I need to write like I need to breathe. It’s not about intention—it’s just what I do.
Would you please tell us a little about your writing process?
God, I hate answering this question — it’s so broad. But generally, my writing process goes like this: I start with a basic outline, then I write and write and write. I want to get the entire story down before I even think about revising. Obviously, what I end up with at that stage isn’t great.
So, I take advantage of the free printing at work, print the whole thing out, and do a full edit by hand. Then I transfer those edits back onto the computer and go through it a few more times. I’m not precious about killing my darlings — the final version usually looks very different from at least two earlier drafts.
I’m never really satisfied; I’m always editing. In fact, after finding out I’d won, I went back and gave the story another subedit. Letting a piece sit for a while helps — coming back to it with fresh eyes can make a big difference.
How do you believe a writer improves? Practice? Mentors? Reading everything? Attending festivals?
All the above. But honestly, the best way to get better at writing is to write. I only really hit my stride when I got into a routine—sitting down regularly and doing the thing. Feedback helps, of course, but even without it, the more you write, the better you’ll get.
I’m also not above mimicking—I once read about a writer who used to hand-copy passages from novels he admired, just to feel how the sentences moved. I love that. Imitating the style of writers, you enjoy reading is a great way to understand what you’re drawn to—and then, over time, make it your own.
We’re all crows here. I often find something clever an author has done—a setup, a plot twist, even just the rhythm of their sentences—and I’ll write a piece using that as a springboard.
I’m obviously not trying to copy the plot of The Great Gatsby, but paying close attention to structure, pacing, voice, and how scenes are set up or resolved helps me reverse-engineer what works. It’s less about stealing and more about studying—and eventually metabolising those techniques into something that feels like mine.
That kind of conscious borrowing, especially when paired with a consistent writing habit, has probably taught me as much as any formal instruction.
What motivated / motivates you to write?
I read this interview once—can’t remember who it was exactly, but it was the son of a famous actor. He was asked if he’d ever considered acting, and he said something like, ‘No. To make it in this industry, you have to need to act the way you need to breathe—and I just don’t feel that way about it.’
I’m butchering the quote, but the sentiment stuck with me. That’s how I feel about writing. I need to write like I need to breathe. It’s not about intention—it’s just what I do.
Do you enjoy writing?
Just to carry on from what I said earlier—I don’t really think of writing in terms of enjoyment or not. It’s just something I do, and to some extent, something I’ve always done.
There are moments I don’t enjoy—like staring down a deadline I know I won’t meet or getting stuck on a concept and not being able, for the life of me, to make the words land the way I want. I’ve got a couple of pieces like that now—both missed deadlines for competitions I really wanted to enter.
But I also love it. There’s nothing better than hitting that flow state, when the writing takes over and you’re just chasing it down. I imagine it’s the writer’s version of a runner’s high.
What is the best piece of advice you have received? Or, what is the best piece of advice you would offer an aspiring writer?
The best piece of writing advice I’ve ever received is: ‘The more specific you make something, the more universal it becomes.’ It’s a bit like that great philosopher Doc Hudson, who said, ‘Turn right to go left.’ Sounds ridiculous until it works.
On the surface, it feels like writing something broad and universal would reach more people—but usually that just means you’ve written something vague and forgettable. When you get specific—when you drill down into the weird, personal, detailed stuff—that’s where the emotion is. And that’s what people connect with.
Which books is it most important for an aspiring writer to read?
There’s a book called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott that offers writing advice I really hold onto. The namesake is this: when you look at a piece of fiction, it’s made up of so many chapters, so many words, so many ideas, it can feel impossible to even begin. So how do you start?
Lamott, through a story about bird watching, says you do it bird by bird. In other words: one thing at a time. One word, one sentence, one paragraph, one chapter—and eventually, you’ve got something whole.
I used to be terrified by how big a novel or long-form story felt. That advice helped ground me. It made the process feel doable.
What do you believe is the function of your art?
I once attended a workshop with R.O. Kwon, who said that every writer has one core idea they’re trying to work through—and if you look at their body of work, you’ll see that same idea, written and rewritten, over and over and over again.
I’m not sure it’s quite that universal. But I’ve come to realise that, for me, the question I keep circling is: What does it mean to be good?
And you can read into that however you like.
What is the role of the writer in society?
When I think about the role of the writer in society, I always come back to an author I really admire: Murong Xuecun. If you don’t know his work, he’s a Chinese writer, and I first came across him through Deadly Quiet City—a collection of true stories from the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic in Wuhan.
In 2010, he won the People’s Literature Prize, and in his acceptance speech (which you can read on the New York Times), he said this:
‘Writers shouldn’t be parrots, they shouldn’t be human loudspeakers, and they definitely should not be yapping house pets; they should have a clear mind and speak with an honest voice. When they take up their pens, they are nobody’s slave, they have the right to pledge loyalty to no one; and to speak the truth and be true to their own consciences.’
Coming from someone who was later exiled for writing Deadly Quiet City, that line hits hard. And honestly, I think that’s the kind of message worth amplifying.
I wouldn’t say I’ve fully landed in that role yet—not consistently, anyway—but it’s something I want to grow into. To write with that kind of clarity and conscience. To tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. That, to me, feels like the heart of what writing can do.
Phoebe Robertson is a Pākehā author who has recently completed her MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. She was commended in the Charles Brasch Young Writers Essay Competition and holds further awards from Poetry New Zealand Yearbook, Young NZ Writers, and National Flash Fiction Day. Her work has appeared in the last four editions of Mayhem Literary Journal and various other online platforms.