Why I Write from Whakataukī

 


Why I Write from Whakataukī

People often ask what draws me to writing stories inspired by Māori whakataukī, and the answer is both simple and difficult.

I return to them because they hold truth.

Not the flimsy sort of truth that changes with fashion, or the kind dressed up to sound clever for five minutes online and then vanish. Real truth. The kind that has weight to it. The kind that has survived because it speaks to something enduring in human life: love, loss, courage, foolishness, mercy, endurance, responsibility, and the choices we make when life becomes hard.

That is the kind of truth I want at the heart of my writing.

When I begin with a whakataukī, I do not feel as though I am starting with a slogan or a writing prompt. I feel as though I am beginning with a living idea — something distilled, something tested, something far older and wiser than I am. It gives me a centre of gravity. It asks something of me as a writer. It reminds me that story is not just about plot, pace, or spectacle, though I love all of those things. It is also about meaning.

That matters to me deeply.

I have always believed that any fiction should do more than simply pass the time. I want stories to entertain, certainly. I want wonder, strangeness, tension, beauty, humour, and the thrill of stepping into another world. But I also want a story to leave something behind when it ends. I want it to echo a little. I want it to ask a question that lingers, or touch a truth that stays with the reader after the final page is turned.

Whakataukī help me write towards that.

They give me a foundation strong enough to build whole worlds on. They sharpen theme. They deepen conflict. They make characters’ choices matter more. A single proverb can contain an entire moral landscape if you let it. It can hold tenderness and warning in the same breath. It can be wise, severe, compassionate, ironic, and painfully human all at once. For a writer, that is a gift.

It is also a responsibility.

I do not see whakataukī as decorative. They are not there to make a story sound profound or to lend it borrowed beauty. They deserve care, thought, and respect. That is part of why they matter so much to me. Writing from them forces me to slow down, listen more carefully, and think more deeply about what a story is really trying to say.

- Rebecca

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