actually wants to become, where I learn who the characters are under pressure, and where I begin to hear the hum of the world — its tone, rhythm, and emotional temperature. I do not try to polish too early. Polishing a first draft is like painting a house while the frame is still moving.

What matters in those early pages is movement, tension, and truth. The scene must do something. It must shift the situation, reveal character, or open a better question than it answers. If it does that, it can be refined later.

Revision and responsibility

Revision is where the work becomes deliberate. Drafting is exploration; revision is commitment.

This is where I test the structure, challenge the characters, tighten the language, and make sure the world can bear the weight I am placing on it. If a piece of technology exists, I want to know what changes because of it. If resources are scarce, I want to know who controls them. If a relationship matters, I want it to carry real weight rather than simply take up space on the page.

At the sentence level, I cut clutter, sharpen verbs, and remove anything that is trying too hard to be noticed. The goal is not to sound fancy. The goal is to feel alive.

The place of AI

I am straightforward about the fact that I use AI as part of my process.

For me, it is a tool rather than a ghostwriter. It can help with brainstorming, testing plot logic, generating practical lists, or offering alternatives when a sentence refuses to behave. What it cannot replace are the things that matter most: lived values, judgement, responsibility, and voice.

I decide what belongs. I decide what is true to the work. I am accountable for the final shape of every story.

Stories are carried

I also believe deeply in feedback. Stories are not created in isolation and then lowered from the ceiling fully formed. They are carried, tested, and listened to.

I share drafts with trusted readers who understand what I am trying to do and who will tell the truth kindly. What I want to know is not simply whether they liked a piece, but where their attention slipped, what confused them, what moved them, and whether anything rang false.

I would always rather find the weak seam early than defend it later.

Showing up

Inspiration is lovely, but it is unreliable. It behaves very much like a cat: independent, selective, and unimpressed by anyone’s timetable.

So the real backbone of my process is consistency. Small word counts. Scene goals. Leaving a breadcrumb at the end of a writing session so that I know where to begin again. I try to stop while something is still alive in the work, rather than finishing on a neat full stop and leaving myself a cold engine to restart the next day.

In the end, showing up matters more than waiting for lightning.

Stubborn hope

If there is one thread that runs through everything I write, it is this: hope is not a mood. It is a practice.

It is found in responsibility, in community, and in the hard choice to remain human when easier options present themselves dressed up as practicality. The futures I am interested in are not perfect, polished, or effortlessly bright. They are lived-in, accountable, and shaped by people who keep showing up for one another.

That, more than anything, is the work.

Final thoughts

Writing is work. Beautiful work. Difficult work. Sometimes exhilarating, sometimes awkward, sometimes deeply annoying. It asks for honesty, discipline, and a willingness to stay with the thing long enough to discover what it is really trying to say.

Some days it flows. Most days it does not. But the process holds for the same reason communities hold: people show up, do the mahi, care for those beside them, and keep their promises. And if all of that happens with a proper cup of coffee nearby, so much the better.