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(Contains mild spoilers for “The Panther’s Tale)‌‌‌‌

There are quite a few stories to love in this collection, but I want to really focus on one about a panther, an English village, and the goddess Kali. ‌‌

This gem of a tale by Mahsuda Snaith does what I love best in historical fiction - takes the facts and uses imaginative storytelling to fill in the gaps. There’s something about the restraints of keeping the story’s foundation grounded in real, transpired events that I feel brings about a heightened creativity and resulting in a story that is so personally satisfying to me.  Fantasy historical fiction is a step better because you take the boundaries of recorded knowledge and from that limited space take the story to a limitless potential. Snaith does exactly that, taking real events that transpired in Brewood Forest and transporting us to an entirely magical place.‌‌

Her story uses an event fit to startle anyone in the 16th century. Without going into too much detail, Brewood Forest becomes home to an exotic animal, which then has an encounter with what might be seen as the more prosaic elements of its surroundings. And yet in Snaith’s hands that interaction leads to other creatively inevitable ones, which then become fragments in an entire mythos. What’s brilliant is how it makes South Asian magic visible, seen, making an assured impact. ‌

Even the title does labour to centre the most voiceless and brutalised historical character in the whole recorded narrative - the panther taken so far from home.

I very much love her loyalty to the facts. It makes the folklore authentic, giving it the right ring of almost-truth that makes it believable in those last few minutes before you go to sleep. ‌‌

I must confess I’ve been a fan of hers since before meeting her at a Penguin Random House WriteNow workshop. Her book “The Things We Thought We Knew" is still one of my favourites. I might do a review of that one of these days.

I love that her story is a presence in this collection‌‌, with its magical saris, self-reliant Indian princess, and its foundation of historical accuracy.

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The following is an edited version of an article I wrote a couple of years ago.


Andy Hunt’s book Pragmatic Thinking and Learning is an excellent read for anyone — especially, in my opinion, writers.

Here’s why.

Hunt describes what he calls “L-mode” and “R-mode” of mental processing. Each has a role and neither should be ignored.

L-mode is the one we easily use on a regular basis. R-mode deals with a more holistic understanding of things.

An example of L-mode thinking would be to quickly memorise a list of things. L-mode is deliberate, all business minded. An example of R-mode thinking would be to simply read and absorb things, an undeliberate getting in the zone kind of wandering about, without focussing on conscious learning. Just letting it sink in.

But R-mode can make us uncomfortable. We tend to neglect it.

What does this mean for writers?

L-mode is great for your revision phase. For your grammar and spelling checks. For your editing. For nagging you into polishing your piece of writing the best one ever.

For creativity? Not so much.

In fact, I believe L-mode is the main reason behind writer’s block. It demands the first draft be perfect BEFORE it’s even come into existence. You look at your blank page and it’s already telling you what you’re going to put on it is rubbish.

On the other hand, R-mode is the wellspring of unfettered creativity. It ticks away quietly in the background, solving problems and connecting dots, recognising patterns, remembering things your conscious mind didn’t even know you’d noticed.

The R-mode might ALREADY have the answer to what you’re trying to solve. Maybe you’re trying to get your character to follow a plot point. Your R-mode might already know why the character would NEVER do what you want her to, because it’s just not the character’s nature. Maybe you came up with the character while you were in R-mode, just before you went to sleep, from a daydream, or after you just woke up. Then you decided to place this real character in the middle of a plot you came up with on L-mode.

R-mode probably knows your character better because it gave you the character in the first place, but then you let your L-mode take over and push it aside.

But how to access it? R-mode is non-verbal. What it gives us is in imagery. In moods. In feelings. In scenes. In dreams, even.

Hunt says it IS possible to get your R-mode into action. It requires luring it out into the light (not ordering it to — that doesn’t work). It requires putting the L-mode to sleep.

After which you can do what Hunt calls

“harvesting your R-mode’s preconscious treasures.”

Here are just a few ways Hunt’s book suggests we access this creativity-friendly part of our brain.

Write Regularly.

Small blog posts, article writing, bits of the story you’re working on — all in first draft form. Bring them out without censoring them.

Regular, persistent writing at a set time each day trains the brain. It let’s it know there’s a set time for creativity.

In doing this, you’re practicing active silencing of the L-mode. Once you quench it firmly a good few times, it will eventually catch on that it’s not wanted at that particular time each day.

Write “Morning Pages.”

Hunt recommends three pages each morning. Even if it’s gibberish! It all works towards making you progressively better at reaching your own mind. As soon as you wake up, before doing anything else, grab a pen and start writing. This is the time when your R-mode is at its strongest. You’re just stepping onto the threshold of being fully conscious. You’re least liable to censor yourself. Just like in the dream world where your subconscious lets loose, not caring about how appropriate its being, not shrinking from whatever truths are pestering you.

Really, the secret behind this is to let go of perfection or of anything like standards. It can be as simple as typing surreptitiously on your Google Keep app in the dark a few minutes before the baby wakes.

Walk - or a repetitive activity

That going on a walk helps bring the mind to problem solve in R-space isn't news to writers. It's great news for people like me who spend most of their life vacuum cleaning or folding or scrubbing something or the other.

Andy Hunt postulates it’s because when doing a repetitive relaxed activity, the L-mode gets bored. It likes being challenged. Walking, using a treadmill, washing the dishes, taking a shower, tricks it into shutting itself off. Allowing the R-mode to take over.

Change the perspective.

Imagine your story from the viewpoint of a character you haven’t considered before. Maybe even write a scene or two from that person’s perspective. Hunt talks about the benefits of “whacking” your brain into seeing problems from a different position, through perhaps a more clear lens. It might open up solutions you hadn’t seen before.

Carry a notebook.

Hunt writes,

“Since memory is a frail and expensive mechanism, be prepared to write down the gems of insight that your R-mode may deliver, whenever — and wherever — that may be.”

Jotting it down in an app can suffice as well.

Don’t assume there’s only one right answer.

This will disarm some of your writer’s anxiety and allow you to mess around.

While this book isn't marketed specifically to writers, it does contain quite a few useful takes into the process.

I've never actually been able to finish Brené Brown's book "Daring Greatly." The minute it starts delving into the real stuff (which is...every page) I exit stage left (pursued by bear). But what I've read so far is definitely conducive to becoming more at home with myself as a writer.

Shame is the antithesis of creative thought. It stifles ideas from being born, and once they are, they prevent us from putting them to page, from exploring different angles and considerations in how to execute them.

Experiencing shame is so isolating. It escalates if not watched out for - disconnection from the self leading to lack of self-worth, leading to more disconnection.

On a practical level it feeds into the You Don't Belong Here thorn that jabs into our side as creatives. The Imposter Syndrome can be strong. The fact that it sticks around even when people get really, really successful suggests it doesn't have to do with how high you climb your ladder of ambition. It stems from somewhere else.

The solution to this is the same as what is talked about as a cure for shame itself. Shame is isolation. The opposite of it is connection. Nothing is truly voiceless, and everything has a story to tell. What goes unheard transforms into resentment, and enough resentment takes one scuttling away from opportunities for further pain. And those are the same opportunities for growth and being at peace with your journey as a creative.  It's hard work at times, digging into the less examined parts of the being, but that's where the good stories lie.

Anyone with a toddler spends a significant percentage of their time reading out loud. Reading the same book. Repeating the same line. Doing the voices. Over and over and over.

I like to tell myself reading time with the toddler is a step...well, maybe not up. But a step forward.

When they tell you to read more to become a better writer, children's books (or more specifically, books for toddler aged children) aren't what's being kept in mind. And yet...

And yet.

They do boast a variety of best writing practices.

Those books always have the best sentence structure.

They use sensory detail by describing textures, colours, temperatures.

They give you a sense of place...

...and a sense of magic

Incredibly imaginative in ways more akin to speculative fiction than literary fiction

They use alliteration, rhyme, onomatopoeia, and any number of poetic devices.


Reading them out loud has also made me a lot less self-conscious about the sound of my own voice reading my writing out loud. Which is an incredibly necessary part of writing readable literature.

Reading out your work breathes life into it. The perspective shifts. When you hear your writing spoken aloud it becomes its own entity entering into its natural habitat. Will it do well there? You identify the flaws as it is being spoken. Your brain shifts from R-mode to L-mode, from paddling in the giant ocean of holistic creativity to becoming a sharp beam of light illuminating each individual word in a sentence structure. It is a great help to the editing process.

Reading to toddlers doesn't have the same vibe as lounging in a chair at a table for one in an aesthetically pleasing coffee shop, typing out your bestselling novel. But I will firmly believe as unromantic as it is, reading "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" for the eleventy first time is no less a boost towards writing great fiction.