Stories are social glue. And this one about the haunted, abandoned society proved to be quite adhesive when I first arrived in India.

The ghost story took place in a large colony of green spaces, buildings, and winding roads nestled in Mumbai’s suburbia. A group of hostels, in one corner of the colony, was a hotbed for supernatural tales and had been left to nature’s whims. From the looks of it, it had been forgotten a while ago; desolate facades, vines growing haphazardly, broken windows.

It had a menacing aura, and a blanket of mist hung over it in dramatic affectation.

It had first surprised me that no one had bulldozed it and recreated a livable society. Mumbai, after all, is one of the most populous cities in the world, and space is coveted like gold. But even the homeless stayed clear of it. Evidently, superstitions are formidable.

I’d been in Mumbai for 6 months when I first heard the story. I’d made a few friends and was learning to enjoy university, but I still stuck out like a sore thumb. I was Indian, but not enough. I was a foreigner, but not exactly. My Hindi was broken, and my English sounded unfamiliar. I knew the pop culture, but the local jokes never landed with me. When this story found me, it was like a souvenir from the gods of camaraderie.

My friends and I realised that we had a common curiosity about urban legends. And I got sucked in.

As most ghost stories go, this one had an assortment of bone-chilling activities. Restless spirits from a plane crash, a vengeful murder victim, and an angry ‘Lady in White’ hitchhiker. Dogs screamed if they ventured in unwittingly, and people were chased by unearthly energy.

It had all the spooky ingredients of a Stephen King novel.

One late night, our courage fortified by spicy street food, we decided to visit the creepy colony. We’d come up with an alternative narrative to why the spirits chased anyone who dared to pass by. They weren’t spiteful; they were lonely. They weren’t hunting you; they were trying to be buddies.

At this point in the story, I have to pause and remind you that it’s easy to be stupid when you’re 17. But it’s also easy to be brave. As an adult, almost twice as old now, I’m probably more terrified of ghosts and won’t venture into the dark without a light, prayer, or garlic. Somehow, aspects of play and adventure have dimmed with age.

Anyway, we hopped onto our bikes and rode to Aarey Colony, huddling closely for both warmth and valour. It was close to midnight, but that didn’t mean the streets were empty. Night shift workers, couples out for a stroll, families on moonlit drives, and sleepless students like us dotted most laneways. Mumbai is the city that never sleeps for a reason.

As we approached the colony, the groups waned, and murmurs waxed. The air was cool, or maybe I had imagined it, and the street lamps buzzed with a palpable charge; likely due to age, but my mind nevertheless noted the warning.

We cycled to the mouth of the winding road and paused. Nursing sweaty palms and erratic breaths, we waited for our cold feet to catch up. But one of us pedelled on, and the rest followed. The road grew darker, and the sounds of the suburb faded to a fuzzy white noise.

We told jokes, loudly. An invitation and hint to any spirits pondering our intention. We were there to make friends. We took shortcuts between buildings, kept one eye out for escape routes, but clowned around for a good half hour nevertheless. Even after emphatic comedy, no one (or nothing) joined in; no hitchhiker clad in white or ominous wails.

Soon, we began to laugh, for real. We were having fun chasing ghost stories, especially when there were no ghosts around. The tail of the road came into view, and the suburb emerged in the distance.

Suddenly, a loud noise echoed behind us. I still can’t describe what it sounded like, but I vividly remember the sudden buckshot of horror I felt.

‘Shit,’ my friend muttered and raced down the road.

We heeded his urgency and pedalled until our hearts threatened to give out. And then, we burst into laughter once again.

I recall this night from time to time with special fondness. Not only had I forged a deeper connection with my friends, but for the first time, I’d done something ludicrious. And I had fun.

I never broke the rules as a kid, well, apart from the tiny ones that cost you nothing more than a scowl from your teacher. But the wonder of being silly is that it teaches you to be audacious, a little reckless even. And that night was proof that I could be bold. And over the next few years of university, I collected more evidence of my goofiness.

But as time passed, that playfulness mellowed. My traditional brand of caution seeped back in, and I took comfort in colouring within the lines. And so, my sense of play has been dormant for a while now. Adults often forget what it’s like to be childish; to tap into spontaneity and experiment for the sake of fun.

Maybe I’ve been missing that side of me; I’ve been recounting such memories more often these days. My days feel too structured and my goals, too heavy. I think I’ve unintentionally given up on goals.

So, I’m going to start tapping into my sense of play more. Dance often, make things for no reason, play pretend, roll on the sand with my dog, learn to skate—I‘m going to pay attention to when I connect most with my inner child, and I’m not going to hold back.

I’m curious, what brings out your childlike sensibilities?

xx

Smriti

If this post gave you something to think about, subscribe to receive an essay a week, always free. And if you’d like to support the work, the first 20 founding members get a 1:1 creative conversation with me. 💌

Subscribe now

To show support without another subscription, you can buy me a coffee. ☕️

Share love with a coffee

The rhythmic lapping of waves and the rustling of bushes against the salty morning breeze; the chirps of coastal birds and loud sniffs from my dog soaking in the briny dawn. Many days, my eyes land on a blanket of calm blue waters disappearing beneath an empty, lambent sky. Other days, harsh storms lash at the windows as rain drums against my roof.

And when I turn in my bed to face away from the windows, the sounds of the awakening suburb nestle over me. Neighbours moving about in a reverie, a car or two whistling by, trains humming in the distance, and if it’s a Monday, the unmistakable beeps of the garbage truck.

My time, nestled between borough and beach, is coming to an end as I move to a new home. It’s been the coolest place I’ve ever lived. And over the year, I’ve collected a handful of inspirations imparted by the sea.

Here, I share a few with you.

On versions // shapeshifting

We all have a sundry assortment of versions within us.

I’m a collection of at least ten diverse women.

Some are whispers from my childhood; others, more recent shapes. Many are echoes from life-changing memories, and a couple are nebulous forms reaching for the future. Each day, one or a few of them take the spotlight. I either love these versions dearly or scorn them for their insecurities.

Don’t you?

But, just as we admire the ocean for its countless characters, we can learn to embrace the many renditions of ourselves. Each photo in this essay shows the same beach on a different day, in a different mood, in a different season. If nature shapeshifts so unbrazenly, why can’t we?

On purpose // pursuit

On a recent walk, the wind picked up suddenly, and the weightless sand began to flutter in a straight line as if summoned. The scene was jarring because it mimicked my frame of mind. All week, I’d been feeling as if the sand was shifting beneath my feet.

The sea had read my mind.

I was on my third existential crisis for the year; thanks to AI remodelling my creative job, the state of the world, war and all. It felt like humans had built a pyre of unstable decisions, and all my nervous system could handle was to perch on a rock and toast marshmallows in that fire. I was losing meaning.

And somehow, for the rest of the walk, I felt as weightless as the sand. An inspiration had supplanted itself in my mind.

When you’re not sure what to pursue, pursue yourself.

Explore things that light you up; pick up an old hobby that’s been collecting dust in the attic, or draw a treasure map of uncommon trails you can trek. Sign up for a marathon or make artisanal tea—make yourself the focus.

When life seems unpredictable and confounding, turn inward. Purpose will eventually follow.

I encountered this perspective probably a year ago, but its meaning has truly ripened in the current season of social and political miasma. And of course, largely thanks to the company of the sea.

On storms // cold feet

I’ve always desired clarity before acting. Even the smallest decisions, I make after I know enough. I’ve built an internal barometer for chaos, and I only start when it tips toward certainty.

The storm in that picture above—that’s chaos. The waters were dark and opaque that day, and as much as I wanted to dip my feet in them, I had a feeling they’d be freezing. My barometer urged me to remain on the sand.

With all such quirks, there’s a boon and a bane. Mine makes me good at my job as a product designer. I can turn murky problems into simple solutions. But in my personal life, it sometimes hinders aspirations and ideas. I wait too long, and I get cold feet before I even begin.

Watching the storm brewing was oddly mesmerising. When I turned my attention to my family, I noticed my husband and dog wading in the shallows. He beckoned for me to join them, and, swallowing my hesitation, I followed.

The waters were warm.

Turns out, it’s often the case during storms. My feet were not going to be cold, and taking a chance in the face of a brewing tempest wasn’t so scary after all.

Sometimes, the only way to clarity is to step into the chaos.

On making // moving

We often describe nature as an artist and rightly so. She’s the cradle of all imagination. I witnessed the same 2 km stretch of nature intentionally paint herself into remarkable landscapes each day.

I’ve dreamt up stories and ideas on the beach. My husband and I have woven clouds into woodland creatures, and the colours of the sky into abstract art. I’ve walked its length to move through my emotions, and mostly, to move my body in tandem with the waves.

Moving has always inspired me to make. And what better background could I have asked for than the Australian coast?

Its vastness inspires me to curate spaciousness in my own life. For without space, how can one be creative and think deeply?

I might no longer live two steps away from the beach. But its magic has wormed its way into my bones, and its call, I’ll forever heed. Its stories, I’ll forever cherish.

Subscribe to fuel more snacks

Midnight Snack is a reader-supported publication on the good things in life. With a paid subscription, you receive a 1:1 creative conversation with me, along with my undying gratitude. 💌

Subscribe now

To show support without another subscription, you can buy me a coffee. ☕️

Share love with a coffee

I wrote this essay on the first day of this year, and as we near the end of yet another frolic around the sun, it feels fitting to share it again. What would you like to invite into your new year?

I’ve been thinking about the slow erosion of cultures a lot this year. Our desire to be palatable leaves no room for diversity and uniqueness, and so, perhaps, familiarity may not always be the only way to fit in.

The freedom and curiosity to think deeply and freely have been topical for me these last few months. In the age of AI, it’s easy to outsource every question and every thought, but complexity is a good thing. Let’s learn to sit with it.

I penned this last week, and I want to leave you with this reminder once again. Big lives are not the same as busy lives. Adundance needs space; unfilled days and time with oneself. Are they on your wishlist for 2026?

Thanks for hanging out with me this year, friends. Writing for you and for myself has been one of the most nourishing parts of 2025. I’ll see in the new year with more words.

Subscribe to fuel more snacks

Midnight Snack is a reader-supported publication on the good things in life. With a paid subscription, you get a 1:1 creative conversation with me, and my undying gratitude. 💌

Subscribe now

To show support without another subscription, you can buy me a coffee. ☕️

Buy me a coffee ☕️

I was nestled under 3 layers of clothing—4 am, even on a spring morning, can be nippy. Besides, we were surrounded by open fields and October winds; a sharp freshness was expected.

The crew set up the giant balloon with seamless choreography, and within minutes, it began to swell. Yawns were replaced by cheers as the limp canvas billowed out, courtesy of giant fans and generous flames. It was vastly satisfying to watch it grow, breath by breath.

We might have scared a few birds, because when the sounds of the blaze finally ceased, a family of disgruntled kookaburras made their presence known. I muttered a few apologies to them and the sleeping cattle I noticed on the neighbouring farm, and trundled into the large basket.

After more pleasantries and instructions, the balloon began to soar into the open skies just in time for sunrise. Streaks of pink and orange shot across the blue expanse as we drifted, slowly, over the Yarra Valley.

The wind was gentle on my face, and my breath slowed as I meditatively watched roofs, animals, and trees become flecks on the landscape. Several minutes passed, and I found myself impulsively craving more. More speed, more distance, more height.

I whispered to my husband, ‘This is nice, but I think I prefer skydiving.’

The lady next to me, content to eavesdrop, responded in his stead, ‘But diving is over so quickly.’

‘Yes but—’

I paused and smiled, ‘You’re right.’

I’m a child of convenience, efficiency, and quick hits of dopamine. Most of us are. We rush. We wear ‘busy’ as a badge of honour. But here I was, unrushed, relaxed, and moving deliberately.

Subscribe now

Aside from the breathtaking views of nature, that moment of moving revelation might be my favourite part of the hot air balloon ride. The balloon sailed at the whim of the wind, but there was purpose in the way it flowed. Our destination was clear—the landing zone a couple of hundred metres away—but our journey wasn’t rigid. We meandered and discovered new parts of the valley, ultimately ending right where we needed to be.

That’s the philosophy I wish to always carry with me. Knowing where I want to go, but allowing the course to be unrestricted; trading a predetermined map for a compass. Moving with intention, rather than just moving because I’m uncomfortable being still.

As we set foot on solid ground once again, an hour had passed. I felt lighter in more ways than one. The morning continued to carry a crispness as we made our way back home. It was 9 am when I sipped coffee for the first time that day. It warmed up my insides, ever so slowly, and I felt a strange kinship with that unhurried feeling.

Tell me: Are there parts of your life where you rush when you could move deliberately?

Subscribe to fuel more snacks

Midnight Snack is a reader-supported publication on the good things in life. With a paid subscription, you get a 1:1 creative conversation with me, and my undying gratitude. 💌

To show support without another subscription, you can also buy me a coffee ☕️

Buy me a coffee

The world is looking a bit fractured, isn’t it?

War, street violence, anti-immigration protests, global politics; they’ve taken a sharpie to the world map, scribbled thick lines over the borders, and imprinted scars darker than ink.

No wonder we’re all burrowing deeper into our corners, seeking safety and comfort in singular identities. Sadly, we’re missing out on friendships and its synergy.

But in another atlas, one filled with oddities, there’s a collection of maps that are sketched with delight, humour, and curiosity. They show we’re more connected than we’d like to imagine, telling the story of a fragmented world put back together in unusual ways.

Subscribe now

The maps you’re going to see were curated by Simon Kuestenmacher in his book, Random Maps. So, let’s step back from the chaos. And journey around the Earth in the quirkiest of manners.

Pick your first country, not by passports or travelogues, but by socket shapes. A place that shares the sockets with the country you live in. Imagine the little freedoms of plugging your devices in anywhere without needing an adaptor.

According to this wacky map, I’m heading from Australia to Argentina. Turns out electricity is a bridge across the world and I can skip a last-minute run to the electronic store.

If you’ve got the fanciest (socket) shape where all of Europe is available to you, this next map might help you pick a winner. And it’s one of my favourites from the book; it reminds me of bedtime stories.

So, would you rather visit the Land of Many Rabbits or the Eastern Realm? A sojourn in the Land of Young Cattle perhaps? Maybe, a few nights in Little Castle?

I can’t wait to hear what destination you pick.

Wherever you decide to go, a trip is incomplete without gluttonous sampling of local delicacies. But before you head to dinner, make sure to learn the tipping culture. Nothing more embarrassing than leaving a tip in Japan and insulting the good people by accident; or forgetting to tip in America and being told off.

And since you might be driving there, here’s the world colour-coded by speed limits. How oddly pleasing is this map? It offers a peculiar insight into a big part of everyday life; getting from place to place. Someone on the other side of the globe might have the exact same traffic violations as you. I told you we’re all weirdly connected.

As for me, at 140km/h, I’ll be feeling the wind in my hair exploring Argentina.

Here’s a special tip for those of you planning to visit France or as we now know, The Land of Franks. Dainty cheek kisses are a must in French greetings. But how many kisses are there?

Well, lucky for you, here is affection mapped across French geography. Three kisses for a rendezvous in Paris but two are nice enough for Nice.

Lastly, save those pecks for humans and dogs, and chuck some insect repellant in your checked baggage. As this map of venomous species suggests, you can never be too careful. And yet, it’s wildly beautiful to see how we can peacefully coexist with nature’s fiercest.

And there you have it; a small taste of eccentric cartographies from Kuestenmacher’s book.

These maps are light-hearted reminders that pull us away from the ground noise and let us see the big picture. I admit that this article is a tad unconventional of Midnight Snack but it’s just another attempt to excavate curiosity: a different way of looking at the world.

In the miasma of foul global news, this book made me smile to look at a planet united by quirks and interconnected whimsy. Noticing socket shapes and tipping habits won’t solve wars but it does remind us that beneath the discord, humans are endlessly inventive, strange, and worth knowing.

So, tell me in the comments, where do you plan to visit?

Drop a comment and say hi. Also, come hang out on Instagram. 💌

For the cost of five coffees a year, you can fuel stories with a paid subscription. ☕️

Or, if you’d just like to show support without another subscription, even one coffee makes a difference.

Buy me a coffee

Ideas find you when you most need them.

They may be your own or theories from others— ones that you once rejected in the past because they simply didn’t resonate—but now, all of a sudden, they make sense. They make more than just sense, they echo deeply within the wells of your being.

I’m convinced that this is otherworldly. How do these old ideas know to find you at the right time? How do they know you’re now ready to embrace them?

We may call it serendipity—I wrote about inviting such chances last week. But what if serendipity is the feeling that’s evoked. Perhaps there’s a spectral influence, something less understood, that brings us back to the doorstep of these abandoned stories.

Over the last year, I’ve experienced moments where books, ideologies, or views on life that felt uninviting—unexpectedly seemed more appealing and relevant. When I started paying attention to how they positively shaped my life, it looked almost eerily mystical. As if these ideas had followed me around, waiting patiently, until I was ready for them.

I was tempted to pen a short poem about this magical occurrence.

Step in with me or skip ahead to read about the echoes of this belief across cultures.

Have you set a book down, unmoved and off-hand
Only to find it riveting many moons later?
Does an idea that once felt archaic and pointless,
now shimmer with profound influence?

Perhaps absurdity has gained charm,
the unimaginable has earned belief,
things and places sparse with meaning,
now seek to be in tune and harmonious.

Have you simply traded opinions?
Time contorting your truths yet again.
Maybe you’ve become jaded or even wiser,
mining deep biases to cultivate fresher tenets

Oh, but you’ve been fooled by the specters,
the spirits of old ideas and encounters.
They want you to believe you’ve transformed,
when in secrecy, they’ve pursued your fantasies.

Supplanting thoughts with their ancient wisdom,
lurking with rejected stories at nightfall,
seducing time to be their ally,
so you can ‘chance’ upon evolved perspectives

The next time a jilted theory glitters like gold,
or a forgotten book keeps you up all night,
ah, they’ve found you in the depths of your rumination. 
Trust that the specters have changed your mind.

When you seek out axioms once unsought,
and unlikely places become cherished haunts,
know that their ghosts have been waiting in the shadows,
disembodied ideas appearing at the right place and time.

Subscribe now

The author, Elizabeth Gilbert, has a slightly similar perspective on creativity, calling it an elusive genius. She sees it as an external guidance or creative force rather than an internal identity. She suggests that viewing creativity as something on loan to us from a mysterious source allows creators to show up and “do their job,” without the paralysing need to be brilliant.

Cultures around the world liken artistry to something divine, not necessarily something birthed from within the individual. Ancient Greece and Rome respected creativity as an external celestial force, a genius or daemon—a helper. Sacred Indian scriptures define knowledge as something heard by seers, not authored. Norse myth says that dwarfs brewed the deity, Kvasir’s blood into a mead that grants wisdom and poetic skill to whoever drinks it.

Perhaps, it’s reassuring or even essential to believe that ideas are mystical and have a supernatural way of finding us. That creativity isn’t owned but borrowed. It takes away the pressure of perfection or even the obligation to like everything we encounter or invest in.

Maybe, the next time you’re excited about an idea or thought—and it either doesn’t work out or rings true in the moment—let it rest. Allow yourself and the idea to breathe. When the time is right, the story will land with you.

Maybe the specters of old ideas are truly at play. Encouraging you to attune yourself to their frequency. Or perhaps, it’s just been you all along. Your evolving self opening up and reinterpreting past encounters.

Who’s to say? 👻

Drop a note, say hi, tell me what you think.

Come hang out on Instagram. 💌

Stop waging war against the em dash. Good grammar was here long before AI. 🤓

All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen.
Matilda by Roald Dahl

I was probably seven or eight years old when I first read Matilda. Every week, we had a reading class in school— we’d gather in the library, pick a book, and simply read. One day, I plucked Matilda off the shelves and fell in love with a character for the first time. Not in the way I had once obsessed over Barney, the purple dinosaur, but in a subtle, endearing way that forever changed how I related to stories.

Thinking back, it was my first dose of inspiration. I wanted to be like Matilda, escape into stories, and move things with my mind. While I didn’t develop telekinetic powers, I did find a lasting connection to fiction.

Stories transport us to new worlds. Escapism, we call it. But fiction is much more than an entertaining respite from reality. It’s how we make sense of the world. It’s where we gather wisdom and new perspectives. Fiction inspires and delights. It teaches us how others think and softens our inhibitions about unknowns. It offers a safe haven when moments are difficult and a sense of belonging, even if it’s among imaginary friends.

One of the best souvenirs from school was those reading classes. They were replaced in middle school in favour of more ‘serious’ lectures and I’ve always wondered who decided reading was a frivolous act?

I run a literary community where we read together in good company and talk books over food and drinks. Every person brings their current book—we don’t prescribe what anyone should read. Most people I meet within the community tell me how they rediscovered the joy of reading as an adult. Somewhere between being a kid who reads under the covers and an adult who stays up late for one more chapter lies a lost bibliophile, mourning the disappearance of a once-favoured hobby.

I’m drawn to fantasy. Not just for its magical worlds, impossible feats, and otherworldly characters, but because it’s a wonder of human imagination. I love how contemporary fiction poignantly comments on modern society and how historical fiction gives the past new meaning.

If you’ve ever thought fiction was mere amusement, think again. It’s instant kinship when you spot a stranger reading a book you like. It’s passion, scribbled in the margins as annotations and gifts meted out as recommendations. It’s creative expression at its finest and ideas passed down through lore.

So, what’s your favourite fiction book?

I journeyed 28 hours to get to Europe; 3 flights, 2 Ubers, and 1 bus. I took a tram ride in one of Lisbon’s ancient streetcars and a boat ride on the canals in Amsterdam. And then I walked for hours each day. Our human spirit takes us places and we traverse the journey in boxes—just so we can walk free. The paradox always makes me laugh; we surround ourselves with confines in order to eventually taste freedom unhindered.

Old cities have stubborn bones. They stand on the strength of history and the memories that linger in their streets. Born from wars and dreams, such cities wither but persist, slain only by wrecking balls and political agendas.

We’re all like old cities; we hold generations of wisdom, gifts, trauma, and traditions. As we move through life, some inherited bones perish and some embolden our selves. We take a wrecking ball to some, breaking down and rebuilding, and some, we protect like plaques.

There is a refined delicacy to the art of Mediterranean cooking. An array of indulgence awards the same pleasure as a simple offering of sweet flavoured butter and warm bread. The philosophy, I think, is to live a good and enjoyable life. What’s more enjoyable than fine food? The French call it bon vivant meaning one who lives well.

Mulled wine in a quaint bar is good living. A beautiful book on a train ride through the country is also good living. We all desire it. We seek such a life but often reserve it for holidays and weekends. Why on hell do we postpone bon vivant?

Speaking of good food— some of my favourite holiday escapades are found in scouring unique restaurants and bars. While delectable cuisine is sought after, the ones I like the most are often picturesque and well-designed too. More often that not, they have a good playlist or live music. It appeals to all my senses.

Humans have an affinity to juxtapose contrasts. The old and new, natural and man-made, history and future, and so on. I love this marriage of opposing elements and so, I adored the three days we spent at this ultra modern airbnb tucked away in an old-fashioned town surrounded by ancient nature. I spent hours by this frigid un-swimminable pool, admiring the landscape of Les Apieres with a book, wine, and birds for company.

The beguiling shapes that emerge where architecture meets the skies is yet another contrast that my eyes are instantly drawn to. The sharp edges of the canal houses of Amsterdam and the smooth curves of Casa Batlló seemed more vivid when viewed under a blanket of blue. It reminds me of the human disposition where our moods inevitably soar on beautiful sunny days; everything seems extraordinary when the heavens shine.

Portugal is bejewelled with pretty tiles. Roads, pavements, walls, and ceilings are carpeted with tiles of different colours and shapes. It’s sight to behold but when it rains, you’re sure to fall if you’re a moon-eyed tourist like me. I have to admit that I slipped a few times, even tumbled into a stranger, and learned the Portuguese word for ‘sorry’ in the process. Desculpa!

I hope you enjoyed this slice of my trip and my random musings about life. Is there an experience or holiday that you especially cherish?

So why do I still write? Because I love stories. Because I have fun with words. And because I crave the satisfaction of having made something original from start to finish. I write in the mornings before work, on the commute back home, and at night, if my brain cells allow it. And I’m more than halfway through— 42,300 words as of this morning.

An average novel in my genre (Magical Realism) is around 60,000 - 100,000 words. This is the farthest I’ve come and I’m beyond thrilled. Halfway through my first draft, a couple of interesting opportunities materialised.

Here’s what changed:

Meandering story arcs

I’m a planster at best— a type of writer who plans some elements of plot events, character arcs, or other details that drive their story but for most part, writes by the seat of their pants. (The two extremes are pantsers, who write with no plan, and plotters, who meticulously outline everything.)

I let the story go rogue and my characters decide what happens next. When I first started this book, I received some advice along the lines of— ‘characters have a mind of their own.’ I never really understood the depth of it until my characters ran wild and changed the arc of the story.

• My protagonist / female main character (FMC) developed some vices I hadn’t intended leading to more authentic, layered scenes.

• My antagonist turned out to be more likeable than I planned. Not a typical villain but strives to oppose the protagonist— a refreshing contrast.

• And as a result, the story has meandered into being more character-driven than plot-driven.

These may change again in the next drafts but writing a first draft is simply about telling yourself the story. Making it exist. And I’m pleased with where its headed.

Third person to First Person

I started this novel in third person, writing from my main character’s point of view. Classic and formal. It works great for stories where you’d like to introduce an omniscient voice or narrator who describes events or things beyond the main character’s perspective. I defaulted to third person because most stories I’ve read since my childhood were written this way.

But halfway through, as my story evolved, I realised that I wasn’t capturing the emotions, inner dialogues, and struggles of my FMC as evocatively as I wanted. Her stream of consciousness is crucial to the story and so I rewrote a couple of scenes in first person point of view— it was an awakening. My story feels more personal now and my FMC’s voice shines through to the reader (I hope).

Past tense to present tense

As soon as I made the shift to first person, it prompted another question in my mind. Is past tense the right choice for my story? Does it augment my style or take away from it?

I experimented by rewriting more scenes in present tense and shared them with another writer friend. Her feedback mirrored mine— present tense granted a sense of urgency to my story. Multiple plot events follow my FMC through a number of magical challenges and present tense energised the scenes, as if the reader was following her as she faced these trials.

An example to illustrate the differences:

Third person, past tense
Siya observed him from afar, wondering what his next move might be. Despite the years of friendships, she could never tell with Ollie. The man was an enigma.

First person, present tense
I observe him from afar. What is he going to do next? I can never tell with Ollie; my friend remains an enigma, even after all these years.

First person - present tense is becoming a more modern way of writing, as seen in contemporary fiction. As an aspiring novelist penning my first draft, it’s a joy to discover what works for my story through the act of writing it. There’s no other way or shortcut to develop your style other than putting pen to paper and letting the words flow.

Are you writing a novel? What does your first draft look like?

My favourite things this month include an article that I found extremely relevant in today’s AI climate, a book recommendation I will shout from the mountains, a quote that reminded me to slow down, and a song that’s stuck in my head.

Let’s dive in.

Words that nourish

We live in a word that tells us to rush, achieve, and disconnect. But the Earth speaks a quieter language, one of roots, tides, and cycles. It reminds us that slowing down isn’t just okay—it’s necessary.

— Iris Verbaas

An article that me think

How To Understand Things by

Nabeel S. Qureshi

How To Understand Things

I. The smartest person I’ve ever known had a habit that, as a teenager, I found striking. After he’d prove a theorem, or solve a problem, he’d go back and continue thinking about the problem and try to figure out different proofs of the same thing. Sometimes he’d spend hours on a problem…

Read more

6 years ago · 1900 likes · 39 comments · Nabeel S. Qureshi

Nabeel wrote this article five years ago and I’m slightly regretful that I only chanced upon it recently. Despite the passage of time I find it relevant in today’s world where the possibilities of AI are endless. AI is remarkable but one of my larger than life quandaries has been about how AI is changing the way we think, sometimes if we think at all. Nabeel says that to truly understand something, we must possess the will to think. Go beyond the initial answer, ask basic questions, and take your time to uncover topics. Mull over questions yourself before you pick up a book on the topic.

Read his essay, he goes into great detail with interesting insights.

A book I loved

Why we Swim by Bonnie Sui

This is book for anyone who loves water; be it the beach or the swimming pool. It reads like a story— Bonnie Sui is a gifted writer. And she talks about why swimming is so important to humans, why we risk our lives to chase it, and what it means to different cultures around the world.

A song on repeat

High in Low Places by Beach Weather

I like Beach Weather and this is one of recent songs, quickly becoming a favourite.

That’s the monthly roundup of snacks, friends. Did you the notice the common theme of beaches 😉 ? (Expect for the article on ‘How to understand Things, that was too good not to include. You could also do a deep dive to all things water if you it has inspired you.)

If you have read, written, watched or listened to anything fun this month, share it in the comments. 👋

I met my younger self for coffee today.
We both arrived early,
a book peeking from our bags,
and eyes searching for a table by the window.
I guess some things never change.

She was reading a book on good habits;
I was re-reading Kafka on the Shore.
She wondered when fiction became our cup of tea,
I said it was when we realised stories hold tender truths
and accompany us through every heartache, loss, and grief.

She asked me if we ever found our one dream job,
if the years of cautious choices were worth it.
I didn’t know how to confess that we were too afraid;
instead I told her that our dreams have a tendency to meander,
and we’ve become many things along the way.

She hated her cramped hostel and asked with a hopeful smile,
‘Do we buy that cosy apartment with a city view?’
I said no, we lived in a roomy house by the beach.
Because in time, we learned to love the sound of waves
over the lights and bustle of the city streets.

She eyed the pastry on the table next to us,
So I went ahead and ordered two.
She reluctantly took a bite—she was always on a diet,
I pushed the plate closer to her and said,
‘That’s not the same as taking care of you.’

She admitted it was hard to navigate our culture,
we’re too much and we’re never enough.
I shook my head and agreed woefully,
It does get easier to love yourself
and to find home continents away from familiarity.

That’s when she noticed my wallpaper and cried out in joy,
‘We get a dog and he’s beautiful’, she howled.
‘We named him Smudge,’ I jumped, ‘and he’s the goodest boi.’
She stared at his picture in the arms of my husband,
and whispered, ‘so we finally learn what we’re worth.’

(Inspired by poet, Jennae Cecelia’s original poem, ‘I met my younger self for coffee’)